‘I don’t know who let him out!’ Urbenin whispered to me. ’I gave orders for him to be locked in. Sergey Petrovich, my dear chap, please do us a favour and get us out of this mess somehow!’
‘I know who stole your samovar,’ I told the forester. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
Putting my arm around Skvortsov’s waist, I led him towards the church. After taking him into the churchyard I talked to him, and when (according to my calculations) the wedding procession should have arrived back at the house, I left him, without showing him where his stolen samovar was.
However unexpected and extraordinary that encounter with the madman was, it was nevertheless soon forgotten. A new surprise that fate had in store for the couple was even weirder…
XI
An hour later we were all sitting down and having dinner at long tables.
Anyone who was used to the cobwebs, mildew and the uninhibited whooping of gipsies in the Count’s apartments must have found it strange looking at that everyday, pedestrian crowd, now shattering the silence of those ancient, deserted rooms with its banal chatter. That gaily coloured, noisy crowd resembled a flock of starlings that had suddenly flown down to rest for a fleeting moment in a neglected cemetery or (and may that noble bird forgive the comparison!) a flight of migratory storks that had come to roost in their twilight days on the ruins of an abandoned castle.
I sat there, full of loathing for that crowd which was inspecting the decaying wealth of Count Karneyev with such idle curiosity. Those mosaic walls, the moulded ceilings, the luxurious, splendid Persian carpets and rococo furniture aroused delight and amazement. The Count’s mustachioed face continually grinned with a self-satisfied smile. He accepted the rapturous flattery of his guests as something well deserved, although in fact he had not contributed one bit to the riches and luxury of his neglected mansion. On the contrary, he deserved the bitterest reproaches – contempt even – for his barbaric, grossly indifferent attitude to all the wealth assembled by his father and forefathers, which had taken decades rather than days to accumulate! Only the spiritually blind or poor could fail to see on every grey marble slab, in every painting, in every dark corner of the Count’s garden, the sweat, tears and calloused hands of the people whose children now sheltered in those miserable little huts in the Count’s wretched village. And among that vast assembly now seated at the wedding table – wealthy, independent people whom nothing was preventing from uttering the harshest truth – there wasn’t a soul who would have informed the Count that his self-satisfied smile was stupid and inappropriate. Everyone found it necessary to smile obsequiously and sing his praises. If this was ‘elementary’ politeness (we love to lump the blame for many things on politeness and propriety) then I would have preferred ill-mannered louts who eat with their hands, take bread from someone else’s plate at table and blow their noses between two fingers, to those fops.
Urbenin was smiling, but he had his own reasons for that. He smiled obsequiously and respectfully – and happily, like a child. His broad smile was a substitute for the happiness of a dog – a loyal, affectionate dog that had been petted and made happy, and which was wagging its tail now, cheerfully and devotedly, as a token of gratitude.
Like Risler Senior in Alphonse Daudet’s novel,40 beaming and rubbing his hands with pleasure, he gaped at his loving wife and was so overcome with emotion that he could not resist asking himself question after question.
‘Who would have thought that this young beauty would fall in love with an old fogey like me? Surely she could have found someone a little younger and more refined? A woman’s heart passes all understanding!’
And he even had the nerve to turn to me and blurt out:
‘Just think – the times we live in! He he! When an old man can carry off such a beautiful fairy from under the noses of young men! Why didn’t you keep your eyes open!? He he! The young men of today aren’t what they were!’
Unable to stem the flood of gratitude that was bursting from his broad chest, he kept leaping up and holding out his glass to the Count’s. In a voice that was trembling with emotion he said: ‘You know how I feel towards you, Your Excellency. You’ve done so much for me today that my fondness for you seems a mere nothing, a trifle. What have I done to deserve such consideration from Your Excellency, such concern for my happiness? Only counts and bankers celebrate their weddings in such style! Such luxury, so many distinguished guests! Ah, what can I say? Believe me, Your Excellency, I’ll never forget you, just as I’ll never forget the best, the happiest day of my life!’
And so on. Evidently Olenka didn’t care for her husband’s flamboyant show of respect. She was noticeably pained by his speechifying, which produced smiles on the diners’ faces, and she even seemed ashamed of it. Despite the glass of champagne she had drunk she was as gloomy and miserable as ever: there was that same pallor as in the church, that same dread in her eyes. She said nothing, replied lazily to all questions, forced herself to smile at the Count’s jokes and barely touched those expensive dishes. As much as Urbenin (who was gradually getting drunk) considered himself the happiest of mortals, so her pretty little face was unhappy. Just looking at it made me feel sorry, and to avoid the sight of that little face I tried to fix my eyes on my plate.
How could this sadness of hers be explained? Was regret beginning to gnaw away at that poor girl? Or perhaps she was so vain that she expected even more pomp and ceremony?
When I glanced up at her during the second course I was so upset that my heart really began to ache for her. As she answered one of the Count’s stupid questions, that poor girl tried hard to swallow. Sobs welled up in her throat. Instead of taking her napkin from her mouth she timidly, like a small, frightened animal, kept looking at us to see whether we had noticed how close she was to tears.
‘Why are you looking so sour-faced today?’ asked the Count. ‘Hey, Pyotr Yegorych, it’s your fault! Now please be good enough to cheer your wife up. Gentlemen, I demand a kiss. Ha ha! Not for myself, of course, but… I want them to kiss each other. Oh, it’s so sad!’
‘So sad!’ repeated Kalinin.
Smiling all over his red face, Urbenin stood up and blinked. Prompted by the guests’ whooping and exclamations, Olenka rose slightly and offered her motionless, lifeless lips to Urbenin. He kissed her. Olenka pressed her lips tightly together, as if afraid they might be kissed a second time and glanced at me. Most probably she didn’t like the way I looked at her: taking note of this she suddenly blushed, reached for her handkerchief and started blowing her nose in an attempt to hide her terrible confusion one way or the other. It occurred to me that she felt ashamed in front of me, ashamed of that kiss, of her marriage.
‘Why should I worry about you?’ I thought. But at the same time I didn’t let her out of my sight as I tried to find the reason for her confusion.
My gaze was too much for the poor girl. True, the blushes of shame soon vanished from her face, but then tears poured from her eyes – real tears, that I had never seen before. With her handkerchief pressed to her face she stood up and ran out of the dining-room.
‘Olga Nikolayevna has a headache,’ I hurriedly explained her exit. ‘She was already complaining about it this morning.’
‘Come off it, old man!’ joked the Count. ‘Headaches have nothing to do with it. It was the kiss that was to blame and embarrassed her. Ladies and gentlemen! I demand that the bridegroom be sternly reprimanded! He hasn’t trained his wife in the art of kissing. Ha ha!’