After an unbroken spell at home I grew bored and wrote to Dr Pavel Ivanovich, asking him to come over for a chat. For some reason I received no reply, so I wrote again. But this second letter met with the same response as the first. Clearly, dear old Screwy was pretending to be angry. After being turned down by Nadezhda Nikolayevna the poor devil considered me the cause of his misfortune. He had every right to be furious and, if he’d never been angry before, it was because he didn’t know how to be.
So, when did he manage to find out? I wondered, bewildered at the absence of any reply to my letters.
In the third week of my obstinate, continuous self-incarceration, the Count paid me a visit. After telling me off for not riding over or answering his letters, he stretched himself out on the couch and, before starting to snore, embarked on his favourite theme – women.
‘I can understand,’ he began, languidly screwing up his eyes and putting his hands under his head, ‘your being touchy and difficult. You don’t come and see me any more because you’re afraid of spoiling our little duet, of being in the way. An unwanted guest is worse than a Tatar, as the saying goes. But a visitor during a honeymoon is worse than a horned devil! I do understand you. But you’re forgetting, dear chap, that you’re my friend and not simply a guest, that I like and respect you. Yes, your presence would only complete the harmony. And what harmony, old chap! Harmony that I can’t find words to describe!’
The Count drew one hand from underneath his head and waved it.
‘I just can’t make out if living with her is good or lousy – the devil himself couldn’t make head or tail of it! There really are moments when I would sacrifice half my life for an “encore”. But then there are days when I pace the rooms like a madman and I’m ready to bawl my head off.’
‘Because of what?’
‘I can’t make Olga out, old man. She’s a type of fever, not a woman… with a fever you first get a temperature, then the shivers – that’s exactly what it’s like with her – she changes five times a day. Sometimes she feels cheerful, then she’s so miserable she swallows her tears and prays. First she loves me, then she doesn’t. There are times when she’s very nice to me – nicer than any woman has ever been to me all my life. But sometimes it’s like this: I wake up unexpectedly, open my eyes and I see a face staring at me… such a horrible, wild face, a face twisted with malice and revulsion! When you see things like that all the enchantment vanishes. And she often looks at me that way.’
‘With revulsion?’
‘Oh, yes, I just can’t understand it. She swears she came to live with me only out of love, but not one night passes without my seeing a face like hers. What’s the explanation for it? I’m beginning to think – of course, I don’t want to believe it – that she can’t stand me and that she’s only given herself to me for the clothes I’m buying her now. She’s mad about clothes! If she has a new frock, she’s capable of standing in front of the mirror from morning to night. Because of a spoilt flounce she’ll weep day and night. She’s terribly vain! And what she likes most about me is the fact I’m a count. If I weren’t a count she’d never have loved me. Not one dinner or supper goes by without her tearfully reproaching me for not surrounding myself with aristocratic society. She’d love to be queen of that society. Such a strange girl!’
The Count fixed his dull eyes on the ceiling and became lost in thought. To my amazement, I saw that on this occasion he was sober – unusually for him! This astonished and even touched me.
‘You’re perfectly normal today,’ I said. ‘You’re not drunk and you haven’t asked for vodka. What does this dream of mine signify?’
‘Well now! I didn’t have time to have a drink – I was always thinking… I have to tell you, Seryozha, that I’m head over heels in love, in real earnest. I like her enormously – and that’s understandable too. She’s a rare woman, quite exceptional – not to mention her appearance. She’s not particularly bright, but what sensitivity, elegance, freshness! There’s no comparison with all those earlier loves of mine – those Amalias, Angelicas and Grushas. She’s a person from another world, a world that is unfamiliar to me.’
‘You’re getting philosophical!’ I laughed.
‘I was carried away, as if I’d fallen in love! But now I can see that I’m wasting my time trying to raise zero to the power of four. It was only a mask that aroused this false excitement in me. That bright flush of innocence turned out to be rouge, that loving kiss a request for a new dress. I took her into my house as a wife, but she behaved like a paid mistress. But enough of that! I’m trying to calm myself and beginning to see Olga as a mistress… And that’s the long and short of it!’
‘Well, what next? How’s the husband?’
‘The husband? Hm… how do you think he is?’
‘I think that it would be hard to imagine an unhappier man at this moment.’
‘Do you think so? That’s where you’re wrong… he’s such a rogue, such a scoundrel that I don’t feel sorry for him at all. Scoundrels can never be unhappy, they always find a way out.’
‘But why are you running him down like this?’
‘Because he’s a swindler. You know that I respected him, trusted him as a friend. I myself – and even you – everyone considered him an honest, respectable man, incapable of deceit. But for all that he’s been robbing me, fleecing me! Taking full advantage of his position as manager, he’s been doing what he likes with my property. The only things he didn’t steal were those that couldn’t be moved.’
Since I’d always known Urbenin to be an extremely honest and unselfish person, I jumped up as if I’d been stung when I heard the Count’s words and I went over to him.
‘So, you’ve actually caught him stealing?’
‘No, but I know about his thieving tricks from reliable sources.’
‘What sources, may I ask?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to accuse someone without good reason. Olga has told me everything about him. Even before she became his wife she saw with her own eyes the cart-loads of slaughtered chickens and geese that he was dispatching to town. More than once she saw my geese and chickens being sent as a present to certain benefactors with whom his schoolboy son was lodging. What’s more, she saw him send flour, millet and lard there. I grant you, these are mere trifles, but surely these trifles don’t belong to him? It’s not a question of value, but of principles. Principles have been flouted. And there’s more, my dear sir! She happened to see a bundle of banknotes in his cupboard. When she asked whose it was and where he’d got it he begged her not to let slip that he had money. You know that he’s as poor as a church mouse, dear chap! His salary is barely large enough to pay for his board. So please explain to me where he got that money from?’
‘And you’re fool enough to believe that little reptile’s words?’ I shouted, disturbed to the very depths of my being. ‘She’s not satisfied with running away from him, blackening his name throughout the whole district – she had to go and deceive him! Such a small, puny body, but with so much vileness of every variety lurking in it! Fowls, geese, millet… oh, you’re a fine landowner, you are! Your instinct for political economy, your agricultural obtuseness have been insulted by the fact that for church festivals he kept sending presents of slaughtered poultry that would have been eaten by foxes and polecats had the birds not been killed and given as presents. But have you checked even once those enormous accounts that Urbenin submits to you? Have you ever counted the thousands and tens of thousands? No! So what’s the use of talking? You’re stupid, just like an animal. You’d be pleased enough to have your mistress’s husband locked up, but you’ve no idea how!’