‘Let me recommend this woman for your attention,’ I told Pavel Ivanych, pulling off the old crone’s bonnet to reveal a completely bald head. ‘This old witch is ninety, dear chap. If you and I had to perform an autopsy on this specimen one day we’d reach very different conclusions. You would find senile atrophy of the brain, whereas I’d convince you that she’s the cleverest, craftiest creature in the whole district. A devil in petticoats!’
I was stunned when I entered the room. The scene that met me was completely unexpected. All the chairs and sofas were occupied. Groups were standing in the corners and by the windows too. Where could they have come from? If someone had told me earlier that I’d meet these people here I would have laughed my head off. Their presence was so improbable, so out of place in the Count’s house at the very time when, perhaps, the dead or dying Olga was lying in one of the rooms. It was the head gipsy Karpov’s choir from the London restaurant – the same choir with which the reader will be familiar from one of the earlier chapters. When I entered, my old friend Tina detached herself from one of the groups and on recognizing me she cried out for joy. A smile spread over her pale, dark-complexioned face when I gave her my hand and tears flowed from her eyes – she wanted to tell me something. But she couldn’t speak for tears and I didn’t manage to extract one word from her. I turned to the other gipsies and they explained their presence as follows. That morning the Count had sent a telegram to town with instructions for the whole choir – in its full complement – to be at the Count’s house by nine o’clock that same evening without fail. They had obeyed these ‘instructions’, caught the train and by eight o’clock they were already in the ballroom. ‘And we had visions of bringing pleasure to His Excellency and his gentlemen guests. We know so many new songs! And suddenly…’
And suddenly a peasant had come tearing up on horseback with the news that a brutal murder had been committed at the shooting party and with orders to prepare a bed for Olga. They hadn’t believed this peasant, as he was as drunk as a pig. But when noises were heard on the stairs and a dark body was carried across the ballroom, there was no further room for doubt.
‘And now we don’t know what to do… We can’t stay here… when there’s a priest around it’s time for cheerful people to clear off. Besides, all the girls are upset and crying. They can’t stay in a house where there’s a corpse! We want to leave, but they won’t give us any horses. Mr Count is ill in bed and won’t see anyone and the servants just laugh at us when we ask for horses. We can’t walk in this weather, on such a dark night! And generally speaking the servants are terribly rude! When we asked for a samovar for the ladies they told us to go to hell.’
All these complaints culminated in a tearful appeal to my magnanimity. Couldn’t I see that they were given carriages, so that they could get out of that damned house?
‘If the horses haven’t been stabled and if the coachmen haven’t been sent out somewhere else, you’ll be able to get away,’ I said. ‘I’ll give instructions.’
For those poor devils in buffoons’ costumes, who were used to swaggering about with great panache and bravado, those glum faces and hesitant poses were quite out of character. My promise to arrange for them to be taken to the station roused their spirits somewhat. Male whispers turned into loud talk and the women stopped crying.
And then, as I made my way to the Count’s study through a whole series of dark, unlit rooms, I peeped through one of the numerous doorways and a deeply moving sight met my eyes. At a table, by the hissing samovar, sat Sozya and her brother Pshekhotsky. Dressed in a light blouse, but still wearing those same bracelets and rings, Sozya was sniffing a scent bottle and languidly, delicately, sipping from a cup. Her eyes were red from weeping. Probably the incident at the shooting party had completely shattered her nerves and ruined her state of mind for some time to come. As wooden-faced as ever, Pshekhotsky was drinking his tea in large gulps from the saucer and telling his sister something. Judging from his mentor-like expression and gestures, he was trying to calm her and persuade her to stop crying.
Needless to say, I found the Count emotionally in tatters. That flabby, feeble man had grown thinner and more pinched-looking than ever. He was pale and his lips trembled feverishly; his head was bound with a white handkerchief, whose sharp vinegary smell filled the whole room. When I entered he leapt up from the sofa where he was lying and dashed towards me, the folds of his dressing-gown wrapped tightly around him.
‘Ah? Ah?’ he began, trembling and in a choking voice. ‘Well?’
After emitting several vague sounds he pulled me by the sleeve over to the sofa and after waiting for me to sit down pressed against me like a small, frightened dog and began pouring out his troubles.
‘Who would have expected it, eh?… Just a moment, dear chap, I want to wrap myself in this rug, I feel feverish… The poor girl’s been murdered. And how barbarously! She’s still alive, but the local doctor says she’ll die tonight. A terrible day! Then my wife suddenly turns up out of the blue, damn and blast her – that was my most unfortunate mistake! I was drunk when I got married in St Petersburg, Seryozha. I hid this from you, as I felt ashamed. But now she’s here – and you can see what she’s like. I just take one look and I blame myself! Oh, that damned weakness of mine! Under the influence of the moment and vodka I’m capable of doing anything you like! My wife’s arrival is the first little present, the scandal with Olga is the second. Now I’m waiting for the third… I know that something else will happen… I know! I shall go out of my mind!’
After a good cry, three glasses of vodka and calling himself an ass, layabout and drunkard the Count described the drama that had taken place at the shooting party, his tongue faltering from emotion. What he told me was roughly as follows:
About twenty or thirty minutes after I’d left, when my astonishment at Sozya’s arrival had somewhat subsided and when, after meeting all the assembled company, Sozya started acting like a true madam, suddenly everyone heard a piercing, heartrending shriek. It came from the direction of the forest and was echoed four times. It was so unusual that those who heard it leapt to their feet, dogs barked and horses pricked up their ears. It was an unnatural cry, but the Count managed to detect in it a woman’s voice. It was resonant with despair and horror. Women who see a ghost or witness the sudden death of a child must surely shriek like that. The alarmed guests looked at the Count and the Count at them. For three minutes, deathly silence reigned.
While the guests were surveying each other without a word, the coachmen and lackeys ran towards the place where the shriek had come from. The first messenger of woe was the old footman Ilya. He came running out of the forest to the clearing, his face pale, his pupils dilated: he wanted to tell us something but he was so breathless and agitated it was some time before he could utter a word. Finally, taking a grip and crossing himself he said:
‘The young lady’s been murdered!’
What young lady? Who murdered her? But Ilya gave no reply to these questions. The role of second messenger fell to someone whom they had not been expecting and whose appearance stunned them completely. The sudden appearance and the look of this man were truly startling. When the Count saw him and remembered that Olga had been wandering around in the forest, his heart sank and his legs gave way from some terrible foreboding.
It was Pyotr Yegorych Urbenin, the Count’s former manager and Olga’s husband. At first the company had heard heavy footsteps and the crackle of brushwood. It was as if a bear were making its way to the forest edge. But then the massive bulk of the unfortunate Pyotr Urbenin appeared. As he came out into the clearing and saw the company, he took one step back and stood as if rooted to the spot. For about two minutes he said nothing and did not budge, thus giving everyone the chance to take a good look at him. He was wearing his everyday grey waistcoat and trousers that were already pretty threadbare. He was hatless and his tousled hair clung to his sweaty forehead and temples. On this occasion his face – normally crimson and often deep purple – was pale. His eyes looked around dementedly, with an unnaturally wide stare, and his lips and hands were trembling.