When he reached the bridge he stopped and reflected. He wanted to find the reason for his strange coldness. It did not lie outside, but within him – that was clear. He frankly admitted to himself that it was not the cool detachment of which clever people boast so often, or that of a self-centred fool, but simply spiritual impotence, a lack of any deep appreciation of beauty, premature ageing brought on by his upbringing, his frantic struggle to earn a living, his bachelor existence in rented rooms.
From the bridge he walked slowly, reluctantly as it were, into the wood. Here, where in places sharply outlined patches of moonlight appeared against the impenetrable darkness and where he was aware of nothing but his own thoughts, he longed passionately to recapture what he had lost.
And Ognyov remembers going back to the house. Spurring himself on with memories, forcing himself to conjure up Verochka’s image, he swiftly strode towards the garden. By now the mist had vanished from the path and the garden, and the bright moon looked down as if newly washed; only the sky in the east was hazy and overcast… Ognyov remembers his cautious steps, those dark windows, the heavy scent of heliotrope and mignonette. The familiar Karo, amicably wagging his tail, came up and sniffed his hand. This was the only living creature that saw Ognyov walk twice around the house, pause beneath Verochka’s dark window and leave the garden with a deep sigh and gesture of despair.
An hour later he was in the town. Weary and despondent, he leaned his body and burning face against the inn gates and banged the knocker. Somewhere in the town a waking dog barked and as though in response to his knocking the watchman struck his iron plate near the church.
‘Gadding about at night again…?’ grumbled the Old Believer innkeeper as he opened the gates in a long shirt resembling a woman’s nightdress. ‘Better be saying your prayers than gadding around like this…’
Ognyov went into his room, sank onto the bed and gazed at the lamp for a long, long time. Then he shook his head and started packing…
The Name-day Party
I
After the eight-course feast, with its interminable conversation, Olga Mikhaylovna went out into the garden. They were celebrating her husband’s name-day, and she was completely exhausted by her duty to keep smiling and talking, by the clatter of dishes, by the servants’ stupidity, by the long breaks during the meal and by the corset she had put on to conceal her pregnancy from the guests. She wanted to get right away from the house, to sit in the shade and to relax by thinking about the child that was due in about two months’ time. She was always prone to thoughts like these whenever she turned left from the main avenue into the narrow path. Here, in the dense shade of plum and cherry trees, dry branches scratched her shoulders and neck, cobwebs brushed her face while she conjured up visions of a small creature of indeterminate sex, with vague features. And then she would feel that it was not the cobwebs but the tiny creature that was affectionately tickling her face and neck. When the thin wattle fence appeared at the bottom of the path, and beyond it the pot-bellied hives with earthenware roofs, when the motionless, stagnant air became filled with the scent of hay and honey and she could hear the gentle buzzing of bees, that tiny creature would take complete possession of her. She would sit pondering on a bench near the plaited osier hut.
This time too she walked as far as the bench, sat down and began to think. But instead of that tiny creature it was the big people she had only just left who filled her mind. She was deeply worried that she, the hostess, had abandoned her guests, and she remembered her husband Pyotr Dmitrich’s and Uncle Nikolay Nikolaich’s arguments over lunch about trial by jury, the press, and women’s education. As usual, her husband had argued to flaunt his conservative views in front of the guests, but mainly so that he could disagree with her uncle, whom he disliked. But her uncle contradicted him, finding fault with every word to prove to the assembled guests that, despite his fifty-nine years, he, her uncle, still preserved the mental agility and liveliness of a young man. By the end of the dinner Olga herself could stand it no longer and began a clumsy defence of higher education for women – not because any defence was necessary, but simply to annoy her husband, whom she thought had been unfair. The guests found this argument very tiresome, but felt that they should intervene and make endless comments, although not one of them cared a scrap about trial by jury or women’s education.
Olga was sitting on the near side of the wattle fence, just by the hut. The sun lay hidden behind clouds, the trees and air had a gloomy look, as though it was going to rain; but it was still hot and humid. The sad-looking hay that had been cut under the trees on St Peter’s Eve remained ungathered. With its withered, many-coloured flowers, it gave off an oppressive, sickly scent. Everything was quiet. Beyond the fence bees buzzed monotonously.
Suddenly there was the unexpected sound of footsteps and voices. Someone was coming down the path towards the beehives.
‘It’s so close!’ a woman’s voice came. ‘What do you think, is it or isn’t it going to rain?’
‘It is, my treasure, but not before tonight,’ languidly answered a very familiar male voice. ‘We’re in for quite a shower.’
Olga reasoned that if she quickly hid in the hut they would move on without seeing her and she would not have to talk or force a smile. She gathered in her skirts, stooped and went inside. Her face, neck and arms were immediately immersed in air as hot and humid as steam. But for the humidity, the stifling smell of rye, dill and osiers that quite took her breath away, this thatched hut with its dim interior would have made the perfect hiding-place from her guests, where she could think about that little creature. It was cosy and quiet.
‘What a lovely spot!’ a female voice said. ‘Let’s sit down here, Pyotr.’
Olga peered through a chink between two osier plaits and saw her husband Pyotr with one of the guests, Lyubochka Sheller, a seventeen-year-old girl just out of boarding-school. With his hat pushed over the back of his head, and feeling heavy and lazy from too much wine, Pyotr sauntered along by the fence, kicking some hay into a little heap. Pink from the heat and pretty as ever, Lyubochka was standing with her hands behind her back watching the languid movements of his large, handsome body.
Olga knew that her husband was attractive to women and she did not like to see him with them. There was nothing really remarkable in Pyotr’s lazily kicking hay into a pile on which he and Lyubochka could sit down and indulge in idle gossip; nor was there anything really noteworthy in the fact that pretty Lyubochka was looking at him so sweetly. Yet Olga felt annoyed with her husband and both frightened and pleased at the thought of being an eavesdropper.
‘Sit down, my enchantress,’ Pyotr said as he sank on to the hay and stretched himself. ‘That’s it. Now, tell me something interesting.’
‘Well, really! You’ll only fall asleep as soon as I start.’
‘Fall asleep? Allah forbid. How could I fall asleep with such pretty little eyes looking at me?’
There was nothing remarkable, either, in her husband’s words, in his sprawling over the hay in the presence of a lady, with his hat pushed over the back of his neck. Women had spoilt him – he knew that they were attracted to him and he had developed a special tone when talking to them, which, as everyone said, suited him. He was behaving towards Lyubochka as with any other woman. But Olga was jealous all the same.
‘Please tell me,’ Lyubochka said after a brief silence, ‘if it’s true what they say, that you’re facing prosecution.’