‘Please don’t worry,’ the student said yet again. He begged her not to go to any trouble; the children said nothing. It was obvious all three were hungry. Olga led them into the dining-room and told Vasily to lay the table.
‘Your mother is so unkind,’ she said, making them sit down. ‘She’s completely forgotten me. She’s not very nice at all… you can tell her that. And what are you studying?’ she asked, turning to the student.
‘Medicine.’
‘Oh, I have a weakness for doctors, you know! I’m very sorry my husband isn’t one. What courage you must have, to do operations, for example, or to dissect corpses! It’s terrifying! You’re not afraid? I think I’d die of fright. Of course, you’ll have some vodka?’
‘It’s all right, please don’t bother.’
‘After that journey you simply must have a drink. I like a drink sometimes, even though I’m a woman. Mitya and Kolya can have some Malaga.1 It’s not very strong, don’t worry. What fine young men they are, really! Even ready for marriage.’
Olga talked non-stop. She knew from experience that with guests it suited her better and was in fact far easier to do the talking than to sit listening. When one is talking there’s no need to be alert, to think of answers to questions and keep changing one’s expression. But she accidentally raised some serious question and the student embarked on a long speech, so that she had to listen whether she liked it or not. The student knew that at some time she had been to a course of lectures, so he tried to look serious when speaking to her.
‘What’s your subject?’ she asked, forgetting that she had already asked this.
‘Medicine.’
‘Oh, yes. So you’re going to be a doctor?’ she asked, getting up. ‘That’s good. I’m sorry I never went to lectures on medicine. Now, have your dinner, gentlemen, and then come out into the garden. I’ll introduce you to some young ladies.’
Olga remembered that she had been neglecting the ladies for some time. She went out and looked at the clock: it was five to six. She was amazed that the time was passing so slowly and horrified that there were still six hours to midnight, when the guests would leave. How could she kill these six hours? What should she say? How should she behave towards her husband?
There wasn’t a soul in the drawing-room or on the terrace – all the guests had wandered off to different parts of the garden.
‘I really ought to suggest a walk to the birch grove, or boating before tea –’ Olga thought, hurrying to the croquet lawn, where she could hear voices and laughter. ‘And I must make the old men play cards.’
Grigory the footman came towards her from the croquet lawn carrying some empty bottles.
‘Where are the ladies?’ she asked.
‘In the raspberry canes. The master’s there as well.’
‘Oh, good heavens!’ came the furious cry from the croquet lawn. ‘If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times! If you want to know your Bulgarians you must go and see them. You can’t tell from the newspapers.’
Either because of this shout or something else, Olga suddenly felt dreadfully weak all over, especially in the legs and shoulders. She had no wish to speak, listen or move.
‘Grigory,’ she said listlessly, after a great effort, ‘when you’re serving tea or something please don’t come bothering me, don’t ask me questions and don’t talk to me about anything. You can do it all yourself… and don’t make a noise with your feet. I beg you to do this. I can’t, because…’
She did not finish and walked on towards the croquet lawn. But on the way she remembered the ladies and went in the direction of the raspberry canes. The sky, the air and the trees were still just as gloomy, threatening rain. It was hot and close; huge flocks of crows, sensing bad weather, cawed as they wheeled over the garden. The nearer the paths were to the kitchen garden, the more neglected, dark and narrow they became. Over one of them that lay hidden in a dense thicket of wild pears, wood-sorrel, oak saplings and hops, great clouds of tiny black midges swarmed around her. Olga covered her face with her hands and tried hard to imagine that little creature… But all that came to mind were Grigory, Mitya, Kolya, the faces of the peasants who had come offering congratulations in the morning.
Hearing footsteps, she opened her eyes. Uncle Nikolay was fast approaching.
‘Is that you, my dear? So glad to see you,’ he said, panting. ‘I’d like a couple of words with you.’ He wiped his red, clean-shaven chin with his handkerchief, then suddenly stepped sharply backwards, clasped his hands and opened his eyes wide. ‘My dear, how long is this going on for?’ he said breathlessly. ‘I’m asking you, isn’t there a limit? I don’t mean the demoralizing effect of his police sergeant’s views on our little circle or the way he insults all that is finest and noblest in me and in all honest, thinking men. I’m not talking about that. But he could at least behave civilly. What’s the matter with him? He shouts, growls, shows off, acts the little Bonaparte, doesn’t let anyone get a word in edgeways. What the hell! Those grand gestures of his, that imperious laugh, that condescending tone! Who does he think he is, may I ask? Who does he think he is? He can’t hold a candle to his wife, he’s just a landowner lucky enough to have married money. Another of those nouveau riche upstarts. A cad and a rotter! I swear by God, either he’s suffering from megalomania or that senile half-cracked Count Aleksey Petrovich is actually right when he says that children and young people take a long time to mature these days and carry on playing cabbies and generals until they’re forty!’
‘That’s true, so true,’ Olga agreed. ‘Please let me pass now.’
‘And where do you think it will all lead?’ Uncle went on, barring her way. ‘How will playing the bigot, acting the inquisitor finish? He’s already facing prosecution, oh, yes! I’m delighted! Look where all his ranting and raving have landed him – in the dock! And not just the local Assizes, but the High Court of Justice! I can’t think of anything worse than that! What’s more, he’s quarrelled with everyone. Today is his name-day party, but just look who’s given it a miss – Vostryakov, Yakhontov, Vladimirov, Shevud, the Count – none of them have turned up. And who could be more of a die-hard reactionary than Count Aleksey Petrovich – even he’s not here. And he’ll never come again, you mark my words!’
‘Oh, heavens, what’s all this got to do with me?’ Olga asked.
‘To do with you? You’re his wife! You’re clever, you’ve been to university, and it’s in your power to make an honest worker out of him!’
‘They don’t teach you at lectures how to influence difficult people. I’ll have to apologize to all of you, it seems, for having attended lectures!’ Olga said sharply. ‘Listen, Uncle, if your ears were bombarded all day long by someone practising the same scales, you wouldn’t sit still and you’d run away. The whole year, day in, day out, I hear the same old thing, the same old thing. Heavens, it’s high time you felt a little pity for me!’
Uncle pulled a very serious face, gave her an inquisitive look and curled his lips into a mocking smile.
‘So that’s how it is!’ he chanted in his senile voice. ‘I’m so sorry, madam!’ he said with a stiff bow. ‘If you yourself have fallen under his influence and changed your convictions, then you should have said so earlier. I’m sorry, madam!’
‘Yes, I have changed my convictions!’ she shouted. ‘That should make you happy!’
‘So sorry, madam!’
Uncle ceremoniously bowed for the last time – sideways on – drew himself in, clicked his heels and left.
‘The fool,’ Olga thought. ‘I wish he’d clear off home.’