The Shooting Party (A Murder Mystery). Антон ЧеховЧитать онлайн книгу.
face.
‘Which of them is the Count?’ I heard her whisper behind us.
‘That one with the long moustache,’ the schoolboy answered.
And we heard silvery laughter behind us. It was the laughter of disenchantment. She had thought that the Count, the owner of these immense forests and the broad lake, was I, and not that pigmy with the worn face and long moustache.
I heard a deep sigh issue from Urbenin’s powerful breast. That man of iron could scarcely move.
‘Dismiss the bailiff,’ I whispered to the Count. ‘He is ill or - drunk.’
‘Pëtr Egorych, you seem to be unwell,’ the Count said, turning to Urbenin. ‘I do not require you just now, so I will not detain you any longer.’
‘Your Excellency need not trouble about me. Thank you for your attention, but I am not ill.’
I looked back. The girl in red had not moved, but was looking after us.
Poor, fair little head! Did I think on that quiet, peaceful May evening that she would afterwards become the heroine of my troubled romance?
Now, while I write these lines, the autumn rain beats fiercely against my warm windows, and the wind howls above me. I gaze at the dark window and on the dark background of night beyond, trying by the strength of my imagination to conjure up again the charming image of my heroine… I see her with her innocent, childish, naive, kind little face and loving eyes, and I wish to throw down my pen and tear up and burn all that I have already written.
But here, next to my inkstand, is her photograph. Here, the fair little head is represented in all the vain majesty of a beautiful but deeply-fallen woman. Her weary eyes, proudly lecherous, are still. Here she is the serpent, the harm of whose bite Urbenin would scarcely have called exaggerated.
She gave a kiss to the storm, and the storm broke the flower at the very roots. Much was taken, but too dearly was it paid for. The reader will forgive her her sins!
CHAPTER IV
We walked through the wood.
The pines were dull in their silent monotony. They all grow in the same way, one like the others, and at every season of the year they retain the same appearance, knowing neither death nor the renewal of spring. Still, they are attractive in their moroseness: immovable, soundless, they seem to think mournful thoughts.
‘Hadn’t we better turn back?’ the Count suggested.
This question received no reply. It was all the same to the Pole where he was. Urbenin did not consider his voice decisive, and I was too much delighted with the coolness of the forest and its resinous air to wish to turn back. Besides, it was necessary to kill time till night, even by a simple walk. The thoughts of the approaching wild night were accompanied by a sweet sinking of the heart. I am sorry to confess that I looked forward to it, and had already mentally a foretaste of its enjoyments. Judging by the impatience with which the Count constantly looked at his watch, it was evident that he, too, was tormented by expectations. We felt that we understood each other.
Near the forester’s house, which nestled between pines on a small square open space, we were met by the loud-sounding bark of two small fiery-yellow dogs, of a breed that was unknown to me; they were as glossy and supple as eels. Recognizing Urbenin, they joyfully wagged their tails and ran towards him, from which one could deduce that the bailiff often visited the forester’s house. Here, too, near the house, we were met by a lad without boots or cap, with large freckles on his astonished face. For a moment he looked at us in silence with staring eyes, then, evidently recognizing the Count, he gave an exclamation and rushed headlong into the house.
‘I know what he’s gone for,’ the Count said, laughing. ‘I remember him… It’s Mit’ka.’
The Count was not mistaken. In less than a minute Mit’ka came out of the house carrying a tray with a glass of vodka and a tumbler half full of water.
‘For your good health, your Excellency!’ he said, a broad grin suffusing the whole of his stupid, astonished face.
The Count drank off the vodka, washed it down with water in lieu of a snack, but this time he made no wry face. A hundred paces from the house there was an iron seat, as old as the pines above it. We sat down on it and contemplated the May evening in all its tranquil beauty… The frightened crows flew cawing above our heads, the song of nightingales was borne towards us from all sides; these were the only sounds that broke the pervading stillness.
The Count does not know how to be silent, even on such a calm spring evening, when the voice of man is the least agreeable sound.
‘I don’t know if you will be satisfied?’ he said to me. ‘I have ordered a fish-soup and game for supper. With the vodka we shall have cold sturgeon and sucking-pig with horseradish.’
As if angered at this prosaic observation, the poetical pines suddenly shook their tops and a gentle rustle passed through the wood. A fresh breeze swept over the glade and played with the grass.
‘Down, down!’ Urbenin cried to the flame-coloured dogs, who were preventing him from lighting his cigarette with their caresses. ‘I think we shall have rain before night. I feel it in the air. It was so terribly hot today that it does not require a learned professor to prophesy rain. It will be a good thing for the corn.’
‘What’s the use of corn to you,’ I thought, ‘if the Count will spend it all on drink? No need to worry about the rain.’
Once more a light breeze passed over the forest, but this time it was stronger. The pines and the grass rustled louder.
‘Let us go home.’
We rose and strolled lazily back towards the little house.
‘It is better to be this fair-haired Olenka,’ I said, addressing myself to Urbenin, ‘and to live here with the beasts than to be a magistrate and live among men… It’s more peaceful. Is it not so, Pëtr Egorych?’
‘It’s all the same what one is, Sergey Petrovich, if only the soul is at peace.’
‘Is pretty Olenka’s soul at peace?’
‘God alone knows the secrets of other people’s souls, but I think she has nothing to trouble her. She has not much to worry her, and no more sins than an infant… She’s a very good girl! Ah, now the sky is at last beginning to threaten rain…’
A rumble was heard, somewhat like the sound of a distant vehicle or the rattle of a game of skittles. Somewhere, far beyond the forest, there was a peal of thunder. Mit’ka, who had been watching us the whole time, shuddered and crossed himself.
‘A thunderstorm!’ the Count exclaimed with a start. ‘What a surprise! The rain will overtake us on our way home… How dark it is! I said we ought to have turned back! And you wouldn’t, and went on and on.’
‘We might wait in the cottage till the storm is over,’ I suggested.
‘Why in the cottage?’ Urbenin said hastily, and his eyes blinked in a strange manner, it will rain all night, so you’ll have to remain all night in the cottage! Please, don’t trouble… Go quietly on, and Mit’ka shall run on and order your carriage to come to meet you.’
‘Never mind, perhaps it won’t rain all night… Storm clouds usually pass by quickly… Besides, I don’t know the new forester as yet, and I’d also like to have a chat with this Olenka… and find out what sort of girl she is…’
‘I’ve no objections!’ the Count agreed.
‘How can you go there, if - if the place is not - not in order?’ Urbenin mumbled anxiously. ‘Why should your Excellency sit there in a stuffy room when you could be at home? I don’t understand what pleasure