THE SHOOTING PARTY. Антон ЧеховЧитать онлайн книгу.
sighed ingenuously. ‘This frock is a cheap one; it can’t be pretty.’
The Count came up to our window with the evident intention of talking to pretty Olenka. My friend could speak three European languages, but he did not know how to talk to women. He stood near us awkwardly, smiling in an inane manner; then he mumbled inarticulately, ‘Er - yes,’ and retraced his steps to the decanter of vodka.
‘You were singing “I love the thunder in early May,” ‘ I said to Olenka. ‘Have those verses been set to music?’
‘No, I sing all the verses I know to my own melodies.’
I happened by chance to glance back. Urbenin was looking at us. In his eyes I read hatred and animosity: passions that were not at all in keeping with his kind, meek face.
‘Can he be jealous?’ I thought.
The poor fellow caught my inquiring glance, rose from his chair and went into the lobby to look for something… Even by his gait one could see that he was agitated. The peals of thunder became louder and louder, more prolonged, and oftener repeated… The lightning unceasingly illuminated the sky, the pines and the wet earth with its pleasant but blinding light… The rain was not likely to end soon. I left the window and went up to the bookshelves and began to examine Olenka’s library. ‘Tell me what you read, and I will tell you what you are,’ I said. But from the books that were so symmetrically ranged on the shelves it was difficult to arrive at any estimate of Olenka’s mental capacities or ‘educational standard’. There was a strange medley on those shelves. Three anthologies, one book of Bôrne’s, Evtushevsky’s arithmetic, the second volume of Lermontov’s works, Shklyarevsky, a number of the magazine Work, a cookery book, Skladchina… I might enumerate other books for you, but at the moment I took Skladchina from the shelf and began to turn over the pages. The door leading into the next room opened, and a person entered the drawing-room, who at once diverted my attention from Olenka’s standard of culture. This person was a tall, muscular man in a print dressing-gown and torn slippers, with an extremely odd appearance. His face, covered all over with blue veins, was ornamented with a pair of sergeant’s moustaches and whiskers, and had in general a strong resemblance to a bird. His whole face seemed to be drawn forwards, as if trying to concentrate itself in the tip of the nose. Such faces are like the spout of a pitcher. This person’s small head was set on a long thin throat, with a large Adam’s-apple, and shook about like the nesting-box of a starling in the wind… This strange man looked round on us all with his dim green eyes, and then let them rest on the Count.
‘Are the doors shut?’ he asked in an imploring voice.
The Count looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t trouble, papasha!’ Olenka answered. ‘They are all shut… Go back to your room!’
‘Is the barn door shut?’
‘He’s a little queer… It takes him sometimes,’ Urbenin whispered to me as he came in from the lobby. ‘He’s afraid of thieves, and always worrying about the doors, as you see.’
‘Nikolai Efimych,’ he continued, addressing this strange apparition, ‘go back to your room and go to bed! Don’t worry, everything is shut up!’
‘And are the windows shut?’
Nikolai Efimych hastily looked to see if the windows were properly bolted, and then without taking any notice of us he shuffled off into his own room.
‘The poor fellow has these attacks sometimes,’ Urbenin began to explain as soon as he had left the room. ‘He’s a good, capable man; he has a family, too - such a misfortune! Almost every summer he is a little out of his mind…’
I looked at Olenka. She became confused, and hiding her face from us began to put in order again her books that I had disarranged. She was evidently ashamed of her mad father.
‘The carriage is here, your Excellency! Now you can drive home, if you wish!’
‘Where has that carriage come from?’ I asked.
‘I sent for it…’
A minute later I was sitting with the Count in the carriage, listening to the peals of thunder and feeling very angry.
‘We’ve been nicely turned out of the little house by that Pëtr Egorych, the devil take him!’ I grumbled, getting really angry. ‘So he’s prevented us from examining Olenka properly! I wouldn’t have eaten her! The old fool! The whole time he was bursting with jealousy… He’s in love with that girl…’
‘Yes, yes, yes… Would you believe it, I noticed that, too! He wouldn’t let us go into the house from jealousy. And he sent for the carriage out of jealousy too… Ha, ha, ha!’
‘The later love comes the more it burns… Besides, brother, it’d be difficult not to fall in love with this girl in red, if one saw her every day as we saw her today! She’s devilish pretty! But she’s not for the likes of him… He ought to understand it and not be so selfishly jealous of others… Why can’t he just love her and not stand in the way of others, especially as he must know she’s not destined for him?… What an old blockhead!’
‘Do you remember how enraged he was when Kuz’ma mentioned her name at tea-time?’ the Count sniggered. ‘I thought he was going to thrash us all… A man does not defend the good fame of a woman so hotly if he’s indifferent to her…’
‘Some men will, brother… But this is not the question… What’s important is this… If he can order us about in the way he has done today, what does he do with the lesser folk, with those who are under his thumb? Doubtless, the stewards, the butlers, the huntsmen and the rest of the small fry are prevented by him from even approaching her! Love and jealousy make a man unjust, heartless, misanthropical… I don’t mind betting that for the sake of this Olenka he’s upset more than one of the people under his control. You’d be wise in future if you put less trust in his complaints of the people in your service and his demands for the dismissal of this person or that. In general, limit his power for a time… Love will pass — well, and then there will be nothing to fear. He’s a kind and honest fellow…’
‘And what do you think of her papa?’ the Count asked, laughing.
‘A madman… He ought to be in a madhouse and not looking after forests. In general you won’t be far from the truth if you put up a signboard “Madhouse” over the gate of your estate… You have a real Bedlam here! This forester, the Scops-Owl, Franz, who is mad on cards, this old man in love, an excitable girl, a drunken Count… What more do you want?’
‘Why, this forester receives a salary! How can he do his work if he is mad?’
‘Urbenin evidently only keeps him for his daughter’s sake… Urbenin says that Nikolai Efimych has these attacks every summer… That’s not likely… This forester is ill, not every summer, but always… By good luck, your Pëtr Egorych seldom lies, and he gives himself away when he does lie about anything…’
‘Last year Urbenin informed me that our old forester Akhmet’ev was going to become a monk on Mount Athos, and he recommended me to take the “experienced, honest and worthy Skvortsov”… I, of course, agreed as I always do. Letters are not faces: they do not give themselves away when they lie.’
The carriage drove into the courtyard and stopped at the front door. We alighted. The rain had stopped. The thunder cloud, scintillating with lightning and emitting angry grumbles, was hurrying towards the north-east and uncovering more and more of the dark blue star-spangled sky. It was like a heavily armed power which having ravaged the country and imposed a terrible tribute, was rushing on to new conquests… The small clouds that remained behind were chasing after it as if fearing to be unable to catch it up… Nature had its peace restored to it.
And that peace seemed astonished at the calm, aromatic air, so full of softness, of the melodies of nightingales, at the silence of the sleeping gardens and the caressing light of the rising moon. The lake awoke after the day’s sleep, and by gentle murmurs brought memories