CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

      A man who under the influence of mental pain or unbearably oppressive suffering sends a bullet through his own head is called a suicide; but for those who give freedom to their pitiful, soul-debasing passions in the holy days of spring and youth, there is no name in man’s vocabulary. After the bullet follows the peace of the grave: ruined youth is followed by years of grief and painful recollections. He who has profaned his spring will understand the present condition of my soul. I am not yet old, or grey, but I no longer live. Psychologists tell us that a soldier, who was wounded at Waterloo, went mad, and afterwards assured everybody - and believed it himself - that he had died at Waterloo, and that what was now considered to be him was only his shadow, a reflection of the past. I am now experiencing something resembling this semi-death…

      ‘I am very glad that you ate nothing at the forester’s and haven’t spoilt your appetite,’ the Count said to me as we entered the house. ‘We shall have an excellent supper… Like old times… Serve supper!’ He gave the order to Il’ya who was helping him to take off his coat and put on a dressing-gown.

      We went into the dining-room. Here on the side-table life was already bubbling over. Bottles of every colour and of every imaginable size were standing in rows as on the shelves of a theatre refreshment-room, reflecting on their sides the light of the lamps while awaiting our attention. All sorts of salted and pickled viands and various hors d’œuvres stood on another table with a decanter of vodka and another of English bitters. Near the wine bottles there were two dishes, one of sucking pig and the other of cold sturgeon.

      ‘Well, gentlemen,’ the Count began as he poured out three glasses of vodka and shivered as if from cold. ‘To our good health! Kaetan Kazimirovich, take your glass!’

      I drank mine off, the Pole only shook his head in refusal. He moved the dish of sturgeon towards himself, smelt it, and began to eat.

      I must apologize to the reader. I have now to describe something not at all ‘romantic’.

      ‘Well, come on… Let’s have another,’ the Count said, and filled the glasses again. ‘Fire away, Lecoq!’

      I took up my wineglass, looked at it and put it down again.

      ‘The devil take it, it’s so long since I drank,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t we drink to old times?’

      Without further reflection, I filled five glasses and emptied them one after another down my throat. That was the only way I knew how to drink. Small schoolboys learn how to smoke cigarettes from big ones: the Count looked at me, poured out five glasses for himself, and, bending forwards in the form of an arch, frowning and shaking his head, he drank them off. My five glasses appeared to him to be bravado, but I drank them not at all to display my talent for drinking… I wanted to get drunk, to get properly, thoroughly drunk… Drunk as I had not been for a long time while living in my village. Having drunk them, I sat down to table and began to discuss the sucking pig.

      Intoxication was not long in coming. I soon felt a slight giddiness. There was a pleasant feeling of coolness in my chest — and a happy, expansive condition set in. Without any visible transition I suddenly became very gay. The feeling of emptiness and dullness gave place to a sensation of thorough joy and gaiety. I smiled. I suddenly wanted chatter, laughter, people around me. As I chewed the sucking pig I began to feel the fullness of life, almost the self-sufficiency of life, almost happiness.

      ‘Why don’t you drink anything?’ I asked the Pole.

      ‘He never drinks,’ the Count said. ‘Don’t force him to.’

      ‘But surely you can drink something?’

      The Pole put a large bit of sturgeon into his mouth and shook his head in refusal. His silence incensed me.

      ‘I say, Kaetan - what’s your patronymic? — why are you always silent?’ I asked him. ‘I have not had the pleasure of hearing your voice as yet.’

      His two eyebrows that resembled the outstretched wings of a swallow were raised and he gazed at me.

      ‘Do you wish me to speak?’ he asked with a strong Polish accent.

      ‘Very much.’

      ‘Why do you wish it?’

      ‘Why, indeed! On board steamers at dinner strangers and people who are not -acquainted converse together, and here are we, who have known one another for several hours, looking at each other and not exchanging a single word! What does that look like?’

      The Pole remained silent.

      ‘Why are you silent?’ I asked again after waiting a moment. ‘Answer something, can’t you?’

      ‘I do not wish to answer you. I hear laughter in your voice, and I do not like derision.’

      ‘He’s not laughing at all,’ the Count interposed in alarm. ‘Where did you fish up that notion, Kaetan? He’s quite friendly…’

      ‘Counts and Princes have never spoken to me in such a tone!’ Kaetan said, frowning. ‘I don’t like that tone.’

      ‘Consequently, you will not honour me with your conversation?’ I continued to worry him as I emptied another glass and laughed.

      ‘Do you know my real reason for coming here?’ the Count broke in, desirous of changing the conversation. ‘I haven’t told you as yet? In Petersburg I went to the doctor who has always treated me, to consult him about my health. He listened to my chest, knocked and pressed me everywhere, and said: “You’re not a coward!” Well, you know, though I’m no coward, I grew pale. “I’m not a coward,” I replied.’

      ‘Cut it short, brother… This is tiresome.’

      ‘He told me I should soon die if I did not go away from Petersburg! My liver is quite diseased from too much drink… So I decided to come here. It would have been silly to remain there. This estate is so fine — so rich… The climate alone is worth a fortune! Here, at least, I can occupy myself with my own affairs. Work is the best, the most efficacious medicine. Kaetan, is that not true? I shall look after the estate and chuck drink… The doctor did not allow me a single glass… not one!’

      ‘Well, then, don’t drink.’

      ‘I don’t drink… Today is the last time, in honour of meeting you again’ - the Count stretched towards me and gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek - ‘my dear, good friend. Tomorrow - not a drop! Today, Bacchus takes leave of me for ever… Serezha, let us have a farewell glass of cognac together?’

      We drank a glass of cognac.

      ‘I shall get well, Serezha, golubchek, and I shall look after the estate… Rational agriculture! Urbenin — is good, kind… he understands everything, but is he the master? He sticks to routine! We must send for magazines, read, look into everything, take part in the agricultural and dairy exhibitions, but he is not educated for that! Is it possible he can be in love with Olenka? Ha-ha! I shall look into everything and keep him as my assistant… I shall take part in the elections; I shall entertain society… Eh? Even here one can live happily! What do you think? Now there you are, laughing again! Already laughing! One really can’t talk with you about anything!’

      I was gay, I was amused. The Count amused me; the candles, the bottles amused me; the stucco hares and ducks that ornamented the walls of the dining-room amused me… The only thing that did not amuse me was the sober face of Kaetan Kazimirovich. The presence of this man irritated me.

      ‘Can’t you send that Polish nobleman to the devil?’ I whispered to the Count.

      ‘What? For God’s sake!’ the Count murmured, seizing both my hands as if I had been about to beat his Pole. ‘Let him sit there!’

      ‘I