Forty Stories (9 page)

This medieval castle was very nearly the scene of the most absurd medieval drama.

It happened that seven years before, when Prince Mikshadze was still living, his boon companion Prince Chaikhidzev came to stay at Green Scythe. He was a landowner from Ekaterinovslav, and very rich. His whole life had been spent in dissipations of the most abominable kind, but he had somehow retained his fortune, and indeed he retained it to the end of his life. Prince Mikshadze was his drinking companion. Together they had once abducted a girl from her home, and the girl later became Chaikhidzev’s wife. For this reason the princes found themselves bound together with indissoluble ties of friendship. Chaikhidzev visited Green Scythe with his son, a bug-eyed, dark-haired boy still at school. For old times’ sake the princes set about drinking, while the boy flirted with Olya, who was then thirteen. The flirtation did not pass unnoticed. The parents winked at it and concluded that Olya and the boy were not unsuitably matched. The princes, quite drunk, ordered the children to kiss each other, and then the princes themselves shook hands and kissed each other. Mikshadze wept with emotion. “It’s God’s will,” said Chaikhidzev. “You have a daughter, I have a son! It’s God’s will!”

The children were each given rings and were photographed together. The photograph hung in the salon, and was long a
source of particular irritation to Yegorov, who made it the target for countless barbed remarks. Princess Maria Yegorovna herself had solemnly blessed the betrothed. Their fathers’ idea pleased her, but only because she was bored. A month after the departure of the Chaikhidzevs, Olya received a most impressive present through the mail, while equally impressive presents arrived each year thereafter. The young Chaikhidzev treated the matter more seriously than anyone expected. He was a rather shallow-brained young man. He used to come to Green Scythe every year, staying for a whole week, during which time he never uttered a word, but remained in his room writing love letters to Olya, who read these letters with a feeling of embarrassment. She was intelligent, and it puzzled her that a big boy should write such stupidities, for in fact he wrote nothing but stupidities. Then two years ago Prince Mikshadze died. As he lay on his deathbed, he told Olya: “Be careful! I don’t want you marrying some fool! Marry Chaikhidzev—he’s an intelligent fellow, and worthy of you!” Olya knew all about Chaikhidzev’s intelligence, but she did not contradict her father. She gave her word that she would marry Chaikhidzev.

“It’s what Papa wanted,” she would tell us, saying this with a certain pride, as though performing a heroic act. She was pleased that her vow had accompanied her father to the grave. It was such an unusual, romantic vow.

But nature and good judgment claimed their own. The retired Lieutenant Yegorov was constantly before her eyes, while with each passing year Chaikhidzev became, in her eyes, sillier and sillier.

Once when the lieutenant boldly hinted of his love, she begged him never to speak about it again, reminded him of the promise given to her father, and she spent the whole night weeping.

Every week the Princess wrote a letter to Chaikhidzev in Moscow, where he was studying at the university. She commanded him to complete his studies as quickly as possible. “Some
of my guests,” she wrote, “have not such thick beards as you have, but they earned their diplomas long ago.” Chaikhidzev replied most respectfully on rose-tinted note paper, explaining the impossibility of acquiring a diploma without studying for the required length of time. Olya, too, wrote to him. Her letters to me were far more interesting than the ones she wrote to her fiancé. The Princess firmly believed that Olya intended to marry Chaikhidzev, for otherwise she would not have allowed her daughter to run around and “fiddle-daddle” with swashbucklers, madcaps, atheists, and “non-princes.” On this subject there could hardly be any doubt. Her husband’s wishes were sacred to her. And Olya, too, believed the time would come when she would sign herself with the Chaikhidzev name.

But it did not happen in that way. The plan formed by the two fathers failed just at the moment when it was about to reach fruition. Chaikhidzev’s romance miscarried. It was destined to end in pure farce.

Last year Chaikhidzev arrived at Green Scythe towards the end of June. This time he was no longer a student, but a graduate. The Princess welcomed him with a solemn and majestic embrace followed by a long lecture. Olya wore an expensive dress bought specially for this meeting with her fiancé. Champagne was ordered from the city, fireworks were set off, and on the following morning all Green Scythe was buzzing with rumors of the wedding, believed to be set for the end of July. “Poor Olya!” we murmured as we wandered aimlessly about the house, sometimes staring angrily at the windows of the room overlooking the garden, which was occupied by this detestable man from the East. “Poor Olya!” A pale, thin, only half-alive Olya was walking in the garden. “Papa and Mama wanted me to,” she said, when we started to offer friendly advice. “But it’s absurd! It’s idiotic!” we shouted at her. She shrugged her shoulders and turned her sad little face away, while her fiancé remained in his room, sending her tender love letters by way of the footman. He would look out of the windows and see us and
grow alarmed by the liberties we took with Olya. He never left his room except to eat. He ate in silence, looked at no one, and answered all questions curtly. Only once did he so far forget himself as to tell an anecdote—a hoary one, and the stupidest imaginable. After dinner the Princess would make him sit beside her. She taught him piquet, which he played with an air of gravity and concentration, his lower lip jutting out, sweat pricking up on his skin. His attitude towards piquet pleased the Princess.

One evening after dinner Chaikhidzev suddenly abandoned the game of piquet and went running after Olya, who was wandering alone in the garden.

“Olya Andreyevna!” he began. “I know you don’t love me! Our betrothal is really quite strange and stupid. But I … I hope you will come to love me.…”

Having uttered these words with great confusion, he made his way sideways out of the garden and went back to his own room.

All this time Lieutenant Yegorov remained on his estate and never once showed himself. He simply could not bear the sight of Chaikhidzev.

One Sunday—the second Sunday after the arrival of Chaikhidzev, which must have been July 5—a student, a nephew of the Princess, came to our wing early in the morning, and gave us our orders. These orders from the Princess were to the effect that we had to prepare for the evening: dark suits, black ties, gloves; show ourselves serious, clever, intelligent, obedient, our hair curled like a poodle’s; we must make no noise, and we must tidy up our rooms. Apparently there was to be some sort of engagement ceremony at Green Scythe. Wine, vodka, and
hors d’oeuvres
had been ordered from the city. Our own servants were being commandeered to help in the kitchen. Guests began to arrive after dinner, and they kept on arriving until late in the evening. At eight o’clock, after a boat ride, the ball began.

Before the ball we men had a small meeting. At this meeting we unanimously resolved that Olya must be saved from Chaikhidzev at all costs, even at the cost of a fearful scandal. The meeting over, I went in search of Lieutenant Yegorov. His estate was about fifteen miles away. I found him at home, but in what a condition! He was drunk, and dead to the world. I shook him, washed him, dressed him, and in spite of his profanity and wild kicking I dragged him back to Green Scythe.

At ten o’clock the ball was in full swing. They were dancing in four rooms to the music of two fine pianos. During the entr’actes a third piano played on a little hill in the garden. Even Olya went into ecstasies over our fireworks. We set them off in the garden, along the shore, and from boats far out to sea. From the castle roof we fired a succession of many-colored Bengal rockets, lighting up all the village of Green Scythe. At two buffets heavy drinking was going on. One buffet was set up in the summer house in the garden; the other was inside the house. Quite clearly Chaikhidzev was the hero of the evening. Squeezed into a tight frock coat, with red spots on his cheeks and sweat running down his nose, a painful smile on his lips, acutely aware of his awkwardness, he was dancing with Olya. All the time he kept watching his feet. He had a terrible desire to shine in some way, but there was no way for him to shine. Olya told me later she felt very sorry for the poor princeling that evening. He was so pathetic, and he seemed to have a presentiment that he was about to lose his fiancée—that fiancée of whom he had dreamed while listening to lectures at the university, who was in his thoughts when he fell asleep and when he awoke. Whenever he caught sight of us, there was a pleading look in his eyes. He sensed we were strong and merciless rivals.

When the long-stemmed glasses were set out, and the Princess could be seen looking at the clock, we knew that the great and solemn moment was about to arrive: in all probability Chaikhidzev would be permitted to embrace Olya at midnight. We
had to act fast. At half past eleven I rubbed powder into my face to make myself look pale, pulled my tie to one side, mussed up my hair, assumed a troubled expression, and went up to Olya.

“Olya Andreyevna!” I said, taking her by the hand. “For God’s sake!…”

“What is it?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!… But you mustn’t be frightened, Olya Andreyevna!… It had to be! We should have known it would happen!”

“What happened?”

“Promise not to be frightened. For God’s sake, my dear.… Lieutenant Yegorov is …”

“Yes?…”

Olya turned pale and gazed at me with wide-open, trustful, and friendly eyes.

“Yegorov is dying.…”

Olya staggered and drew her fingers across her pale brows.

“The thing I dreaded has come to pass,” I went on. “He is dying! Save him, Olya Andreyevna!”

Olya took me by the hand.

“He is … Where is he?”

“He’s in the garden, in the summer house. It’s terrible, my dear.… But people are looking at us. Let’s go to the terrace. He doesn’t blame you. He knows that you have …”

“How is he?”

“Very poorly.”

“Let me go to him! I don’t want him to think that I’ve … that I’ve done anything …”

We went out on the terrace. Olya’s knees were shaking. I pretended to wipe away a tear. Members of our group kept running past us on the terrace, looking pale and alarmed, fear and anxiety written all over their faces.

“The bleeding has stopped,” the physics professor murmured, just loud enough for Olya to hear.

“Let’s hurry!” Olya whispered, taking my hand.

We hurried down the terrace steps. The night was silent, very bright. The music of the piano, the whispering of the dark trees, the rustling of cicadas, caressed our ears. From below came the gentle splashing of the sea.

Olya could scarcely walk. Her legs failed her, entangled in the heavy skirt. Trembling with fear, she leaned against my shoulder.

“It’s not really my fault,” she whispered. “I swear it’s not my fault! It’s what Papa wanted. He should understand that. Is something terrible going to happen?”

“I don’t know. Mikhail Pavlovich has done everything possible. He’s a good doctor, and loves Yegorov. We’re nearly there, Olya Andreyevna.…”

“I … I couldn’t face seeing it.… I’m frightened.… Really I couldn’t look.… Why did he have to do a thing like that?”

Olya burst into tears.

We had come to the summer house.

“Here it is!” I said.

Olya closed her eyes and threw both arms round me.

“I can’t …”

“Don’t be frightened. Yegorov, you’re not dead yet, are you?” I shouted in the direction of the summer house.

“Not yet?… Why?”

At the gate of the summer house the lieutenant appeared, brilliant in the moonlight. He was pale from his drinking bout, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his hair disheveled.

“Why?” he repeated.

Olya lifted her head and saw Yegorov. She looked at me, and then at him, and then at me again. I laughed, and her face lit up. She stepped forward, a cry of joy on her lips. I thought she would be angry with us, but it was not in her to be angry. She made another step forward, thought for a moment, and then
threw herself on Yegorov, who had quickly buttoned up his waistcoat and opened wide his arms. Olya fell against his chest. Yegorov broke out into peals of laughter, but he turned his head to one side so as not to breathe on her, and he murmured all kinds of wonderful nonsense.

“You shouldn’t have done it.… It’s not my fault, though,” Olya stammered. “It was what Papa and Mama wanted.…”

I turned round and strode back to the brilliantly lit castle.

There, in the castle, the guests were making preparations for congratulating the betrothed pair. They kept glancing impatiently at the clock. In the hallway the waiters were carrying trays and jostling one another: there were bottles and glasses on the trays. Chaikhidzev was impatiently squeezing his right hand with his left, and his eyes were searching for Olya. The Princess was wandering through all the rooms of the castle, looking for Olya, bent on giving her instructions—she should know how to conduct herself towards her mother, and so on, and so on. And we laughed.

“Have you seen Olya?” the Princess asked me.

“No.”

“Then go and find her.”

I went out into the garden and twice circled the castle, my hands behind my back. Our artist blew a note on a trumpet. It was the signal that meant: “Hold her! Don’t let her escape!” From the summer house Yegorov answered with an owl’s cry, which meant: “All’s well! Am holding her!”

I wandered around for a little while and then returned to the house. In the hallway the waiters had put their trays down on the tables and stood empty-handed, staring dully at the guests. The guests themselves were gazing at the clock with perplexed looks on their faces. The pianos were silent. A dull and brooding silence reigned oppressively in all the rooms.

“Where’s Olya?” the Princess asked me. She was purple.

“I don’t know. She is not in the garden.”