Fifty-Two Stories

From boredom, as she thought, from vexation, forced smiles, and the discomfort she felt in her whole body, her hands and feet began to tremble. To conceal this trembling from the guests, she tried to speak louder, to laugh, to move…

“If I suddenly happen to burst into tears,” she thought, “I’ll say I have a toothache…”

But here, finally, the boats pulled in at the island of “Good Hope.” That was the name of the peninsula formed by a sharp bend in the river, covered by an old grove of birches, oaks, willows, and poplars. Tables were already standing under the trees, there was smoke from the samovars, and Vassily and Grigory, in tailcoats and white knitted gloves, were already busy setting the places. On the other bank, across from “Good Hope,” stood the wagons that had delivered the provisions. The baskets and bags of provisions were ferried across from the wagons to the island in a little dugout closely resembling the Penderaklia. The footmen, the drivers, even the peasant who sat in the dugout had solemn name-day expressions on their faces, such as only children and servants have.

While Olga Mikhailovna was brewing the tea and filling the first glasses, the guests busied themselves with liqueurs and sweets. Then the turmoil set in that is usual during the tea-drinking at picnics, very boring and tiresome for hostesses. Grigory and Vassily had barely had time to serve when hands were already reaching out to Olga Mikhailovna with empty glasses. One asked for it without sugar, another wanted it stronger, another weaker, another said no thank you. Olga Mikhailovna had to remember and then call out: “Ivan Petrovich, it was you without sugar?” or “Gentlemen, who asked for it weak?” But the one who asked for it weak or without sugar no longer remembered and, carried away by a pleasant conversation, took the first glass that came along. A short distance from the table, dejected figures wandered about like shadows, pretending to be looking for mushrooms in the grass or reading the labels on boxes—they were those for whom there were not enough glasses. “Have you had tea?” Olga Mikhailovna would ask, and the one to whom she addressed the question would beg her not to worry and say, “I can wait,” though for the hostess it was better if the guests did not wait, but hurried.

Some, caught up in conversation, drank their tea slowly, clinging to their glasses for half an hour, while others, especially those who had drunk a lot at dinner, stood by the table and drank off glass after glass, so that Olga Mikhailovna barely had time to refill them. One young joker drank his tea through a lump of sugar and kept saying: “Sinner that I am, I love to indulge in the Chinese herb.” Again and again he asked with a deep sigh: “One more little shardful, please!” He drank a lot, bit his sugar loudly, and thought it was all funny and original and that he imitated a merchant perfectly. No one realized that all these trifles were a torment for the hostess, and it was hard to realize, because Olga Mikhailovna smiled affably all the while and babbled nonsense.

And she was not feeling well…She was vexed by the crowd, the laughter, the questions, the joker, the dazed servants who were run off their feet, the children’s fidgety presence by the table; she was vexed that Vata looked like Nata, Kolya like Mitya, and it was impossible to tell which of them had had tea and which had not. She felt that her forced welcoming smile was turning into an angry expression, and it seemed to her that she might burst into tears any moment.

“Rain, ladies and gentlemen!” someone shouted.

They all looked up at the sky.

“Yes, rain indeed…,” Pyotr Dmitrich confirmed and wiped his cheek.

The sky let fall only a few drops, there was no real rain yet, but the guests abandoned the tea and began to hurry. At first they all wanted to go in the carriages, but they changed their minds and headed for the boats. Olga Mikhailovna, on the pretext of having to quickly make arrangements for supper, asked permission to leave the company behind and drive home in a carriage.

Sitting in the carriage, first of all she let her face rest from smiling. She drove through the village with an angry face, and with an angry face responded to the bowing of the peasants she met. On reaching home, she went by the back door to the bedroom and lay down on her husband’s bed.

“Good God,” she whispered, “why this forced labor? Why do these people mill around here and pretend they’re having fun? Why do I smile and lie? I don’t understand, I don’t understand!”

She heard footsteps and voices. It was the guests returning.

“Let them,” thought Olga Mikhailovna. “I’ll lie here a while longer.”

But a maid came into the bedroom and said:

“Marya Grigorievna’s leaving, ma’am.”

Olga Mikhailovna leaped up, straightened her hair, and hurried out.

“What’s this, Marya Grigorievna?” she began in an offended voice, going up to Marya Grigorievna. “Where are you rushing off to?”