Novels, Tales, Journeys

Several years went by, and domestic circumstances forced me to settle in a poor little village of the N–– district. Busy with my estate, I never stopped secretly sighing for my former noisy and carefree life. Hardest of all was accustoming myself to spending the autumn and winter evenings in complete solitude. I still managed to drag out the time till dinner, talking with the village headman, riding around the farm works, or visiting the new installations; but as soon as it began to get dark, I simply did not know what to do with myself. The small number of books I found in the bottoms of cupboards and in the storeroom I already knew by heart. The housekeeper Kirilovna had told me all the tales she was able to recall; the village women’s songs wearied me. I took to unsweetened liqueurs, but they gave me a headache; and, I confess, I was afraid of turning into a drunkard from grief, that is, a most grievous drunkard, of which I saw many examples in our district. I had no near neighbors except for two or three grievous ones, whose conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs. Solitude was more tolerable.

Three miles away from me there was a rich estate that belonged to Countess B––; but no one lived there except the steward, and the countess had visited her estate only once, in the first year of her marriage, and had stayed no more than a month. However, in the second spring of my reclusion, a rumor went around that the countess and her husband were coming to her estate for the summer. In fact, they arrived at the beginning of June.

The arrival of a rich neighbor marks an important epoch for country dwellers. Landowners and their servants discuss it for two months before and three years after. As for me, I must confess that the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbor had a strong effect on me; I burned with impatience to see her, and so, on the first Sunday after their arrival, I went to the village of * * * after dinner to introduce myself to their excellencies as their nearest neighbor and most humble servant.

A footman led me to the count’s study and went to announce me. The vast study was decorated with all possible luxury; the walls were lined with bookcases, with a bronze bust on top of each; above the marble fireplace was a wide mirror; the floor was covered with green felt and overlaid with carpets. Having lost the habit of luxury in my poor corner, and not having seen other people’s wealth for a long time, I grew timid and waited for the count with a certain trepidation, the way a provincial petitioner awaits the appearance of a minister. The door opened, and a very handsome man of about thirty-two came in. The count approached me with an air of openness and friendliness; I tried to take heart and was about to introduce myself, but he forestalled me. We sat down. His conversation, free and amiable, soon dispelled my wild shyness; I was already beginning to return to my normal state, when the countess suddenly came in, and I was overcome by a greater confusion than before. She was indeed a beauty. The count introduced me; I wanted to seem free and easy, but the more I tried to assume an air of nonchalance, the more awkward I felt. To give me time to recover and accustom myself to my new acquaintances, they started talking to each other, treating me as a good neighbor and without ceremony. Meanwhile I started pacing up and down, examining the books and paintings. I am not a connoisseur of paintings, but one of them caught my attention. It represented some view of Switzerland; but what struck me in it was not the picture, but the fact that it had been pierced by two bullets in the same spot.

“That’s fine shooting,” I said, turning to the count.

“Yes,” he said, “quite remarkable. Are you a good shot?” he went on.

“Fairly good,” I replied, glad that the conversation had finally touched upon a subject close to me. “I wouldn’t miss a card at thirty paces—with familiar pistols, of course.”

“Really?” said the countess, with a look of great attentiveness. “And you, my love, can you hit a card at thirty paces?”

“Someday we’ll give it a try,” replied the count. “In my time I wasn’t a bad shot; but it’s four years now since I’ve touched a pistol.”