Forty Stories

Green Scythe

A SHORT NOVEL

CHAPTER 1

ON the shores of the Black Sea, in a small village which my diary and the diaries of my heroes and heroines call Green Scythe, there is a most charming villa. Architects and those who have a fondness for fashionable and rigorous styles would perhaps derive little pleasure from it, but your poet or artist would find it delightful. For myself, I particularly admire its unobtrusive beauty, which never overwhelms the pleasant surroundings, and I like, too, the absence of cold, intimidating marble and pretentious columns. It has warmth, intimacy, a romantic charm. With its towers, spires, battlements, and flagpoles, it can be seen looming behind a curtain of graceful silver poplars, and somehow it suggests the Middle Ages. When I gaze upon it, I am reminded of sentimental German novels full of knights and castles and doctors of philosophy and mysterious countesses. This villa is on a mountain; around the villa are rich gardens, pathways, little fountains, greenhouses. At the foot of the mountain lies the austere blue sea. Moist coquettish winds hover in the air, every conceivable bird utters its songs, the sky is eternally clear, and the sea translucent—a ravishing place!

The owner of the villa, Maria Yegorovna Mikshadze, the widow of a Georgian or perhaps Circassian princeling, was about fifty. She was tall and well fleshed, and no doubt had once been a beauty. She was well-disposed, good-tempered, and hospitable, but altogether too strict. Perhaps “strict” is not the word; let us say she was capricious. She always gave us the best food and fine wines, she lent us money with openhanded generosity, and she was a dreadful torment to us. She had two hobbyhorses: one was etiquette, the other was being the wife of a prince. Driven by these hobbyhorses, she had a mania for carrying things too far. For example, she never permitted herself to smile, perhaps thinking a smile would be out of place on her face, or on the face of any grande dame. Anyone younger than she, even if he was only younger by a single year, was regarded as a whippersnapper. She held that nobility was a virtue in comparison with which everything else was sheer poppycock. She hated frivolity and lightheadedness, she honored those who kept their mouths shut, and so on. Sometimes, indeed, she could be quite insupportable. Had it not been for her daughter, probably none of us would be cherishing our memories of Green Scythe. The old lady was well-disposed to us, but she threw a dark shadow over our lives. Her daughter Olya was the pride and joy of Green Scythe. She was small and well formed, a pretty nineteen-year-old blonde, quite lively and not at all stupid. She knew how to draw, she was a student of botany, spoke excellent French and poor German, read a great deal, and danced like Terpsichore herself. She had studied music at the conservatory, and played the piano passably well. We men loved the little blue-eyed girl, but we were not in love with her. She was dear and precious to us, and Green Scythe would have been unbearable without her. This charming creature stood out against a charming landscape—I am myself little enamored of landscapes without human figures in them. The whisper of the waves and the rustling of the leaves were pretty enough in themselves, but when Olya sang soprano to a piano accompaniment and our own basses and tenors, then the sea and the garden became an earthly Paradise. We loved the little princess, for it was impossible not to love her. We called her the daughter of our regiment. And Olya in turn loved us, gravitating towards us, her male companions, feeling in her natural element only when she was with us. Our little band consisted of house guests, summer visitors, and some of the neighbors. Among the house guests were Doctor Yakovkin, the journalist Mukhin from Odessa, Fiveysky the former physics instructor, now a professor, three students, the artist Chekhov, a Kharkov baron who practiced law, and myself. (I had been Olya’s tutor—I taught her to speak bad German and how to catch goldfinches.)

Every May we descended upon Green Scythe, taking over all the spare rooms and wings of the medieval castle for the entire summer. Every March we received two letters inviting us to stay at the house—one letter was stern and pompous, full of reprimands: this one came from the Princess. The other one was very long and gay and full of madcap projects: this came from her daughter, who found time hanging heavy on her hands in our absence. So we would come and stay until September. Then there were the neighbors who joined us every day. Among them were the retired lieutenant of artillery Yegorov, a young man who had twice taken the entrance examination for the Military Academy and had twice failed, a personable and cultivated fellow; and then Korobov, the medical student, and his wife Ekaterina Ivanovna; also Aleutov, a landowner; also a considerable number of landowners, some active, some retired, some gay, some dull, some good-for-nothings, some dregs from the vat. All summer long, all day and all night, these people drank and ate and played and sang and set off fireworks and quips. Olya was passionately fond of them. She shouted happily and whirled around and made more noise than any of us. She was the heart and soul of the company.

Every evening the Princess summoned us to her drawing room, and purple with anger, she would scold us for our “unconscionable behavior,” putting us to shame, as she declared that she had a splitting headache and it was all our fault. She loved to reprimand us. Her reprimands were utterly sincere, and she deeply believed that they were delivered for our benefit. She was harder on Olya than on anyone else. It was the Princess’s belief that Olya was the most deserving of punishment. Olya was afraid of her mother. She idolized her, and would stand quite still, silent and blushing, while her mother lectured her. The Princess regarded Olya as a child. She even made her stand in a corner and go without lunch and dinner. Interceding for Olya would only have poured oil on the flames. If it had been possible, the Princess would have put us in the corner, too. She made us attend vespers, commanded us to read the Lives of the Martyrs, counted each article of our laundry, and interfered in all our affairs. We were always being sent to fetch and carry for her, and we were always losing her scissors, smelling salts, and thimbles.

“Clumsy fool!” she would say. “You made me drop it when you came blundering along, and now you won’t even pick it up! Pick it up! Pick it up this moment! God sent you to punish me! You are in the way!”

Sometimes we would commit small crimes for fun. Inevitably we would be brought before the old lady for an interrogation.

“So it is you who stepped on my flower bed?” the judge would say. “How dare you?…”

“It was only an accident.…”

“Shut up! I am asking you how you could dare to step on my flower bed!”

Such trials always ended with a free pardon, the kissing of the Princess’s hands, and the withdrawal of the culprit to the sound of Homeric laughter from behind the door. The Princess never spoiled us: she reserved her kinder words for old ladies and little children.

I never saw her smile. There was an old general who came over to play piquet with her on Sundays, who was once the recipient of her whispered confidence that every one of us—all these doctors, professors, artists, writers, and baronial lawyers-would have come to a bad end if it had not been for her good offices. We did not try to make her change her mind. Let her think as she pleased! We would have tolerated the Princess more if she had not made us get up no later than eight o’clock in the morning and go to bed no later than midnight. Poor Olya had to go to bed at eleven o’clock. Useless to contradict her. But we derived a good deal of fun from her illegal attempts to encroach upon our freedom! The whole crowd of us would go up to her and beg her pardon, or we would address complimentary verses to her in the style of Lomonosov, and we would draw up the genealogical tree of the Mikshadze princes, and so on. The Princess would accept all these offerings as pure gold, while we roared with laughter. She loved us, and there was nothing in the least insincere about her deep-throated sighing over the fact that we were not princes. She grew accustomed to us, as one grows accustomed to children.

The only one of us she did not love was Lieutenant Yegorov. She cordially disliked him, and nourished an unwavering antipathy toward him. She only let him come to Green Scythe because they had some financial dealings together, and for reasons of etiquette. There was a time when the lieutenant had been her favorite. He spoke rarely, was handsome and witty, and was “army”: the Princess held the Army in high regard. Sometimes Yegorov behaved strangely. He would sit down, prop his head in his hands, and start saying the most awful things. He would say them about anyone and anything, sparing neither the living nor the dead. The Princess would be beside herself, and whenever he said these awful things she would send us all packing from the room.

One day at lunch Yegorov propped his head in his hands and for no reason at all he embarked on a speech about Caucasian princes, and then he pulled a copy of The Dragonfly from his pocket, and in the presence of the Princess he had the effrontery to read the following passage: “Tiflis is a grand city. Among the merits of this beautiful city, where the ‘princes’ are street-sweepers and hotel bootblacks, must be included …” The Princess rose from the table and left the room in silence. Her hatred for him was all the more inopportune and unfortunate because the lieutenant dreamed of marrying Olya, and Olya herself was in love with him. The lieutenant dreamed furiously, but had little hope that his dreams would come true. Olya loved him secretly, stealthily, imperceptibly, keeping her love to herself. It was contraband love, on which a cruel veto had been placed. She was not permitted to love.

CHAPTER 2

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.”

The Princess shrugged her shoulders.

“Doesn’t she realize she is long overdue?” she asked, pulling at my sleeve.

I shrugged my shoulders. The Princess moved away and whispered something to Chaikhidzev, who also shook his shoulders. The Princess pulled at his sleeve.

“Complete idiot!” she muttered, and went running through all the rooms.

The maids and some schoolboys who were related to Olya ran noisily down the steps and went searching for the vanished fiancée in the depths of the garden. I, too, went into the garden. I was afraid Yegorov would not be able to keep Olya much longer: and our carefully contrived plot would come to nothing. I went straight to the summer house. My fears were unfounded. Olya was sitting beside Yegorov, gesticulating with her little hands, whispering, whispering.… Whenever Olya stopped whispering, Yegorov would begin murmuring. She was explaining her “ideas,” as the Princess would call them. He sweetened each word with a kiss. When he spoke to her, not a moment passed without a kiss, and somehow he succeeded in holding his mouth sideways so that she would not smell his vodka-laden breath. They were both completely happy, oblivious of the world, and of time passing. For a moment I stood rejoicing at the gate of the summer house, and then, having no desire to disturb them, I returned to the castle.

The Princess was almost out of her wits, inhaling her smelling salts. She was full of wild conjectures, but before Chaikhidzev and the assembled guests she felt angry and ashamed. She was a woman who had never had recourse to violence, but when a maidservant came to tell her there was no sign of Olya, she slapped the maidservant on the face. The guests, weary of waiting for the champagne and the congratulations, exchanged smiles and the latest gossip, and began dancing again.

The clock struck one, and still no sign of Olya. The Princess was close to madness.

“This is one of your tricks,” she hissed, passing by one of our group. “She’ll hear about this! Where is she?”

Finally she found a benefactor who revealed Olya’s hiding place. This benefactor was her nephew, a small potbellied schoolboy, who came running out of the garden like someone possessed, hurled himself at the Princess, jumped on her lap, pulled her head down, and whispered into her ear. The Princess turned pale and bit her lip so hard that she drew blood.

“In the summer house?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The Princess rose, and with a grimace which somehow resembled the smile of officialdom, she informed the guests that Olya was suffering from a headache and had begged to be excused, et cetera, et cetera. The guests expressed their regrets, quickly finished supper, and began leaving.

At two o’clock—Yegorov had excelled himself by keeping Olya all this time—I was standing at the entrance to the terrace behind some oleanders, waiting for Olya’s return. I wanted to see how her face would express at one and the same time her love for Yegorov and her fear of the Princess; and which was stronger, her love or her fear. For a little while longer I breathed the scent of the oleanders. Then Olya appeared, and I feasted my eyes on her face. She walked slowly, holding up her skirt a little, revealing her tiny slippers. Her face was brilliantly clear in the light of the moon and of the lanterns hanging on the trees, the glow of the lanterns somehow spoiling the pure radiance of the moon. Her face was solemn, very pale, with the ghost of a smile playing around her lips. She was gazing thoughtfully on the ground with the expression of one pondering a particularly difficult problem. When Olya climbed the first step I saw that her eyes were troubled, darting restlessly to and fro, as she remembered her mother. For a moment her hand went up to her disheveled hair, and then for a while she stood on that first step undecided. At last, with a toss of her head, she marched bravely to the door. And then I saw an extraordinary thing. The door was flung open suddenly, and Olya’s white face was lit with a fierce light. She shuddered, stepped back, and her knees trembled under her. On the threshold, head held high, stood the Princess, scarlet-faced, quivering with shame and rage. For two whole minutes there was silence.

“So the daughter of a Prince and the betrothed of a Prince goes to see a mere lieutenant!” she began. “A man with a common name like Yegorov! What an abominable creature you are!”

Olya was completely annihilated. She was shivering feverishly as she made a serpentine glide past the Princess and flew to her own room. All night long she sat on her bed and stared at the window with terror-stricken eyes.

At three o’clock that morning we had another meeting. At this meeting we had a good laugh at Yegorov, drunk with happiness, and we appointed our baronial lawyer from Kharkov as an ambassador to Chaikhidzev. The prince was still awake. The baronial lawyer from Kharkov was to explain “in the most friendly fashion” the delicacy of Chaikhidzev’s position, and to beg his pardon for our interference in his affairs, all this, of course, “in the most friendly fashion,” as one intelligent man speaks to another. Chaikhidzev informed the baron that “he understood perfectly,” that he attached no importance to the paternal vows, but he was in love with Olya and that was why he had been so persistent.… With deep feeling he shook hands with the baron and promised to retire from the scene the next day.

The next morning Olya appeared at the breakfast table looking wan, annihilated, terribly apprehensive, fearful and ashamed. But her face lit up when she saw us in the dining room and heard our voices. The whole group of us stood before the Princess, shouting. We shouted in unison. We had removed our masks, our very small masks, and we loudly insinuated into the mind of the old Princess certain “ideas,” which were the same as those Yegorov had been insinuating into the ears of Olya the previous evening. We spoke of the “personality” of women, and of their right to choose freely their own husbands, and so on, and so on. The Princess listened in gloomy silence, and then she read out a letter which had been sent to her by Lieutenant Yegorov—in fact, the letter had been written by the entire group and abounded in phrases like “being of immature years,” “owing to inexperience,” “by your favor,” et cetera. The Princess heard us to the end, read Yegorov’s letter to the end, and said:

“How dare you young whippersnappers teach an old woman like me! I know exactly what I am doing! Finish your tea, and then get out of here, and turn someone else’s head for a change! You are not the proper people to live with an old woman! You’re all so clever, and I’m only a fool! So good day, my dears! I’ll be grateful to you to the end of my days!”

The Princess threw us out of the house. We all wrote her a bread-and-butter letter, kissed her hand, and that same day we regretfully moved on to Yegorov’s estate. Chaikhidzev left the castle at the same time. At Yegorov’s we embarked on a course of dissipation; we missed Olya, and we consoled Yegorov. In this way two weeks passed. Then, during the third week, our baronial lawyer received a letter from the Princess asking him to come to Green Scythe to draw up some legal documents. The baron left us, and two or three days later we followed, pretending to come and fetch him. We arrived just before dinner. We did not go into the house, but wandered around the garden, gazing up at the windows. The Princess saw us from a window.

“So you’re here?” she shouted at us.

“Yes, we’re here!”

“What brought you here?”

“We’ve come for the baron.”

“The baron hasn’t any time to fool around with gallows birds like you! He’s writing!”

We removed our hats and approached the window.

“How do you do, Princess,” I said.

“Well, what are you gadding about for?” the Princess replied. “Go back to your rooms!”

So we went to our rooms and sat down humbly in our chairs. Our humble airs must have gratified the Princess, who had grown terribly bored without us. She made us stay for lunch. There, at lunch, when one of us dropped a spoon, she castigated him for being a clumsy fool, and she excoriated us all for our lack of table manners. We went for a walk with Olya and stayed the night there. The following night we were still at Green Scythe, and indeed we remained there until September. Peace had been declared.

Yesterday I received a letter from Yegorov. The lieutenant wrote that he had spent the winter “buttering up” the Princess, and he had finally succeeded in taming her anger and resentment. She has promised to let them marry in the summer.

Soon I shall receive two letters—one will be stern and official, from the Princess; the other will be a long one from Olya, full of gaiety and madcap schemes. In May I shall be going back to Green Scythe again.

1882