or in his wretched little study…. A river, deep, with fish, a wide garden with narrow avenues, little fountains, shade, flowers, arbours, a luxurious villa with terraces and turrets with an Aeolian harp and little silver bells (he had heard of the existence of an Aeolian harp from German romances); a cloudless blue sky; pure limpid air fragrant with the scents that recall his hungry, barefoot, crushed childhood…. To get up at five, to go to bed at nine; to spend the day catching fish, talking with the peasants…. What happiness!
“Ivan Petrovitch, do not torture me! Will you take a hundred thousand?”
“H’m… a hundred and fifty thousand!” muttered Bugrov in a hollow voice, the voice of a husky bull. He muttered it, and bowed his head, ashamed of his words, and awaiting the answer.
“Good,” said Groholsky, “I agree. I thank you, Ivan Petrovitch… . In a minute…. I will not keep you waiting… .”
Groholsky jumped up, put on his hat, and staggering backwards, ran out of the drawing-room
Bugrov clutched the window curtains more tightly than ever…. He was ashamed… . There was a nasty, stupid feeling in his soul, but, on the other hand, what fair shining hopes swarmed between his throbbing temples! He was rich!
Liza, who had grasped nothing of what was happening, darted through the half-opened door trembling all over and afraid that he would come to her window and fling her away from it. She went into the nursery, laid herself down on the nurse’s bed, and curled herself up. She was shivering with fever.
Bugrov was left alone. He felt stifled, and he opened the window. What glorious air breathed fragrance on his face and neck! It would be good to breathe such air lolling on the cushions of a carriage…. Out there, far beyond the town, among the villages and the summer villas, the air was sweeter still…. Bugrov actually smiled as he dreamed of the air that would be about him when he would go out on the verandah of his villa and admire the view. A long while he dreamed…. The sun had set, and still he stood and dreamed, trying his utmost to cast out of his mind the image of Liza which obstinately pursued him in all his dreams.
“I have brought it, Ivan Petrovitch!” Groholsky, reentering, whispered above his ear. “I have brought it — take it…. Here in this roll there are forty thousand…. With this cheque will you kindly get twenty the day after tomorrow from Valentinov?… Here is a bill of exchange… a cheque…. The remaining thirty thousand in a day or two…. My steward will bring it to you.”
Groholsky, pink and excited, with all his limbs in motion, laid before Bugrov a heap of rolls of notes and bundles of papers. The heap was big, and of all sorts of hues and tints. Never in the course of his life had Bugrov seen such a heap. He spread out his fat fingers and, not looking at Groholsky, fell to going through the bundles of notes and bonds….
Groholsky spread out all the money, and moved restlessly about the room, looking for the Dulcinea who had been bought and sold.
Filling his pockets and his pocketbook, Bugrov thrust the securities into the table drawer, and, drinking off half a decanter full of water, dashed out into the street.
“Cab!” he shouted in a frantic voice.
At half-past eleven that night he drove up to the entrance of the Paris Hotel. He went noisily upstairs and knocked at the door of Groholsky’s apartments. He was admitted. Groholsky was packing his things in a portmanteau, Liza was sitting at the table trying on bracelets. They were both frightened when Bugrov went in to them. They fancied that he had come for Liza and had brought back the money which he had taken in haste without reflection. But Bugrov had not come for Liza. Ashamed of his new get-up and feeling frightfully awkward in it, he bowed and stood at the door in the attitude of a flunkey. The get-up was superb. Bugrov was unrecognisable. His huge person, which had never hitherto worn anything but a uniform, was clothed in a fresh, brand-new suit of fine French cloth and of the most fashionable cut. On his feet spats shone with sparkling buckles. He stood ashamed of his new get-up, and with his right hand covered the watch-chain for which he had, an hour before, paid three hundred roubles.
“I have come about something,” he began. “A business agreement is beyond price. I am not going to give up Mishutka… .”
“What Mishutka?” asked Groholsky.
“My son.”
Groholsky and Liza looked at each other. Liza’s eyes bulged, her cheeks flushed, and her lips twitched….
“Very well,” she said.
She thought of Mishutka’s warm little cot. It would be cruel to exchange that warm little cot for a chilly sofa in the hotel, and she consented.
“I shall see him,” she said.
Bugrov bowed, walked out, and flew down the stairs in his splendour, cleaving the air with his expensive cane….
“Home,” he said to the cabman. “I am starting at five o’clock tomorrow morning…. You will come; if I am asleep, you will wake me. We are driving out of town.”
II
It was a lovely August evening. The sun, set in a golden background lightly flecked with purple, stood above the western horizon on the point of sinking behind the faraway tumuli. In the garden, shadows and half-shadows had vanished, and the air had grown damp, but the golden light was still playing on the treetops…. It was warm…. Rain had just fallen, and made the fresh, transparent fragrant air still fresher.
I am not describing the August of Petersburg or Moscow, foggy, tearful, and dark, with its cold, incredibly damp sunsets. God forbid! I am not describing our cruel northern August. I ask the reader to move with me to the Crimea, to one of its shores, not far from Feodosia, the spot where stands the villa of one of our heroes. It is a pretty, neat villa surrounded by flowerbeds and clipped bushes. A hundred paces behind it is an orchard in which its inmates walk…. Groholsky pays a high rent for that villa, a thousand roubles a year, I believe…. The villa is not worth that rent, but it is pretty…. Tall, with delicate walls and very delicate parapets, fragile, slender, painted a pale blue colour, hung with curtains, portières, draperies, it suggests a charming, fragile Chinese lady….
On the evening described above, Groholsky and Liza were sitting on the verandah of this villa. Groholsky was reading Novoye Vremya and drinking milk out of a green mug. A syphon of Seltzer water was standing on the table before him. Groholsky imagined that he was suffering from catarrh of the lungs, and by the advice of Dr. Dmitriev consumed an immense quantity of grapes, milk, and Seltzer water. Liza was sitting in a soft easy chair some distance from the table. With her elbows on the parapet, and her little face propped on her little fists, she was gazing at the villa opposite…. The sun was playing upon the windows of the villa opposite, the glittering panes reflected the dazzling light…. Beyond the little garden and the few trees that surrounded the villa there was a glimpse of the sea with its waves, its dark blue colour, its immensity, its white masts…. It was so delightful! Groholsky was reading an article by Anonymous, and after every dozen lines he raised his blue eyes to Liza’s back…. The same passionate, fervent love was shining in those eyes still…. He was infinitely happy in spite of his imaginary catarrh of the lungs…. Liza was conscious of his eyes upon her back, and was thinking of Mishutka’s brilliant future, and she felt so comfortable, so serene….
She was not so much interested by the sea, and the glittering reflection on the windows of the villa opposite as by the waggons which were trailing up to that villa one after another.
The
