XI
Having heard that the hussar officer was the son of Count Fyódor Toúrbin, Anna Fyódorovna began to bustle about.
“Oh, dear me! The darling boy! … Daniel! run quick and say your mistress asks them to her house,” she began, jumping up and hurrying with quick steps into the servants’ room. “Lizzie! Oustúshka! … Your room must be got ready, Lisa; you can go into your uncle’s room, and you, brother, you’ll not mind sleeping in the drawing-room, brother? It’s only for one night.”
“I don’t mind, sister. I can sleep on the floor.”
“He’s handsome I should think, if he’s like his father. Only to have a look at him, the darling. … There now, you look at him, Lisa! The father was handsome. Where are you taking that table to? Leave it here,” said Anna Fyódorovna, bustling about. “Bring two beds—take one from the foreman’s—and get the crystal candlestick brother gave me for my birthday—it’s on the whatnot—and put in a stearine candle.”
At last everything was ready. In spite of her mother’s interference, Lisa arranged the room for the two officers her own way. She took out clean bedclothes scented with mignonette, and made the beds; had a bottle of water and candles put on a little table near the beds; fumigated the servants’ room with scented paper, and moved her own bedding into her uncle’s room. Anna Fyódorovna quieted down a little, settled in her own place, and even took up the cards again, but instead of laying them out she leaned her plump elbow on the table and became thoughtful.
“Ah, time, time, how it flies!” she whispered to herself. “Is it so long ago?—it is as if I could see him now. Ah, he was a madcap! …” and tears came into her eyes. “And now there’s Lizzie … but still, she’s not what I was at her age; she’s a nice girl, but no, not like that …”
“Lisa, you should put on your mousseline-de-laine dress for the evening.”
“Why, mother, you are not going to ask them in here? Better not,” said Lisa, unable to master her excitement at the thought of seeing the officers: “Better not, mama!”
And really, the desire of seeing them was less strong than the fear of the agitating joy which, as she imagined, awaited her.
“Maybe they themselves will feel inclined to make our acquaintance, Lizzie!” said Anna Fyódorovna, stroking her head and thinking, “No, her hair is not what mine was at her age … No, Lizzie, how I should like you to …” And she really did very earnestly desire something for her daughter. But a marriage with the Count was out of the question, and relations such as she had had with the father she could not desire for her daughter; but still she did desire something very much. She may have longed to live again, in the soul of her daughter, what she had experienced with him who was dead.
The old cavalryman was also somewhat excited by the arrival of the Count. He went and locked himself into his room. In a quarter of an hour he emerged thence in a Hungarian jacket and pale-blue trousers, and went into the room prepared for the visitors, with the bashfully-pleased expression of a girl who for the first time in her life puts on a ball-dress.
“I’ll have a look at the hussars of today, sister! The late Count was, indeed, a true hussar. I’ll see, I’ll see.”
The officers had already, through the back entrance, reached the room assigned to them.
“There now, you see. Is not this better than that hut with the cockroaches?” said the Count, lying down as he was, in his dusty boots, on the bed that had been made for him.
“It’s better, of course it is; but still, to be indebted to the owners …”
“Eh, what nonsense! One must be practical in all things. They’re awfully pleased, I’m sure … Eh, you there!” he cried, “ask for something to hang over this window, or it will be draughty in the night.”
At this moment the old man came in to make the officers’ acquaintance. Of course he did not omit to say, though he did it with a slight blush, that he and the old Count had been comrades, that he had enjoyed the Count’s favour, and he even added that he had more than once been under obligations to the deceased. What obligations he referred to, whether it was the omission to repay the hundred roubles the Count had borrowed, or his throwing him into a snow-heap, or swearing at him, the old man quite omitted to explain. The young Count was very polite to the old cavalryman, and thanked him for the night’s lodging.
“You must excuse us if it is not luxurious, Count,” (he very nearly said “your excellency,” so unaccustomed had he become to conversing with important persons), “my sister’s house is so small. But we’ll hang something up there directly and it will be all right,” added the old man, and on the plea of seeing about a curtain, but chiefly because he was in a hurry to give an account of the officers, he bowed and left the room.
The pretty Oustúshka came in with her mistress’s shawl to cover the window, and besides, the mistress had told her to ask if the gentlemen would not like some tea.
The pleasant surroundings seemed to have a good influence on the Count’s spirits. He smiled merrily, joked with Oustúshka in such a way that she even called him a scamp, asked her whether her young lady was pretty, and in answer to her question whether they would have any tea, he said she might bring them some tea, but the chief thing was that their own supper not being ready yet, perhaps they might have some vodka and something to eat, and some sherry if there was any.
The uncle was in raptures over the young Count’s politeness, and praised the new generation of officers to the skies, saying that the present men were incomparably superior to the former generation.
Anna Fyódorovna did not agree—no one could be better than Count Fyódor Ivánitch Toúrbin—and at last she grew seriously angry, and drily remarked, “The one who has last stroked you, brother, is always the best. … Of course people are cleverer nowadays, but Count Fyódor Ivánitch danced the ecossaise in such a way, and was so amiable, that everybody lost their heads about him, only he paid attention to nobody but me. So you see, there were good people in the old days too.”
Here came the news of the demand for vodka, light refreshments, and sherry.
“There now, brother, you never do the right thing; you should have ordered supper,” began Anna Fyódorovna. “Lisa, see to it, dear!”
Lisa ran to the larder to get some pickled mushrooms and fresh butter, and the cook was ordered to make rissoles.
“But how about sherry? Have you any left, brother?”
“No, sister, I never had any.”
“How’s that? Why, what do you take with your tea?”
“That’s rum, Anna Fyódorovna.”
“Is it not all the same? Give some of that—it’s all the same. But would it not, after all, be best to ask them in here, brother? You know all about it—I don’t think they would take offence.”
The cavalryman declared he would warrant that the Count was too good-natured to refuse, and that he would certainly fetch them. Anna Fyódorovna went and put on, for some reason, a silk dress and a new cap, but Lisa was so busy that she had no time to change her pink gingham dress with the wide sleeves. And besides, she was terribly excited; she felt as if something striking was awaiting her, and as if a low, black cloud hung over her soul. This handsome hussar Count seemed to her a perfectly new, incomprehensible, but beautiful being. His character, his habits, his speech, must all be so unusual, so different from anything she had ever met. All he thinks or says must be wise and right, all he does—honourable, all his appearance—beautiful. She never doubted that. Had he asked, not merely for refreshments and sherry, but for a bath of sage-brandy and perfume, she would not have been surprised and would not have blamed him, but would have been firmly convinced that it was right and necessary.
The Count agreed at once when the cavalryman informed them of his sister’s wish. He brushed his hair, put on his uniform, and took his cigar-case.
“Come along,” he said to Pólozof.
“Really it would be better not to go,” answered the Cornet; “Ils feront des frais pour nous recevoir.”
“Nonsense! they will be only too happy. Besides, I have made some inquiries: there is a pretty daughter. … Come along!” said the Count, in French.
“Je vous en prie, messieurs!” said the cavalryman, merely to make the officers feel that he also knew French, and had understood what they had said.