VIII
Sáshka, with a sash tied round his waist, announced that the horses were ready, but demanded that the Count’s cloak, which, he said, with the fur collar was worth 300 roubles, should be fetched back and the shabby blue one returned to the scoundrel who changed it for the Count’s at the Marshal’s; but Toúrbin said there was no need to look for the cloak, and went to his room to change his clothes.
The cavalryman kept hiccuping as he sat silent beside his gipsy. The Captain of Police called for vodka, invited everyone to come at once and have breakfast with him, promising that his wife would certainly dance with the gipsies. The handsome young man was profoundly explaining to Ilúshka that there is more soul in pianoforte music, and that you could not play bémols on a guitar. The official sat in a corner sadly drinking his tea, and in the daylight seemed ashamed of his debauchery. The gipsies were disputing among themselves in their own tongue as to “hailing the guests” again, which Styóshka opposed, saying that the baroráy (that is, count or prince, or, more literally, “great gentleman,” in gipsy language) would be angry. In general, the last embers of the debauch were dying out in everyone.
“Well, one farewell song, and then off to your homes!” said the Count, entering the parlour in travelling dress, fresh, merry, and handsomer than ever.
The gipsies again formed their circle and were just going to begin, when Ilyín entered with a packet of paper money in his hand, and took the Count aside.
“I only had 15,000 roubles of Government money, and you have given me 16,300,” he said, “so this is yours.”
“That’s a good thing; give it here!”
Ilyín gave him the money, and looking timidly at the Count, opened his lips to say something, but only blushed till the tears came into his eyes, and catching hold of the Count’s hand, began pressing it.
“You be off! … Ilúshka! listen. Here’s some money for you, but you must see me out of the town with songs!” and he threw on to the guitar the 1300 roubles Ilyín had brought. But the Count quite forgot repay the 100 roubles he had borrowed of the cavalryman the day before.
It was already ten o’clock in the morning. The sun had risen above the roofs of the houses. Men and women were moving in the streets. The tradespeople had long ago opened their shops. Nobles and officials were driving through the streets, ladies were shopping in the bazaar, when the whole gipsy band, the Captain of Police, the cavalryman, the handsome young man, Ilyín, and the Count in the blue bearskin cloak, came out into the hotel porch.
It was a sunny day, and a thaw had set in. The large post-sledges, each with three horses, their tails tied to keep them out of the mud, drove up to the porch splashing through the slush, and the whole lively party took their places. The Count, Ilyín, Styóshka, Ilúshka, and Sáshka the Orderly, got into the first sledge. Blücher was beside himself, and wagged his tail, barking at the shaft-horse. The rest of the gentlemen got into the two other sledges with the rest of the gipsy men and women. The troikas got abreast as they left the hotel, and the gipsies struck up in chorus.
The sledges, with their songs and bells, driving every vehicle they met quite on to the pavements, dashed through the whole town right to the town gates. Not a little astonished were the tradesmen and passersby who did not know them, and especially those who did, when they saw the nobles driving through the streets in broad daylight with songs, gipsy women, and tipsy gipsy men.
When they had passed the town gates the troikas stopped, and all began bidding the Count farewell.
Ilyín, who had had plenty to drink at the leave-taking and who had been driving the sledge all the way, suddenly became very sad, begged the Count to stay another day, and when he found this was impossible, rushed quite unexpectedly at his new friend, kissed him, and promised with tears to try, as soon as he got back, to exchange into the hussar regiment the Count was serving in. The Count was particularly gay; he tumbled the cavalryman, who had become very familiar in the morning, into a snow-heap; set Blücher at the Captain of Police, took Styóshka in his arms and wanted to carry her off to Moscow, and at last, jumping into his sledge, made Blücher, who wished to stand up in the middle, sit down by his side. Sáshka jumped on to the box, after having again asked the cavalryman to get back the Count’s cloak from them, and to send it on. The Count cried, “Drive on!” took off his cap, waved it over his head, and whistled postboy-like to the horses. The troikas drove off their different ways.
A monotonous, snowy plain stretched far ahead, with a dirty, yellow road winding through it. The bright sunshine—playfully sparkling on the thawing snow, which was coated with a transparent icy crust—pleasantly warmed one’s face and back. The steam rose thick from the sweating horses. The bell tinkled. A peasant with a loaded sledge that kept gliding to the side of the road, got hurriedly out of the way, jerking his rope-reins and splashing with his wet bast-shoes as he ran along the thawing road. A fat, red-faced peasant woman, holding a baby wrapped in the bosom of her sheepskin cloak, sat in another laden sledge, and whipped a thin-tailed, jaded, white horse with the ends of the reins. The Count suddenly remembered Anna Fyódorovna.
“Drive back!” cried he.
The driver did not at once understand.
“Turn back! Drive back to town! Be quick!”
The troika passed the town gates once more, and drove briskly up to the wooden porch of Mrs. Záytsef’s house. The Count ran quickly up the steps, passed through the vestibule and the drawing-room, and having found the widow still asleep, took her in his arms, lifted her off the bed, kissed her sleepy eyes, and ran quickly back. Anna Fyódorovna, half awake, only licked her lips and asked, “What has happened?” The Count jumped into the sledge, shouted to the driver, and without further delay, and without even thinking about Loúhnof, or the widow, or Styóshka, but only of what awaited him in Moscow, he left the town of K⸺ forever.