IX
Ten days passed. The students came back from the vacation, and the throng of summer visitors began to diminish. The General fell ill and discontinued his walks in the park. The newly married pair took a separate villa. The mock “honeymoon” was still going on, as the money was not forthcoming, and they began to fear some unexpected step on the part of the old man—that he had possibly an unpleasant surprise in store for them.
At the same time Urmánov received visits from his fellow-students, and invited me, among others. The “young couple” led a gay life, rowing, driving, walking, giving and receiving many visits, so as to remain alone as little as possible. A feeling of youthful shyness withheld me from accepting my comrade’s invitation.
One evening I came upon Urmánov and his wife in one of the sidepaths—quite unexpectedly. He was sitting on a bench and she standing before him, as if asking him to walk on but he took no notice; and remained motionless. His hat was tilted a little backwards, his head flung in the same direction, his lips were parted, and his face wore an expression which did not belong to it and which was not pleasant to see. I had only once before seen him with that look—during a discussion at a students’ meeting. The man with whom he was arguing was unpleasant, but clever, and remarkably self-contained. Urmánov grew excited; his personal dislike to his opponent made itself evident both in his manner and his language. It chanced, however, that his antagonist was in the right, and he had no difficulty in refuting Urmánov’s arguments. On the other hand, it was plain that it pleased him to have roused the devil in Urmánov whom he still further irritated by jokes and sarcasms. It was as if there awoke in Urmánov some petty, evil, malicious imp which would otherwise have slumbered in the depths of his fiery yet lovable nature. His eyes glowed, his face was distorted, he lost his self-control, denied manifest truths, unceremoniously turned his back on his own principles, well knowing he was in the wrong, and that his friends knew it likewise; all of which made him more frantic than ever. The audience who were usually carried away by his ardor and sincerity, turned against him and burst into peals of ironical laughter, whereupon Urmánov fell more and more completely under the dominion of his baser self, against which he could no longer struggle.
For several days afterwards he was low-spirited and seemed ashamed of himself.
Now his countenance wore the selfsame expression. As I drew near he left off speaking and looked me straight in the face with frankly malignant eyes. He watched me, as if he were counting my steps and waiting impatiently for me to go by; there was something obstinately defiant and cynical as well in his attitude as his appearance.
I felt very uncomfortable, and not wanting to disturb him, quickened my pace as I passed the bench.
“Mr. Gavrilov!” cried suddenly the American lady.
I started in surprise, and stopped short.
“Did I startle you? Forgive my speaking to you without being introduced; but what does it matter? We have known each other a long time. … Where are you going?”
“Yes, certainly,” I stammered in confusion. “I … was going … to fish.”
“Really? How nice! You have two lines, take me with you. Will you? And he can wait here on the bench” (pointing to her companion).
“I … I … with pleasure.”
“Come along, then. Where were you going? Not far? All right, come.”
Her voice, at first undecided and seemingly confused, was now firm, even slightly mocking. I gave her a line and, flinging it across her shoulder, she walked on beside me.
Not far off were two benches for fishers. Slightly lifting her skirt, she mounted lightly on to the plank, and threw her line with a bold toss.
“Wait,” I said apologetically. “You must have a bait.”
“Why, of course I must!” she answered laughing. “I actually forgot the bait. Will you put it on, please?”
I put on the bait clumsily, with a shaking hand, and threw my own line as well. As I felt very stupid I avoided looking my companion in the face, but neither did I watch my float properly. I could, however, see the end of her line reflected in the water, and the circles made by her float. The float quivered, disappeared, appeared again, then suddenly began to swim off towards the opposite bank.
Will this stupid business soon be over, I thought.
“Well, will it soon be over?” said Urmánov’s voice from the waterside, in a tone of suppressed anger.
“No, not yet,” she answered, without turning her head. “Pull in, pull in, you have a bite!”
To my annoyance and surprise, I had really hooked a large fish. I grew nervous, bent down awkwardly, and nearly slipped from the bench. Something heavy dragged at the end of the line, flashed through the air in a silvery bow, and dropped into the water with a thud. It was a large tench. Waving its tail once more on the surface, it disappeared, leaving me standing with lifted rod and stupidly open mouth.
“Oh, what a pity!” she said, in a slightly drawling tone, and in her natural manner. “Such a big one!—There now, I’ve got one!”
She jerked the line skilfully and easily. A small carp described an arc through the air, and fell on the grass near Urmánov.
“Take it off!” she said, with a quick, searching glance at her husband.
I, too, looked at him curiously. Would he take it off or roughly refuse?
“Shall you soon have done?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders.
She raised her line, took off the carp, and threw it back into the water.
“You are not polite,” she remarked, throwing the line again.
It grew dark; so much so that we could scarcely see our floats. Among the reflections of the trees on the opposite bank, a faint glimmer showed in in the blackening depths of the water. The moon was rising. Then came another gentle plash again her line whirled, and a second carp fell on the bank.
“Will you take it off?” she asked again.
I could no longer see Urmánov’s face. He made two steps forward, and stooping, looked down on the grass.
“There then, I’ve taken it off. Shall you soon have done?”
“I think we have had enough.”
“One can’t even see the floats,” said I, and I suppose there must have been a comically aggrieved tone in my voice, for she broke into a laugh.
“Poor fellow! You are getting bored? Why didn’t you say so before? Come along? Give me your arm.”
“And the lines?” I asked.
“Put them on the grass. How helpless you are! There, give me your arm. No, no, that way” (correcting my clumsy fashion of giving my arm). “Now come!”
We walked on by the lake, over which a faint mist was hanging. Its reflection in the water seemed fainter still. Looking at the water, I wondered how, a minute ago, we managed to see our floats. Now the water was quite black; a bird hopped after us along the grassy bank, accompanying our steps with little interrogative chirps.
Urmánov walked beside us, gloomy and taciturn.