Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (417 page)

Darya [gets up]. Listen, Alexey Ivanitch, do you want to get a good post, with a good salary, in Petersburg?

Stupendyev. Me? I should rather think so!

Darya. You would like it?

Stupendyev. Of course . . . what a question?

Darya. Then leave me alone.

Stupendyev. Alone? How do you mean?

Darya. Alone with the Count. He’ll be here in a minute. He’s gone to his hotel for a little duet.

Stupendyev. A little duet?

Darya. Yes, a little duet. He has composed a duet. We want to try it over together.

Stupendyev. Then why must I go?... I should like to hear it too.

Darya. Oh, Alexey Ivanitch! You know all composers are frightfully shy, and a third person — seems simply awful to them.

Stupendyev. Composer? H’m. ... A third person.

But I really don’t know whether it’s quite proper. . . . How can I go out of the house? . . . The Count may be offended, in fact.

Darya. Not a bit — I assure you. He knows you are a busy man, with official duties; besides, you’ll be back to dinner.

Stupendyev. To dinner? Yes.

Darya. At three o’clock.

Stupendyev. Three o’clock. H’m! Yes ... I quite agree with you. . . . To dinner. Yes, at three o’clock. [Fidgets. ]

Darya [after waiting a little]. Well, what are you going to do?

Stupendyev. I don’t know . . . I’ve got... a bit of a headache. Here on the left side.

Darya. Have you? On the left side?

Stupendyev. Yes, really . . . here, here, on the left side; I don’t know ... I think I’d better remain at home.

Darya. I tell you what, my dear, you are jealous of the Count, that’s clear.

Stupendyev. Me jealous! What an idea! That would be too stupid....

Darya. Of course, it would be very stupid, there’s no doubt about that; but you are jealous.

Stupendyev. I am?

Darya. You are jealous of a man who dyes his hair.

Stupendyev. Does the Count dye his hair? What of it? I wear a wig.

Darya. That’s true; and so, as your peace of mind is more precious to me than anything, stay, by all means. . . . But give up all thought of Petersburg.

Stupendyev. But why so? Can this post in Petersburg . . . can it depend on my being absent?

Darya. Precisely.

Stupendyev. H’m! Queer. Of course, I agree with you; but still you must admit, it is queer.

Darya. Perhaps.

Stupendyev. How queer it is . . . how queer it is! \Walks about the room.] H’m!

Darya. But make up your mind quickly, anyway. . . . The Count will be back in a minute. . . .

Stupendyev. How queer it is! \A pause.’] Do you know what, Dasha, I will remain.

Darya. As you please.

Stupendyev. But did the Count actually say anything about this post?

Darya. I can add nothing to what I have told you already. Stay or go, as you please.

Stupendyev. And is it a good post?

Darya. It is.

Stupendyev. I quite agree with you . . . I . . . will stay. Yes, decidedly I will stay, Dasha. [From the hall comes the voice of the Count, carolling a roulade. ] Here he is! [After a brief hesitation.] At three o’clock! Good - bye! [Runs off into study.]

Darya. Thank God! [The Count comes in, a roll of music in his hands.] At last! I thought you were never coming, Count.

Count.
Me voilk, me voila, ma toute belle.
I was detained.

Darya. Show me, show me. . . . You can’t imagine how impatient I feel! [Takes the roll from his hands and eagerly examines it.]

Count. Please, you mustn’t expect anything too extraordinary. I told you beforehand, you know, that it’s just a trifle, a mere trifle.

Darya [not taking her eyes from the music]. Quite the contrary. . . . Oh, mais c’est charmant! Ah, how sweet this transition is! [Pointing with her finger.] Ah, I’m in love with that passage.

Count [with a modest simper]. Yes, it is a little out of the ordinary.

Darya. And this rentree!

Count. Ah! you like it?

Darya. Very, very charming! Well, come along, come along; why waste time? [Goes to piano, sits down, puts up stand and lays music on it. The Count takes up his position behind her.]

Darya. It is — andante?

Count. Andante, andante amoroso quasi cantando. . . .
[Clearing his throat.] H’m, h’m! I’m not in voice to - day. . . . But you must make allowances. . . .
Une voix de compositeur, vous savez.

Darya. The usual excuse.
Poor me, what can I say after that? I’ll begin. [She plays the ritournelle.] This is difficult.

Count. Not for you.

Darya. The words are very nice.

Count. Yes. ... I found them, I think, dans Metastase. ... I don’t know whether they are legibly written. [Pointing with his finger.] He sings this to her:

‘La dolce tua imagine O, vergine amata Dell’a ma inamorata.’

Well, so listen. [Sings a song in the Italian style; Darya Ivanovna accompanies him.]

Darya. Splendid, splendid. . . . Oh, que c’est joli.

Count. You think so?

Darya. Wonderful, wonderful!

Count. I didn’t sing it as it should be sung. But, my goodness, how you accompanied it! I assure you no one has ever accompanied me so well... no one!

Darya. You flatter me.

Count. I flatter? That’s not in my character, Darya Ivanovna.
Believe me, c’est moi qui le dit.
You are a great pianist.

Darya [who seems still absorbed in contemplation of the music], I do like this passage! How original it is!

Count. It is, isn’t it?

Darya. And can the whole opera be as fine?

Count. You know a composer cannot judge of that; but I fancy the rest is no worse, if not better.

Darya. Oh dear! Won’t you play me something from the opera?

Count. I should be only too glad and happy to do what you ask, Darya Ivanovna, but I’m sorry to say I don’t play the piano, and I have brought nothing with me.

Darya. What a pity! [Getting up.] Another time then. I hope, Count, you will come and see us again before you go away?

Count. If you allow me, I should be glad to come every day. As regards my promise, you need have no doubts about that.

Darya [innocently], What promise?

Count. I will obtain a post for your husband in Petersburg, I give you my word of honour. You must not remain here. Why, it would be simply outrageous! Vous n’etes pas faite pour . . . pour . . . vegeter ici. You ought to be one of the brilliant ornaments of our Petersburg world, and I should like ... I shall be proud to be the first. . . . But you seemed absorbed ... in what may I ask?

Darya [humming as though to herself J. La dolce tua imaging. . . .

Count. Ah! I knew that phrase would stay in your memory, I knew it. . . . As a rule, all I write est tres chantant.

Darya. That air is most charming. But I beg your pardon, Count ... I didn’t hear what you were saying . . . thanks to your music.

Count. I was saying that you really must move to Petersburg, Darya Ivanovna — for your own sake and your husband’s in the first place and for my sake in the second. I venture to bring in myself because . . . because our old friendship, I may say, gives me a certain right to do so. I have never forgotten you, Darya Ivanovna, and now more than ever I can assure you I am sincerely devoted to you . . . that this meeting with you . . .

Darya [;mournfully]. Count, why are you saying this?

Count. Why shouldn’t I say what I feel?

Darya. Because you ought not to arouse in me . . .

Count. Arouse what? . . . Arouse what? . . . Tell me. . . .

[Stupendyev appears in study doorway.]

Darya. Vain expectations.

Count. Why vain? And what expectations?

Darya. I will be frank with you, Valeryan Nikolaitch.

Count. You remember my name!

Darya. Well, you see . . . here you have shown . . . some interest in me, but in Petersburg I shall perhaps seem so insignificant that I dare say you will regret what you are now intending to do for us.

Count. Oh, good heavens, how can you say such things! You don’t know your own value. Is it possible you don’t understand. . . . Mais vous etes une femme charmante.

Regret what I’m doing for you, Darya Ivanovna!

Darya [seeing Stupendyev]. For my husband, you mean.

Count. Well, yes, yes, for your husband. Regret it. . . . No, you don’t yet know my real feelings. ... I want to be open with you ... in my turn.

Darya [embarrassed]. Count. . . .

Count. You don’t know my real feelings, I tell you, you don’t know them.

Stupendyev [comes rapidly into the room, approaches the Count who is standing with his back to him and bows]. Your Excellency, your Excellency.. . .

Count. You don’t know what I am feeling, Darya Ivanovna. . . .

Stupendyev [shouts]. Your Excellency, your Excellency. ...

Count [turns round quickly, looks at him for some time, and says calmly]. Oh, is it you, Alexey Ivanitch? Where have you sprung from?