The Garnet Bracelet and other Stories / Гранатовый браслет и другие повести. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“Here’s who,” she whispered.

It was Anna Afanasyevna. She eyed Bobrov and Nina suspiciously and took her daughter by the hand.

“Why did you run away, Nina?” she said in tone of censure. “Standing here chattering in the darkness. A fine thing to do, indeed. And here I am looking for you in every corner. As for you, sir,” she said suddenly, in a loud railing voice, turning to Bobrov, “if you can’t or don’t care to dance yourself, you should at least keep out of the way of young ladies, instead of compromising them by tete-a-tetes in shady nooks.”

She walked oft”, towing Nina after her.

“Don’t worry, madam, nothing can compromise your young lady!” Bobrov shouted after her, and suddenly he burst into laughter so strange and bitter that mother and daughter could not help looking back.

“There! Didn’t I tell you he was a fool and an impudent fellow?” Anna Afanasyevna tugged at Nina’s hand. “You can spit in his face, but still he’ll laugh and get over it. Now the ladies are going to pick partners,” she added more calmly. “Go and invite Kvashnin. He’s just finished playing. There he is, in the doorway of the pavilion.”

“But, Mother! How can he dance? He can hardly move.”

“Do as I tell you. He was once considered one of the best dancers in Moscow. Anyway, he’ll be pleased.”

A grey mist swam before Bobrov’s eyes. In it he saw Nina run nimbly across the clearing and stop in front of Kvashnin with a coquettish smile, her head tilted to one side in enticing appeal. Kvashnin listened to her, bending slightly over her. Suddenly a guffaw rocked his huge frame, and he shook his head. Nina insisted for a long time, then made a sulky face, and turned to walk away. But Kvashnin overtook her with an agility that contrasted with his size, and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Well, it can’t be helped. You’ve got to humour children.” He put out his hand to Nina. All the dancers stopped, staring at the new pair with curiosity. The sight of Kvashnin dancing a mazurka promised to be very funny.

Kvashnin waited for the beat and, suddenly turning to his partner with a heavy grace that was majestic in its own way, did his first step with such confident dexterity that everyone sensed in him a former excellent dancer.

Looking down at Nina, with a proud, challenging, and gay turn of his head, he at first walked rather than danced to the music with an elastic, slightly waddling gait. It seemed that his enormous height and bulk, far from handicapping him, added at the moment to the ponderous grace of his figure. As he reached the curve he halted for a second, clicked his heels, swung Nina round, and sped smoothly on his thick, springy legs across the centre of the clearing, an indulgent smile on his face. In front of the spot where he had started the dance, he again whirled her in a swift, graceful movement, and suddenly seating her on a chair, stood facing her with bowed head.

Ladies surrounded him at once, begging him to dance another turn. But the unaccustomed effort had exhausted him, and he was panting as he fanned his face with his handkerchief.

“That’ll do, mesdames, have pity on an old man,” he said, laughing and breathing heavily. “I’m past the dancing age. Let’s have supper instead.”

The picnickers started to take their seats at the tables, moving the chairs up with a grating noise. Bobrov remained standing where Nina had left him. He was alternately agonized by a feeling of humiliation and by a hopeless, desperate anguish. There were no tears, but he felt a burning sensation in his eyes, and a dry, prickly lump clogged his throat. The music continued to echo in his brain with painful monotony.

“Why, I’ve been looking for you for such a long time!” he heard the doctor’s cheerful voice beside him. “Where have you been hiding? The moment I arrived they dragged me to the card table. I’ve just managed to get away. Let’s go and have some food. I’ve reserved two seats so that we can eat together.”

“Go along yourself, doctor!” replied Bobrov with an effort. “I’m not coming – I don’t feel like eating.”

“You aren’t coming? Well, well!” The doctor gazed fixedly at Bobrov’s face. “But, my dear friend, what’s the matter with you? You’re quite down in the mouth.” He was now speaking with earnest sympathy. “Say what you like, I won’t leave you alone. Come along, don’t let’s argue any more.”

“I feel shabby, doctor, I feel terrible,” said Bobrov softly as he mechanically followed Goldberg who was pulling him away.

“Nonsense, come along! Be a man, snap your fingers at the whole thing. ‘Would your heart be aching sorely, or your conscience put to test?’ “ he recited, putting his arm round Bobrov in a strong friendly embrace and looking affectionately into his eyes. “I’m going to prescribe a universal remedy: ‘Lets have a drink, friend Vanya, to warm our hearts!’ To tell you the truth, I’ve had a fair load of cognac with that man Andreas. How he drinks, that son of a gun! Come, be a man. You know, Andreas is very much interested in you. Come on!”

As he spoke the doctor dragged Bobrov into the pavilion. They sat down side by side. Bobrov’s other table companion turned out to be Andreas.

He had been smiling at Bobrov from some way off; now he made room for him to sit down and patted his back affectionately.

“Very glad to have you here with us,” he said in a friendly voice. “You’re a nice chap – the sort of man I like. Cognac?”

He was drunk. His glassy eyes shone with a strange light in his pale face. Not until six months later was it discovered that every evening this irreproachably reserved, hard-working, gifted man drank himself unconscious in complete solitude.

“I might really feel better if I had a drink,” Bobrov thought. “I must try, damn it!”

Andreas was waiting, holding the bottle tilted and ready. Bobrov put up a tumbler.

“Want to use that?” asked Andreas, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes,” replied Bobrov, with a meek, melancholy smile.

“Good! Say when.”

“The glass’ll say.”

“Splendid. One might think you’d served in the Swedish Navy. Enough?”

“Keep pouring.”

“But, my friend, don’t forget this is Martel of the VSOP brand – real, strong old cognac.”

“Keep pouring – don’t worry.”

“Well, suppose I do get soaked,” he said to himself with malice. “Let her see it.”

The glass was full. Andreas put down the bottle and curiously watched Bobrov who gulped down the liquor at a draught, and shuddered.

“Is anything eating you, my child?” asked Andreas, looking earnestly into Bobrov’s eyes.

“Yes.” Bobrov shook his head dolefully.

“Gnawing at your heart?”

“Yes.”

“Humph! Then you’ll want more.”

“Fill it,” said Bobrov, sadly submissive.

He guzzled cognac with disgust, trying hard to dull his pain. But, strangely enough, the liquor had not the least effect on him. In fact, he felt sadder as he drank, and tears burned his eyes more than ever.

Meanwhile the waiters passed champagne round. Kvashnin rose from his seat, holding his glass with two fingers and peering through it at the light of the high candelabrum. A hush fell. All that could be heard was the hissing of the arc lamps and the tireless chirring of a grasshopper.

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