Short Fiction, Leo Tolstoy [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

“Not on any account?”

The same shrug.

“But I particularly request it.⁠ ⁠… Well, will you play?”

Silence.

“Will you play?” the Count asked again. “Mind!”

The same silence and a rapid glance over the spectacles at the Count’s face, which was beginning to frown.

“Will you play?” shouted the Count very loud, striking the table with his hand so that the bottle toppled over and the wine was spilt. “You know you did not win fairly?⁠ ⁠… Will you play?⁠—I ask you for the third time.”

“I said I would not. This is really strange, Count! and it is not at all proper to come and hold a knife to a man’s throat,” remarked Loúhnof, not raising his eyes. A momentary silence followed, during which the Count’s face grew paler and paler. Suddenly a terrible blow on the head stupefied Loúhnof. He fell on the sofa trying to seize the money, and uttered such a piercingly despairing cry as no one could have expected from so calm and imposing a person. Toúrbin gathered up what money lay on the table, shoved aside the servant who ran in to his master’s assistance, and left the room with quick steps.

“If you want satisfaction, I am at your service! I shall be here for another half-hour,” said the Count, returning to Loúhnof’s door.

“Thief, robber, I’ll have the law of you⁠ ⁠…” was what was audible from the room.

Ilyín, who had paid no attention to the Count’s promise to help him, still lay as before on the sofa in his room, choking with tears of despair. The consciousness of the reality, which had been evoked⁠—from behind the strange tangle of feelings, thoughts and memories which filled his soul⁠—by the caresses and sympathy of the Count, did not leave him. His youth, rich with hope, his honour, public respect, his dreams of love and friendship⁠—all were utterly lost. The source of his tears began to run dry, a too passive feeling of hopelessness overcame him more and more, and the thought of suicide, no longer awakening revulsion or horror, claimed his attention with increasing frequency. Just then the sound of the Count’s firm footsteps became audible.

In Toúrbin’s face traces of anger were still discernible, his hands shook a little, but his eyes shone with kindly mirth and self-satisfaction.

“Here you are; it’s won back!” he said, throwing several bundles of paper money on the table. “See if it’s all there, and then make haste and come into the saloon. I am just leaving,” he added, as though not noticing the extremely excited expression of joy and gratitude on the face of the Uhlan; and whistling a gipsy tune he left the room.

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 onto 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