“A madman.… He ought to be in a madhouse and not looking after forests. In general you won't be far from the truth if you put up a signboard: ‘Madhouse’ over the gate of your estate.… You have a real Bedlam here! This forester, the Scops-Owl, Franz, who is mad on cards, this old man in love, an excitable girl, a drunken Count.… What do you want more?”
“Why, this forester receives a salary! How can he do his work if he is mad?”
“Urbenin evidently only keeps him for his daughter's sake.… Urbenin says that Nikolai Efimych has these attacks every summer.… That's not likely.… This forester is ill, not every summer, but always.… By good luck, your Pëtr Egorych seldom lies, and he gives himself away when he does lie about anything.…”
“Last year Urbenin informed me that our old forester Akhmet'ev was going to become a monk on Mount Athos, and he recommended me to take the ‘experienced, honest and worthy Skvortsov’ … I, of course, agreed as I always do. Letters are not faces: they do not give themselves away when they lie.”
The carriage drove into the courtyard and stopped at the front door. We alighted. The rain had stopped. The thunder cloud, scintillating with lightning and emitting angry grumbles, was hurrying towards the north-east and uncovering more and more the dark blue star-spangled sky. It was like a heavily armed power which having ravaged the country and imposed a terrible tribute, was rushing on to new conquests.… The small clouds that remained behind were chasing after it as if fearing to be unable to catch it up.… Nature had its peace restored to it.
And that peace seemed astonished at the calm, aromatic air, so full of softness, of the melodies of nightingales, at the silence of the sleeping gardens and the caressing light of the rising moon. The lake awoke after the day's sleep, and by gentle murmurs brought memories of itself to man's hearing.…
At such a time it is good to drive through the fields in a comfortable calash or to be rowing on the lake.… But we went into the house.… There another sort of poetry was awaiting us.
V
A man who under the influence of mental pain or unbearably oppressive suffering sends a bullet through his own head is called a suicide; but for those who give freedom to their pitiful, soul-debasing passions in the holy days of spring and youth, there is no name in man's vocabulary. After the bullet follows the peace of the grave: ruined youth is followed by years of grief and painful recollections. He who has profaned his spring will understand the present condition of my soul. I am not yet old, or grey, but I no longer live. Psychiaters tell us that a soldier, who was wounded at Waterloo, went mad, and afterwards assured everybody—and believed it himself—that he had died at Waterloo, and that what was now considered to be him was only his shadow, a reflection of the past. I am now experiencing something resembling this semi-death.…
“I am very glad that you ate nothing at the forester's and haven't spoilt your appetite,” the Count said to me as we entered the house. “We shall have an excellent supper.… Like old times.… Serve supper!” He gave the order to Il'ya who was helping him to take off his coat and put on a dressing-gown.