КНІГІ ОНЛАЙН
Пошук сярод кніг, што прайшлі індэксацыю гуглам. Некаторыя кнігі гугл не знаходзіць
Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal it even to you, but I think that shameful thoughts are certainly not so important in themselves as is the question whether a person can conquer them, whether they recurred to him or not. And I have decided to share them with you for the sake of science. Towards evening Svetilovich came to see me. Our hostess had a headache, and she locked herself up in her room before his appearance. We talked together, the two of us, sitting near the fireplace, and I related the events of the previous night. His face expressed amazement and I asked him what had so startled him. “Nothing,” he answered. “The housekeeper — that’s rubbish. She, perhaps, simply steals from her mistress’s miserly income, or perhaps it’s something else entirely. I’ve known this woman a long time, she’s rather stingy and foolish, foolish as a lamp-post. Her brains are overgrown with fat and she is incapable of crime, though it’s not a bad idea to keep your eye on her. The Lady-in-Blue is also nonsense. The next time you see her, shoot in her direction. I’m not afraid of women ghosts. But better makea guess why I was so surprised on hearing of the Wild Hunt.” "I — I don’t know.” “Well then, tell me, don’t you suspect Varona? Let’s say that Varona is courting Yanowskaya, asks her to marry him, receives a refusal, and then to take revenge, he begins to play tricks with the Wild Hunt. You haven’t heard anything about this courtship, have you? Yes, yes, it was two years ago, when Roman was still alive, that Varona offered Nadzeya, who was still a child then, his hand and heart... That’s the reason why he is angry with you, that’s why he picked a quarrel with you, but when nothing came of it, he decided to remove you from his path. Though I had thought it would take place somewhat later.” I became thoughtful. “I must confess that such thoughts did enter my mind. It’s possible I would even have gone on thinking them if I hadn’t known that Varona was lying wounded.” “That’s just nonsense. Almost immediately after you left, he appeared at the table, green and dismal, but sober. Blood-letting helped. His bandaged head looked like a cabbage, only his nose and eyes were visible. Dubatowk said to him: ‘Well, young man, shame on you — got as drunk as a pig, picked a duel with me, but ran up against a man who gave you a dressing-down.’ Varona attempted to smile, but he staggered, so weak he was: T myself see, Uncle, what a fool I am. And Belaretzky has taught me such a lesson that I’ll never again pick a quarrel with people.’ Dubatowk only shook his head. ‘That’s what vodka, with God’s will, does to blockheads.’ And Varona said to him: ‘I think that I should ask his pardon. It turned out that we invited him to be our guest, but we tried to finish him off.’ Then he changed his mind, and went on: ‘No, I shan’t ask to be forgiven, I am angry. And after all, he received satisfaction.’ But I can tell you that he sat together with us, and we drank till the very dawn. Dubatowk got so drunk that he recalled being a Christian during Nero’s reign and all the time was trying to put his hands in the bowl of hot punch. He drank it hot, blowing out the flames as he drank. Your second in the duel, a blockhead of about 40, was weeping all the time and shouting, ‘Mother dear! Come and cuddle me, stroke my head. Your little son is being treated badly. They won’t give him any more vodka.’ About three people fell asleep under the table. Not a single one of them left for even a minute, so neither Varona nor Dubatowk are in any way connected with the Wild Hunt.” “And do you mean to say that you suspected Dubatowk, too?” “And why not?” Svetilovich said sternly. “I trust nobody now. The question concerns Miss Nadzeya. Then why should Dubatowk be excluded from among the suspicious ones? What reason can there be for that? That he is kind? Well, a person can pretend kindness! I myself... during the duel didn’t approach you, fearing that they might suspect something if they are the criminals. And in future I shall conceal our friendship. I suspected even you: what if... but I caught myself in time. A wellknown ethnographer joins a band! Ha! In the same way Dubatowk might pretend being a little lamb. What displeased me most of all was that gift of his, the portrait of Roman the Elder. As if he had a definite purpose in view to unsettle the girl...” “And why not?” I started. “That’s really suspicious. Now she’s even afraid to sit at the fireplace.” “That’s just it,” gloomily confirmed Svetilovich. “That means that he is not King Stakh. This gift is the very thing that speaks in his favour. And the events at his house.” “Listen,” I said. “And why not suppose that you yourself are King Stakh? You left later than I did yesterday. You are jealous of me without any reason. Perhaps you are throwing dust in my eyes, while in fact, no sooner do I leave than you say: ‘To your horses, men!”’ I did not think so, not for an instant, but I didn’t like this young man being so suspicious today, a young man usually so trusting and sincere. Svetilovich looked at me as if he had gone out of his mind, understanding nothing, then he suddenly burst out laughing, and immediately he was his good old self again. “That’s it,” I answered in the same tone. “It’s wrong to sin against such old men as Dubatowk, so don’t. It doesn’t take long to slander a person.” “Alright, now I no longer suspect him,” he answered still laughing. “I said that they were with me, didn’t I? At daybreak Varona began to feel very ill, his wound began to bleed again, he began to rave. An old quack doctor was sent for, then even a proper doctor was brought over. They weren’t too lazy to ride off to the district centre for a doctor. He ‘passed sentence’: Varona must stay in bed a whole week. The doctor was told it was an accident.” “So, who else could it have been?” We turned over in our minds names of everybody in the entire region, but couldn’t settle on anybody. We even thought of Berman and although we understood that he is a lamb, decided to write a letter to a friend of Svetilovich’s in the province, to learn how Berman had lived there formerly and what kind of a man he is. That was necessary, for he was the only one among the people of the Yanowsky district about whom we knew absolutely nothing. We made all kinds of guesses, but could think of nothing. “Who is the wealthiest person living in the environs of Marsh Firs?” I asked. Svetilovich thought awhile: “Yanowskaya, it seems... Although her wealth is dead capital. Then there is Garovich (he doesn’t live here), then Mr. Garaboorda — by the way he is Yanowskaya’s principal heir should she die now. Then there is, certainly, Dubatowk. He has little land; his belongings and his house, you see for yourself, are poor, but he must have money hidden somewhere, for he is always entertaining guests in his house, always plenty of eating and drinking there. The rest are unimportant, small fry.” “You say that Garaboorda is Yanowskaya’s heir. Why he and not you, who are a relative of hers?” “But I’ve already told you that my father relinquished his rights to any heritage. It’s dangerous, the estate has no income, and according to rumours, some promissory notes are attached to it.” “And don’t you think that Garaboorda...” “Him! No! І don’t. What has he to gain in earning by crime what will belong to him anyway? Let’s say that Yanowskaya gets married — he has the promissory notes, if it isn’t a fable. In addition he’s a coward, not many like him.” “So,” I meditated, “then let’s look at things from a different angle: we must learn who had called out Roman from his house that evening. What do we know? That his daughter was visiting some Kulsha. But perhaps it wasn’t even to them that Roman went. We have only Berman’s word for it. We’ll have to ask Kulsha. And you will make inquiries concerning Berman’s life in the province.” I saw him off to the roadway and was going home through the lane. Dusk had already fallen. My feelings were unpleasant. The lane, as a matter of fact, was now but a path, and in one place an enormous lilac bush crossed it, a bush that had grown into a tree. Its wet leaves, resembling hearts, were still green and shone dully, transparent drops falling off from them. The bush was weeping... I passed round it and had already taken about ten steps, when suddenly behind me something cracked dryly. I felt a burning pain in my shoulder. It is shameful to confess, but I was quaking with fear. “It’s come,” I thought, “he’ll shoot again and that’ll be the end of me.” I should have shot straight into the bush or simply run away — anything would have been wiser than what I did. Terribly frightened, I turned about and rushed off into the bush, my breast open to the bullet. And here I heard something cracking in the bush. I chased after him like a madman, only wondering why he didn’t shoot. While he, evidently, also acted according to instinct: he took to his heels at full speed. And so quickly did he run, I couldn’t even see him, let alone catch up with him. I turned about and went home. I walked on almost crying with mortification. In my room I examined the wound: a trifle — a muscle of the upper shoulder-blade was scratched. But why? Why? It’s too late locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. The excitement had probably brought on a nervous shock, for I lay in bed about two hours literally writhing with fright. I should never have thought that a person could be such a booby. I recalled the warnings, the steps in the corridor, the frightful face in the window, the Lady-in-Blue, the chase along the heather waste, this shot in my back. They are out to kill me, they will certainly kill me. It seemed to me that the darkness was looking at me with invisible eyes of some monster, that somebody would immediately come creeping over and grab me. It is shameful to confess, but I pulled my blanket over my head as if it could defend me. And involuntarily a mean little thought arose: “I must run away. It’s easy for them to put their hopes on me. Let them make sense of these abominations and this Wild Hunt by themselves. I’ll go mad if I remain here one more week...”