'You'll never be in love, then?'
'And you? Don't I love you?' she said, and she flicked me on the nosewith the tip of her glove.
Yes, Zinaida amused herself hugely at my expense. For three weeks Isaw her every day, and what didn't she do with me! She rarely came tosee us, and I was not sorry for it; in our house she was transformedinto a young lady, a young princess, and I was a little overawed byher. I was afraid of betraying myself before my mother; she had takena great dislike to Zinaida, and kept a hostile eye upon us. My fatherI was not so much afraid of; he seemed not to notice me. He talkedlittle to her, but always with special cleverness and significance.I gave up working and reading; I even gave up walking about theneighbourhood and riding my horse. Like a beetle tied by the leg, Imoved continually round and round my beloved little lodge. I wouldgladly have stopped there altogether, it seemed ... but that wasimpossible. My mother scolded me, and sometimes Zinaida herself droveme away. Then I used to shut myself up in my room, or go down to thevery end of the garden, and climbing into what was left of a tallstone greenhouse, now in ruins, sit for hours with my legs hangingover the wall that looked on to the road, gazing and gazing and seeingnothing. White butterflies flitted lazily by me, over the dustynettles; a saucy sparrow settled not far off on the half crumbling redbrickwork and twittered irritably, incessantly twisting and turningand preening his tail-feathers; the still mistrustful rooks cawed nowand then, sitting high, high up on the bare top of a birch-tree; thesun and wind played softly on its pliant branches; the tinkle of thebells of the Don monastery floated across to me from time to time,peaceful and dreary; while I sat, gazed, listened, and was filled fullof a nameless sensation in which all was contained: sadness and joyand the foretaste of the future, and the desire and dread of life. Butat that time I understood nothing of it, and could have given a nameto nothing of all that was passing at random within me, or should havecalled it all by one name--the name of Zinaida.
Zinaida continued to play cat and mouse with me. She flirted with me,and I was all agitation and rapture; then she would suddenly thrust meaway, and I dared not go near her--dared not look at her.
I remember she was very cold to me for several days together; I wascompletely crushed, and creeping timidly to their lodge, tried to keepclose to the old princess, regardless of the circumstance that she wasparticularly scolding and grumbling just at that time; herfinancial affairs had been going badly, and she had already had two'explanations' with the police officials.
One day I was walking in the garden beside the familiar fence, and Icaught sight of Zinaida; leaning on both arms, she was sitting on thegrass, not stirring a muscle. I was about to make off cautiously, butshe suddenly raised her head and beckoned me imperiously. My heartfailed me; I did not understand her at first. She repeated her signal.I promptly jumped over the fence and ran joyfully up to her, but shebrought me to a halt with a look, and motioned me to the path twopaces from her. In confusion, not knowing what to do, I fell on myknees at the edge of the path. She was so pale, such bitter suffering,such intense weariness, was expressed in every feature of her face,that it sent a pang to my heart, and I muttered unconsciously, 'Whatis the matter?'
Zinaida stretched out her head, picked a blade of grass, bit it andflung it away from her.
'You love me very much?' she asked at last. 'Yes.'
I made no answer--indeed, what need was there to answer?
'Yes,' she repeated, looking at me as before. 'That's so. The sameeyes,'--she went on sank into thought, and hid her face in her hands.'Everything's grown so loathsome to me,' she whispered, 'I would havegone to the other end of the world first--I can't bear it, I can't getover it.... And what is there before me!... Ah, I am wretched.... MyGod, how wretched I am!'
'What for?' I asked timidly.
Zinaida made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders. I remainedkneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness. Every word she haduttered simply cut me to the heart. At that instant I felt I wouldgladly have given my life, if only she should not grieve. I gazed ather--and though I could not understand why she was wretched, I vividlypictured to myself, how in a fit of insupportable anguish, she hadsuddenly come out into the garden, and sunk to the earth, as thoughmown down by a scythe. It was all bright and green about her; the windwas whispering in the leaves of the trees, and swinging now and thena long branch of a raspberry bush over Zinaida's head. There was asound of the cooing of doves, and the bees hummed, flying low overthe scanty grass, Overhead the sun was radiantly blue--while I was sosorrowful....
'Read me some poetry,' said Zinaida in an undertone, and she proppedherself on her elbow; 'I like your reading poetry. You read it insing-song, but that's no matter, that comes of being young. Read me"On the Hills of Georgia." Only sit down first.'
I sat down and read 'On the Hills of Georgia.'
'"That the heart cannot choose but love,"' repeated Zinaida. 'That'swhere poetry's so fine; it tells us what is not, and what's not onlybetter than what is, but much more like the truth, "cannot choosebut love,"--it might want not to, but it can't help it.' She wassilent again, then all at once she started and got up. 'Come along.Meidanov's indoors with mamma, he brought me his poem, but I desertedhim. His feelings are hurt too now ... I can't help it! you'llunderstand it all some day ... only don't be angry with me!'
Zinaida hurriedly pressed my hand and ran on ahead. We went back intothe lodge. Meidanov set to reading us his 'Manslayer,' which had justappeared in print, but I did not hear him. He screamed and drawled hisfour-foot iambic lines, the alternating rhythms jingled like littlebells, noisy and meaningless, while I still watched Zinaida and triedto take in the import of her last words.
'Perchance some unknown rival Has surprised and mastered thee?'
Meidanov bawled suddenly through his nose--and my eyes and Zinaida'smet. She looked down and faintly blushed. I saw her blush, and grewcold with terror. I had been jealous before, but only at that instantthe idea of her being in love flashed upon my mind. 'Good God! she isin love!'
X
My real torments began from that instant. I racked my brains, changedmy mind, and changed it back again, and kept an unremitting, though,as far as possible, secret watch on Zinaida. A change had come overher, that was obvious. She began going walks alone--and long walks.Sometimes she would not see visitors; she would sit for hours togetherin her room. This had never been a habit of hers till now. I suddenlybecame--or fancied I had become--extraordinarily penetrating.
'Isn't it he? or isn't it he?' I asked myself, passing in inwardagitation from one of her admirers to another. Count Malevsky secretlystruck me as more to be feared than the others, though, for Zinaida'ssake, I was ashamed to confess it to myself.
My watchfulness did not see beyond the end of my nose, and its secrecyprobably deceived no one; any way, Doctor Lushin soon saw through me.But he, too, had changed of late; he had grown thin, he laughed asoften, but his laugh seemed more hollow, more spiteful, shorter, aninvoluntary nervous irritability took the place of his former lightirony and assumed cynicism.
'Why are you incessantly hanging about here, young man?' he saidto me one day, when we were left alone together in the Zasyekins'drawing-room. (The young princess had not come home from a walk, andthe shrill voice of the old princess could be heard within; she wasscolding the maid.) 'You ought to be studying, working--while you'reyoung--and what are you doing?'
'You can't tell whether I work at home,' I retorted with somehaughtiness, but also with some hesitation.
'A great deal of work you do! that's not what you're thinking about!Well, I won't find fault with that ... at your age that's in thenatural order of things. But you've been awfully unlucky in yourchoice. Don't you see what this house is?'
'I don't understand you,' I observed.
'You don't understand? so much the worse for you. I regard it as aduty to warn you. Old bachelors, like me, can come here, what harm canit do us! we're tough, nothing can hurt us, what harm can it do us;but your
skin's tender yet--this air is bad for you--believe me, youmay get harm from it.'
'How so?'
'Why, are you well now? Are you in a normal condition? Is what you'refeeling--beneficial to you--good for you?'
'Why, what am I feeling?' I said, while in my heart I knew the doctorwas right.
'Ah, young man, young man,' the doctor went on with an intonation thatsuggested that something highly insulting to me was contained in thesetwo words, 'what's the use of your prevaricating, when, thank God,what's in your heart is in your face, so far? But there, what's theuse of talking? I shouldn't come here myself, if ... (the doctorcompressed his lips) ... if I weren't such a queer fellow. Only thisis what surprises me; how it is, you, with your intelligence, don'tsee what is going on around you?'
'And what is going on?' I put in, all on the alert.
The doctor looked at me with a sort of ironical compassion.
'Nice of me!' he said as though to himself, 'as if he need knowanything of it. In fact, I tell you again,' he added, raising hisvoice, 'the atmosphere here is not fit for you. You like being here,but what of that! it's nice and sweet-smelling in a greenhouse--butthere's no living in it. Yes! do as I tell you, and go back to yourKeidanov.'
The old princess came in, and began complaining to the doctor of hertoothache. Then Zinaida appeared.
'Come,' said the old princess, 'you must scold her, doctor. She'sdrinking iced water all day long; is that good for her, pray, with herdelicate chest?'
'Why do you do that?' asked Lushin.
'Why, what effect could it have?'
'What effect? You might get a chill and die.'
'Truly? Do you mean it? Very well--so much the better.'
'A fine idea!' muttered the doctor. The old princess had gone out.
'Yes, a fine idea,' repeated Zinaida. 'Is life such a festive affair?Just look about you.... Is it nice, eh? Or do you imagine I don'tunderstand it, and don't feel it? It gives me pleasure--drinking icedwater; and can you seriously assure me that such a life is worth toomuch to be risked for an instant's pleasure--happiness I won't eventalk about.'
'Oh, very well,' remarked Lushin, 'caprice and irresponsibility....Those two words sum you up; your whole nature's contained in those twowords.'
Zinaida laughed nervously.
'You're late for the post, my dear doctor. You don't keep a goodlook-out; you're behind the times. Put on your spectacles. I'm in nocapricious humour now. To make fools of you, to make a fool of myself... much fun there is in that!--and as for irresponsibility ... M'sieuVoldemar,' Zinaida added suddenly, stamping, 'don't make such amelancholy face. I can't endure people to pity me.' She went quicklyout of the room.
'It's bad for you, very bad for you, this atmosphere, young man,'Lushin said to me once more.
XI
On the evening of the same day the usual guests were assembled at theZasyekins'. I was among them.
The conversation turned on Meidanov's poem. Zinaida expressed genuineadmiration of it. 'But do you know what?' she said to him. 'If I werea poet, I would choose quite different subjects. Perhaps it's allnonsense, but strange ideas sometimes come into my head, especiallywhen I'm not asleep in the early morning, when the sky begins to turnrosy and grey both at once. I would, for instance ... You won't laughat me?'
'No, no!' we all cried, with one voice.
'I would describe,' she went on, folding her arms across her bosomand looking away, 'a whole company of young girls at night in a greatboat, on a silent river. The moon is shining, and they are all inwhite, and wearing garlands of white flowers, and singing, you know,something in the nature of a hymn.'
'I see--I see; go on,' Meidanov commented with dreamy significance.
'All of a sudden, loud clamour, laughter, torches, tambourines on thebank.... It's a troop of Bacchantes dancing with songs and cries. It'syour business to make a picture of it, Mr. Poet;... only I should likethe torches to be red and to smoke a great deal, and the Bacchantes'eyes to gleam under their wreaths, and the wreaths to be dusky. Don'tforget the tiger-skins, too, and goblets and gold--lots of gold....'
'Where ought the gold to be?' asked Meidanov, tossing back his sleekhair and distending his nostrils.
'Where? on their shoulders and arms and legs--everywhere. They say inancient times women wore gold rings on their ankles. The Bacchantescall the girls in the boat to them. The girls have ceased singingtheir hymn--they cannot go on with it, but they do not stir, the rivercarries them to the bank. And suddenly one of them slowly rises....This you must describe nicely: how she slowly gets up in themoonlight, and how her companions are afraid.... She steps over theedge of the boat, the Bacchantes surround her, whirl her away intonight and darkness.... Here put in smoke in clouds and everything inconfusion. There is nothing but the sound of their shrill cry, and herwreath left lying on the bank.'
Zinaida ceased. ('Oh! she is in love!' I thought again.)
'And is that all?' asked Meidanov.
'That's all.'
'That can't be the subject of a whole poem,' he observed pompously,'but I will make use of your idea for a lyrical fragment.'
'In the romantic style?' queried Malevsky.
'Of course, in the romantic style--Byronic.'
'Well, to my mind, Hugo beats Byron,' the young count observednegligently; 'he's more interesting.'
'Hugo is a writer of the first class,' replied Meidanov; 'and myfriend, Tonkosheev, in his Spanish romance, _El Trovador_ ...'
'Ah! is that the book with the question-marks turned upside down?'Zinaida interrupted.
'Yes. That's the custom with the Spanish. I was about to observe thatTonkosheev ...'
'Come! you're going to argue about classicism and romanticism again,'Zinaida interrupted him a second time.' We'd much better play ...
'Forfeits?' put in Lushin.
'No, forfeits are a bore; at comparisons.' (This game Zinaida hadinvented herself. Some object was mentioned, every one tried tocompare it with something, and the one who chose the best comparisongot a prize.)
She went up to the window. The sun was just setting; high up in thesky were large red clouds.
'What are those clouds like?' questioned Zinaida; and without waitingfor our answer, she said, 'I think they are like the purple sails onthe golden ship of Cleopatra, when she sailed to meet Antony. Do youremember, Meidanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?'
All of us, like Polonius in _Hamlet_, opined that the clouds recallednothing so much as those sails, and that not one of us could discovera better comparison.
'And how old was Antony then?' inquired Zinaida.
'A young man, no doubt,' observed Malevsky.
'Yes, a young man,' Meidanov chimed in in confirmation.
'Excuse me,' cried Lushin, 'he was over forty.'
'Over forty,' repeated Zinaida, giving him a rapid glance....
I soon went home. 'She is in love,' my lips unconsciously repeated....'But with whom?'
XII
The days passed by. Zinaida became stranger and stranger, and more andmore incomprehensible. One day I went over to her, and saw her sittingin a basket-chair, her head pressed to the sharp edge of the table.She drew herself up ... her whole face was wet with tears.
'Ah, you!' she said with a cruel smile. 'Come here.'
I went up to her. She put her hand on my head, and suddenly catchinghold of my hair, began pulling it.
'It hurts me,' I said at last.
'Ah! does it? And do you suppose nothing hurts me?' she replied.
'Ai!' she cried suddenly, seeing she had pulled a little tuft of hairout. 'What have I done? Poor M'sieu Voldemar!'
She carefully smoothed the hair she had torn out, stroked it round herfinger, and twisted it into a ring.
'I shall put your hair in a locket and wear it round my neck,' shesaid, while the tears still glittered in her eyes. 'That will be somesmall consolation to you, perhaps ... and now good-bye.'
I went home, and found an unpleasant state of
things there. My motherwas having a scene with my father; she was reproaching him withsomething, while he, as his habit was, maintained a polite and chillysilence, and soon left her. I could not hear what my mother wastalking of, and indeed I had no thought to spare for the subject; Ionly remember that when the interview was over, she sent for me to herroom, and referred with great displeasure to the frequent visits Ipaid the princess, who was, in her words, _une femme capable de tout_.I kissed her hand (this was what I always did when I wanted to cutshort a conversation) and went off to my room. Zinaida's tears hadcompletely overwhelmed me; I positively did not know what to think,and was ready to cry myself; I was a child after all, in spite of mysixteen years. I had now given up thinking about Malevsky, thoughByelovzorov looked more and more threatening every day, and glared atthe wily count like a wolf at a sheep; but I thought of nothing andof no one. I was lost in imaginings, and was always seeking seclusionand solitude. I was particularly fond of the ruined greenhouse. Iwould climb up on the high wall, and perch myself, and sit there,such an unhappy, lonely, and melancholy youth, that I felt sorry formyself--and how consolatory where those mournful sensations, how Irevelled in them!...
One day I was sitting on the wall looking into the distance andlistening to the ringing of the bells.... Suddenly something floatedup to me--not a breath of wind and not a shiver, but as it were awhiff of fragrance--as it were, a sense of some one's being near.... Ilooked down. Below, on the path, in a light greyish gown, with a pinkparasol on her shoulder, was Zinaida, hurrying along. She caught sightof me, stopped, and pushing back the brim of her straw hat, she raisedher velvety eyes to me.