X
My real torments began from that instant. I racked my brains, changed my mind, and changed it back again, and kept an unremitting, though, as far as possible, secret watch on Zinaïda. A change had come over her, that was obvious. She began going walks alone—and long walks. Sometimes she would not see visitors; she would sit for hours together in her room. This had never been a habit of hers till now. I suddenly became—or fancied I had become—extraordinarily penetrating.
“Isn’t it he? or isn’t it he?” I asked myself, passing in inward agitation from one of her admirers to another. Count Malevsky secretly struck me as more to be feared than the others, though, for Zinaïda’s sake, I was ashamed to confess it to myself.
My watchfulness did not see beyond the end of my nose, and its secrecy probably deceived no one; any way, Doctor Lushin soon saw through me. But he, too, had changed of late; he had grown thin, he laughed as often, but his laugh seemed more hollow, more spiteful, shorter, an involuntary nervous irritability took the place of his former light irony and assumed cynicism.
“Why are you incessantly hanging about here, young man?” he said to me one day, when we were left alone together in the Zasyekins’ drawing-room. (The young princess had not come home from a walk, and the shrill voice of the old princess could be heard within; she was scolding the maid.) “You ought to be studying, working—while you’re young—and what are you doing?”
“You can’t tell whether I work at home,” I retorted with some haughtiness, 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 the natural order of things. But you’ve been awfully unlucky in your choice. 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 a duty to warn you. Old bachelors, like me, can come here, what harm can it 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, you may get harm from it.”
“How so?”
“Why, are you well now? Are you in a normal condition? Is what you’re feeling—beneficial to you—good for you?”
“Why, what am I feeling?” I said, while in my heart I knew the doctor was right.
“Ah, young man, young man,” the doctor went on with an intonation that suggested that something highly insulting to me was contained in these two 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 the use of talking? I shouldn’t come here myself, if … (the doctor compressed his lips) … if I weren’t such a queer fellow. Only this is what surprises me; how it is, you, with your intelligence, don’t see 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 know anything of it. In fact, I tell you again,” he added, raising his voice, “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—but there’s no living in it. Yes! do as I tell you, and go back to your Keidanov.”
The old princess came in, and began complaining to the doctor of her toothache. Then Zinaïda appeared.
“Come,” said the old princess, “you must scold her, doctor. She’s drinking iced water all day long; is that good for her, pray, with her delicate 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 Zinaïda. “Is life such a festive affair? Just look about you…. Is it nice, eh? Or do you imagine I don’t understand it, and don’t feel it? It gives me pleasure—drinking iced water; and can you seriously assure me that such a life is worth too much to be risked for an instant’s pleasure—happiness I won’t even talk about.”
“Oh, very well,” remarked Lushin, “caprice and irresponsibility…. Those two words sum you up; your whole nature’s contained in those two words.”
Zinaïda laughed nervously.
“You’re late for the post, my dear doctor. You don’t keep a good look-out; you’re behind the times. Put on your spectacles. I’m in no capricious humour now. To make fools of you, to make a fool of myself … much fun there is in that!—and as for irresponsibility … M’sieu Voldemar,” Zinaïda added suddenly, stamping, “don’t make such a melancholy face. I can’t endure people to pity me.” She went quickly out 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 the Zasyekins’. I was among them.
The conversation turned on Meidanov’s poem. Zinaïda expressed genuine admiration of it. “But do you know what?” she said to him. “If I were a poet, I would choose quite different subjects. Perhaps it’s all nonsense, but strange ideas sometimes come into my head, especially when I’m not asleep in the early morning, when the sky begins to turn rosy and grey both at once. I would, for instance … You won’t laugh at me?”
“No, no!” we all cried, with one voice.
“I would describe,” she went on, folding her arms across her bosom and looking away, “a whole company of young girls at night in a great boat, on a silent river. The moon is shining, and they are all in white, 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 the bank…. It’s a troop of Bacchantes dancing with songs and cries. It’s your business to make a picture of it, Mr. Poet;… only I should like the 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’t forget the tiger-skins, too, and goblets and gold—lots of gold….”
“Where ought the gold to be?” asked Meidanov, tossing back his sleek hair and distending his nostrils.
“Where? on their shoulders and arms and legs—everywhere. They say in ancient times women wore gold rings on their ankles. The Bacchantes call the girls in the boat to them. The girls have ceased singing their hymn—they cannot go on with it, but they do not stir, the river carries them to the bank. And suddenly one of them slowly rises…. This you must describe nicely: how she slowly gets up in the moonlight, and how her companions are afraid…. She steps over the edge of the boat, the Bacchantes surround her, whirl her away into night and darkness…. Here put in smoke in clouds and everything in confusion. There is nothing but the sound of their shrill cry, and her wreath left lying on the bank.”
Zinaïda 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 observed negligently; “he’s more interesting.”
“Hugo is a writer of the first class,” replied Meidanov; “and my friend, Tonkosheev, in his Spanish romance, El Trovador …”
“Ah! is that the book with the question-marks turned upside down?” Zinaïda interrupted.
“Yes. That’s the custom with the Spanish. I was about to observe that Tonkosheev …”
“Come! you’re going to argue about classicism and romanticism again,” Zinaïda interrupted him a second time.” We’d much better play…
“Forfeits?” put in Lushin.
“No, forfeits are a bore; at comparisons.” (This game Zinaïda had invented herself. Some object was mentioned, every one tried to compare it with something, and the one who chose the best comparison got a prize.)
She went up to the window. The sun was just setting; high up in the sky were large red clouds.
“What are those clouds like?” questioned Zinaïda; and without waiting for our answer, she said, “I think they are like the purple sails on the golden ship of Cleopatra, when she sailed to meet Antony. Do you remember, Meidanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?”
All of us, like Polonius in Hamlet, opined that the clouds recalled nothing so much as those sails, and that not one of us could discover a better comparison.
“And how old was Antony then?” inquired Zinaïda.
“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 Zinaïda, 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. Zinaïda became stranger and stranger, and more and more incomprehensible. One day I went over to her, and saw her sitting in 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 catching hold 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 hair out. “What have I done? Poor M’sieu Voldemar!”
She carefully smoothed the hair she had torn out, stroked it round her finger, and twisted it into a ring.
“I shall put your hair in a locket and wear it round my neck,” she said, while the tears still glittered in her eyes. “That will be some small consolation to you, perhaps … and now good-bye.”
I went home, and found an unpleasant state of things there. My mother was having a scene with my father; she was reproaching him with something, while he, as his habit was, maintained a polite and chilly silence, and soon left her. I could not hear what my mother was talking of, and indeed I had no thought to spare for the subject; I only remember that when the interview was over, she sent for me to her room, and referred with great displeasure to the frequent visits I paid 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 cut short a conversation) and went off to my room. Zinaïda’s tears had completely 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 my sixteen years. I had now given up thinking about Malevsky, though Byelovzorov looked more and more threatening every day, and glared at the wily count like a wolf at a sheep; but I thought of nothing and of no one. I was lost in imaginings, and was always seeking seclusion and solitude. I was particularly fond of the ruined greenhouse. I would climb up on the high wall, and perch myself, and sit there, such an unhappy, lonely, and melancholy youth, that I felt sorry for myself—and how consolatory were those mournful sensations, how I revelled in them!…
One day I was sitting on the wall looking into the distance and listening to the ringing of the bells…. Suddenly something floated up to me—not a breath of wind and not a shiver, but as it were a whiff of fragrance—as it were, a sense of some one’s being near…. I looked down. Below, on the path, in a light greyish gown, with a pink parasol on her shoulder, was Zinaïda, hurrying along. She caught sight of me, stopped, and pushing back the brim of her straw hat, she raised her velvety eyes to me.
“What are you doing up there at such a height?” she asked me with a rather queer smile. “Come,” she went on, “you always declare you love me; jump down into the road to me if you really do love me.”
Zinaïda had hardly uttered those words when I flew down, just as though some one had given me a violent push from behind. The wall was about fourteen feet high. I reached the ground on my feet, but the shock was so great that I could not keep my footing; I fell down, and for an instant fainted away. When I came to myself again, without opening my eyes, I felt Zinaïda beside me. “My dear boy,” she was saying, bending over me, and there was a note of alarmed tenderness in her voice, “how could you do it, dear; how could you obey?… You know I love you…. Get up.”
Her bosom was heaving close to me, her hands were caressing my head, and suddenly—what were my emotions at that moment—her soft, fresh lips began covering my face with kisses … they touched my lips…. But then Zinaïda probably guessed by the expression of my face that I had regained consciousness, though I still kept my eyes closed, and rising rapidly to her feet, she said: “Come, get up, naughty boy, silly, why are you lying in the dust?” I got up. “Give me my parasol,” said Zinaïda, “I threw it down somewhere, and don’t stare at me like that … what ridiculous nonsense! you’re not hurt, are you? stung by the nettles, I daresay? Don’t stare at me, I tell you…. But he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t answer,” she added, as though to herself…. “Go home, M’sieu’ Voldemar, brush yourself, and don’t dare to follow me, or I shall be angry, and never again …”
She did not finish her sentence, but walked rapidly away, while I sat down by the side of the road … my legs would not support me. The nettles had stung my hands, my back ached, and my head was giddy; but the feeling of rapture I experienced then has never come a second time in my life. It turned to a sweet ache in all my limbs and found expression at last in joyful hops and skips and shouts. Yes, I was still a child.
XIII
I was so proud and light-hearted all that day, I so vividly retained on my face the feeling of Zinaïda’s kisses, with such a shudder of delight I recalled every word she had uttered, I so hugged my unexpected happiness that I felt positively afraid, positively unwilling to see her, who had given rise to these new sensations. It seemed to me that now I could ask nothing more of fate, that now I ought to “go, and draw a deep last sigh and die.” But, next day, when I went into the lodge, I felt great embarrassment, which I tried to conceal under a show of modest confidence, befitting a man who wishes to make it apparent that he knows how to keep a secret. Zinaïda received me very simply, without any emotion, she simply shook her finger at me and asked me, whether I wasn’t black and blue? All my modest confidence and air of mystery vanished instantaneously and with them my embarrassment. Of course, I had not expected anything particular, but Zinaïda’s composure was like a bucket of cold water thrown over me. I realised that in her eyes I was a child, and was extremely miserable! Zinaïda walked up and down the room, giving me a quick smile, whenever she caught my eye, but her thoughts were far away, I saw that clearly…. “Shall I begin about what happened yesterday myself,” I pondered; “ask her, where she was hurrying off so fast, so as to find out once for all” … but with a gesture of despair, I merely went and sat down in a corner.
Byelovzorov came in; I felt relieved to see him.
“I’ve not been able to find you a quiet horse,” he said in a sulky voice; “Freitag warrants one, but I don’t feel any confidence in it, I am afraid.”
“What are you afraid of?” said Zinaïda; “allow me to inquire?”
“What am I afraid of? Why, you don’t know how to ride. Lord save us, what might happen! What whim is this has come over you all of a sudden?”
“Come, that’s my business, Sir Wild Beast. In that case I will ask Piotr Vassilievitch.” … (My father’s name was Piotr Vassilievitch. I was surprised at her mentioning his name so lightly and freely, as though she were confident of his readiness to do her a service.)
“Oh, indeed,” retorted Byelovzorov, “you mean to go out riding with him then?”
“With him or with some one else is nothing to do with you. Only not with you, anyway.”
“Not with me,” repeated Byelovzorov. “As you wish. Well, I shall find you a horse.”
“Yes, only mind now, don’t send some old cow. I warn you I want to gallop.”
“Gallop away by all means … with whom is it, with Malevsky, you are going to ride?”
“And why not with him, Mr. Pugnacity? Come, be quiet,” she added, “and don’t glare. I’ll take you too. You know that to my mind now Malevsky’s—ugh!” She shook her head.
“You say that to console me,” growled Byelovzorov.
Zinaïda half closed her eyes. “Does that console you? O … O … O … Mr. Pugnacity!” she said at last, as though she could find no other word. “And you, M’sieu’ Voldemar, would you come with us?”
“I don’t care to … in a large party,” I muttered, not raising my eyes.
“You prefer a tête-à-tête?… Well, freedom to the free, and heaven to the saints,” she commented with a sigh. “Go along, Byelovzorov, and bestir yourself. I must have a horse for to-morrow.”
“Oh, and where’s the money to come from?” put in the old princess.
Zinaïda scowled.
“I won’t ask you for it; Byelovzorov will trust me.”
“He’ll trust you, will he?” … grumbled the old princess, and all of a sudden she screeched at the top of her voice, “Duniashka!”
“Maman, I have given you a bell to ring,” observed Zinaïda.
“Duniashka!” repeated the old lady.
Byelovzorov took leave; I went away with him. Zinaïda did not try to detain me.
XIV
The next day I got up early, cut myself a stick, and set off beyond the town-gates. I thought I would walk off my sorrow. It was a lovely day, bright and not too hot, a fresh sportive breeze roved over the earth with temperate rustle and frolic, setting all things a-flutter and harassing nothing. I wandered a long while over hills and through woods; I had not felt happy, I had left home with the intention of giving myself up to melancholy, but youth, the exquisite weather, the fresh air, the pleasure of rapid motion, the sweetness of repose, lying on the thick grass in a solitary nook, gained the upper hand; the memory of those never-to-be-forgotten words, those kisses, forced itself once more upon my soul. It was sweet to me to think that Zinaïda could not, anyway, fail to do justice to my courage, my heroism…. “Others may seem better to her than I,” I mused, “let them! But others only say what they would do, while I have done it. And what more would I not do for her?” My fancy set to work. I began picturing to myself how I would save her from the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood I would tear her by force from prison, and expire at her feet. I remembered a picture hanging in our drawing-room—Malek-Adel bearing away Matilda—but at that point my attention was absorbed by the appearance of a speckled woodpecker who climbed busily up the slender stem of a birch-tree and peeped out uneasily from behind it, first to the right, then to the left, like a musician behind the bass-viol.
Then I sang “Not the white snows,” and passed from that to a song well known at that period: “I await thee, when the wanton zephyr,” then I began reading aloud Yermak’s address to the stars from Homyakov’s tragedy. I made an attempt to compose something myself in a sentimental vein, and invented the line which was to conclude each verse: “O Zinaïda, Zinaïda!” but could get no further with it. Meanwhile it was getting on towards dinner-time. I went down into the valley; a narrow sandy path winding through it led to the town. I walked along this path…. The dull thud of horses’ hoofs resounded behind me. I looked round instinctively, stood still and took off my cap. I saw my father and Zinaïda. They were riding side by side. My father was saying something to her, bending right over to her, his hand propped on the horses’ neck, he was smiling. Zinaïda listened to him in silence, her eyes severely cast down, and her lips tightly pressed together. At first I saw them only; but a few instants later, Byelovzorov came into sight round a bend in the glade, he was wearing a hussar’s uniform with a pelisse, and riding a foaming black horse. The gallant horse tossed its head, snorted and pranced from side to side, his rider was at once holding him in and spurring him on. I stood aside. My father gathered up the reins, moved away from Zinaïda, she slowly raised her eyes to him, and both galloped off … Byelovzorov flew after them, his sabre clattering behind him. “He’s as red as a crab,” I reflected, “while she … why’s she so pale? out riding the whole morning, and pale?”
I redoubled my pace, and got home just at dinner-time. My father was already sitting by my mother’s chair, dressed for dinner, washed and fresh; he was reading an article from the Journal des Débats in his smooth musical voice; but my mother heard him without attention, and when she saw me, asked where I had been to all day long, and added that she didn’t like this gadding about God knows where, and God knows in what company. “But I have been walking alone,” I was on the point of replying, but I looked at my father, and for some reason or other held my peace.