 CHAPTER XV-XV of first love, first love by Ivan Turgenev, translated by Constance Garnet. CHAPTER XV For the next five or six days I hardly saw Zinaida. She said she was ill. Which did not, however, prevent the usual visitors from calling at the lodge, to pay as they expressed it their duty. All that is except May Darnoff, who promptly grew dejected and sulky, when he had not an opportunity of being enthusiastic. Bielavzorov sat sullen and red-faced in a corner, buttoned up to the throat. On the refined face of Malevsky, Beflik had continually an evil smile. He had really fallen into disfavour with Zinaida, and waited with special aciduity on the old princess, and even went with her in a hired coach to call on the Governor-General. This expedition turned out unsuccessful, however, and even led to an unpleasant experience for Malevsky. He was reminded of some scandal to do with certain officers of the engineers, and was forced in his explanations to plead his youth and inexperience at the time. Lushin came twice a day, but did not stay long. I was rather afraid of him after our last unreserved conversation, and at the same time felt a genuine attraction to him. He went a walk with me one day in the Neskuchny Gardens. It was very good-natured and nice. Told me the names and properties of various plants and flowers. And suddenly, apropos of nothing at all, cried, hitting himself on his forehead. And I, poor fool, thought her a flirt. It's clear self-sacrifice is sweet for some people. What do you mean by that, I inquired. I don't mean to tell you anything," Lushin replied abruptly. Zinaida avoided me. My presence, I could not help noticing it, affected her disagreeably. She involuntarily turned away from me. Involuntarily, that was what was so bitter, that was what crushed me. But there was no help for it, and I tried not to cross her path, and only to watch her from a distance in which I was not always successful. As before, something incomprehensible was happening to her. Her face was different. She was different altogether. I was specially struck by the change that had taken place in her, one warm, still evening. I was sitting on a low-garden bench under a spreading elder-bush. I was fond of that nook. I could see from there the window of Zinaida's room. I sat there over my head a little bird was busily hopping about in the darkness of the leaves. A grey cat, stretching herself at full length, crept warily about the garden. And the first beetles were heavily droning in the air, which was still clear, though it was not light. I sat and gazed at the window, and waited to see if it would open. It did open, and Zinaida appeared at it. She had on a white dress, and she herself, her face, shoulders, and arms, were pale to whiteness. She stayed a long while without moving, and looked out straight before her from under her knitted brows. I had never known such a look on her. Then she clasped her hands tightly, raised them to her lips, to her forehead, and suddenly pulling her fingers apart, she pushed back her hair behind her ears, tossed it, and with a sort of determination nodded her head, and slammed to the window. Three days later she met me in the garden. I was turning away, but she stopped me off herself. Give me your arm, she said to me, with her old affectionate-ness. It's a long while since we have had a talk together. I stole a look at her. Her eyes were full of a soft light, and her face seemed as if to her smiling through a mist. Are you still not well, I asked her. No, that's all over now, she answered, and she picked a small red rose. I am a little tired, but that too will pass off. And will you be as you used to be again, I asked. Zinaida put the rose up to her face, and I fancied the reflection of its bright petals had fallen on her cheeks. Why am I changed, she questioned me. Yes, you are changed, I answered in a low voice. I have been cold to you, I know, began Zinaida. But you mustn't pay attention to that, I couldn't help it. Come, why talk about it? You don't want me to love you, that's what it is. I cried gloomily in an involuntary outburst. No, love me, but not as you did. How then? Let us be friends. Come now. Zinaida gave me the rose to smell. Listen, you know I am much older than you. I might be your aunt, really. Well, not your aunt, but an older sister. And you, you think me a child, I interrupted. Well, yes, a child, but a dear, good, clever one, whom I love very much. Do you know what? From this day forth I confer on you the rank of page to me. And don't you forget that pages have to keep close to their ladies. Here is the token of your new dignity," she added, sticking the rose in the buttonhole of my jacket. The token of my favour. I once received other favours from you, I muttered. Ah, commented Zinaida, and she gave me a side-long look. What a memory he has! Well, I'm quite ready now. When stooping to me, she imprinted on my forehead a pure tranquil kiss. I only looked at her while she turned away, and saying, follow me, my page," went into the lodge. I followed her, all in amazement. Can this gentle, reasonable girl, I thought, be the Zinaida I used to know? I fancied her very walk, was quieter. Her whole figure statelyer and more graceful. And mercy with what fresh force love burned within me. CHAPTER XVI After dinner the usual party assembled again at the lodge, and the young princess came out to them. All were there in full force, just as on that first evening which I never forgot. The Nirmatsky had limped to see her. Meidanov came this time earliest of all. He brought some new verses. The games of forfeits began again. But without the strange pranks, the practical jokes and noise, the gypsy element had vanished. Zinaida gave a different tone to the proceedings. I sat beside her by virtue of my office as page. Among other things she proposed that anyone who had to pay a forfeit should tell his dream. But this was not successful. The dreams were either uninteresting. Bielavzorov had dreamed that he fed his mare on carp, and that she had a wooden head, or unnatural and invented. Meidanov regaled us with a regular romance. There were sepulchres in it, and angels with liars, and talking flowers, and music wafted from afar. Zinaida did not let him finish. If we were to have compositions, she said, let everyone tell something made up, and no pretense about it. The first who had to speak was again Bielavzorov. The young Hazar was confused. I can't make up anything, he cried. What nonsense, said Zinaida. Well imagine, for instance, you were married, and tell us how you would treat your wife. Would you lock her up? Yes, I should lock her up. And would you stay with her yourself? Yes, I should certainly stay with her myself. Very good. Well, but if she got sick of that, and she deceived you? I should kill her. And if she ran away? I should catch her up, and kill her all the same. Oh! And suppose now I were your wife. What would you do then? Bielavzorov was silent a minute. I should kill myself. Zinaida laughed. I see yours is not a long story. The next forfeit was Zinaida's. She looked at the ceiling, and considered. Well, listen, she began at last. What I have thought of pictured yourselves a magnificent palace, a summer night, and a marvellous ball. This ball is given by a young queen. Everywhere gold and marble, crystal, silk, lights, diamonds, flowers, fragrant scents, every caprice of luxury. You love luxury, Lushin interposed. luxury is beautiful, she retorted. I love everything beautiful. More than what is noble, he asked. That's something clever. I don't understand it. Don't interrupt me. So the ball is magnificent. There are crowds of guests. All of them are young, handsome, and brave. All are frantically in love with the queen. Are there no women among the guests, queried Malevsky? No, or wait a minute, yes, there are some. Are they all ugly? No charming, but the men are all in love with the queen. She is tall and graceful. She has a little gold diadem on her black hair. I looked at Zinaida, and at that instance she seemed to me so much above all of us. There was such bright intelligence, and such power about her unruffled brows, that I thought, you are that queen. They all throng about her, Zinaida went on, and all lavish the most flattering speeches upon her. And she likes flattery, Lushin queried. What an intolerable person he keeps interrupting, who doesn't like flattery. One more last question, observed Malevsky, as the queen a husband. I hadn't thought about that. No, why should she have a husband? To be sure, assented Malevsky, why should she have a husband? C'ilance, cried Meidanov in French, which he spoke very badly. Merci, Zinaida said to him, and so the queen hears their speeches, and hears the music, but does not look at one of the guests. These windows are open from top to bottom, from floor to ceiling, and beyond them is a dark sky with big stars, a dark garden with big trees. The queen gazes out into the garden, out there among the trees is a fountain. It is white in the darkness, and rises up tall, tall as an apparition. The queen hears through the talk and the music the soft splash of its waters. She gazes and thinks, You are all gentlemen noble, clever and rich. You crowd round me, you treasure every word I utter. You are all ready to die at my feet, I hold you in my power. But out there, by the fountain, by that splashing water, stands and waits, he whom I love, who holds me in his power. He has neither rich raiment nor precious stones, no one knows him, but he awaits me, and is certain I shall come. And I shall come, and there is no power that could stop me when I want to go out to him, and just stay with him, and be lost with him out there in the darkness of the garden, under the whispering of the trees, and the splash of the fountain. Zinaida ceased. Is that a made-up story? Malevsky inquired slyly. Zinaida did not even look at him. And what should we have done, gentlemen? Lucien began suddenly, if we had been among the guests, and had known of the lucky fellow at the fountain. Stop a minute, stop a minute, interposed Zinaida. I will tell you myself what each of you would have done. You, Pjelovsorov, would have challenged him to a duel. You, Meydanov, would have written an epigram on him. No, though you can't write epigrams, you would have made up a long poem on him in the style of Barbier, and would have inserted your production in the telegraph. You, Nirmatsky, would have borrowed—no, you would have lent him money at high interest. You, Doctor, she stopped. There I really don't know what you would have done. In the capacity of court physician, answered Lucien, I would have advised the Queen not to give balls when she was not in the humour for entertaining her guests. Perhaps you would have been right. And you, Count, and I, repeated Malevsky with his evil smile. You would offer him a poisoned sweet-meat. Malevsky's face changed slightly, and assumed for an instant a Jewish expression, but he laughed directly. And as for you, Voldemar, Zinaida went on. But that's enough, though. Let us play another game. Sir Voldemar, as the Queen's page, would have held up her train when she ran into the garden. Malevsky remarked malignantly. I was crimson with anger, but Zinaida hurriedly laid a hand on my shoulder, and getting up said in a rather shaky voice, I have never given your excellency the right to be rude, and therefore I will ask you to leave us. She pointed to the door. Upon my word, Princess, muttered Malevsky, and he turned quite pale. The Princess is right, cried Bielov Zorov, and he too rose. Good God! I had not the least idea. Malevsky went on. In my words there was nothing I think that could. I had no notion of offending you. Forgive me." Zinaida looked him up and down coldly, and coldly smiled. Stay, then, certainly. She pronounced with a careless gesture of her arm. Mr. Voldemar and I were needlessly incensed. It is your pleasure to sting. May it do you good. Forgive me," Malevsky repeated once more, while I, my thoughts dwelling on Zinaida's gesture, said to myself again that no real queen could, with greater dignity, have shown a presumptuous subject to the door. The game of forfeits went on for a short time after this little scene. Everyone felt rather ill at ease, as from another not quite definite but oppressive feeling. No one spoke of it, but everyone was conscious of it in himself and in his neighbour. Ray Danoff read us his verses. He wants to show how good he is now. Lucian whispered to me. We soon broke up. A mood of reverie seemed to have come upon Zinaida. The old princess sent word that she had a headache. Nermatsky began to complain of his rheumatism. I could not for a long while get to sleep. I had been impressed by Zinaida's story. When there had been a hint in it, I asked myself, and at whom and at what was she hinting? And if there really is anything to hint at, how is one to make up one's mind? No, no it can't be," I whispered, turning over from one hot cheek onto the other. But I remembered the expression of Zinaida's face during her story. I remembered the exclamation that had broken from Lucian in the Nyskuchny Gardens, the sudden change in her behaviour to me, and I was lost in conjectures. Who is he? These three words seemed to stand before my eyes, traced upon the darkness. A lowering, malignant cloud seemed hanging over me, and I felt its oppressiveness, and waited for it to break. I had grown used to many things of late. I had learned much from what I had seen at the Zasyakins, their disorderly ways, tallow candle-ends, broken knives and forks, grumpy vonifati, and shabby maid-servants, the manners of the old princess. All their strange mode of life no longer struck me. But what I was dimly discerning now in Zinaida I could never get used to. Unadventurous, my mother had said of her one day, unadventurous, she, my idol, my divinity. This word stabbed me, I tried to get away from it into my pillow. I was indignant, and at the same time what would I not have agreed to? What would I not have given only to be that lucky fellow at the fountain? My blood was on fire and boiling within me. The garden, the fountain, I am used. I will go into the garden. I dressed quickly and slipped out of the house. The night was dark, the trees scarcely whispered. A soft chill air breathed down from the sky. A smell of fennel trailed across from the kitchen garden. I went through all the walks. The light sound of my own footsteps at once confused and emboldened me. I stood still, waited and heard my heart beating fast and loudly. At last I went up to the fence and leaned against the thin bar. Suddenly, or was it my fancy, a woman's figure flashed by a few paces from me. I strained my eyes eagerly into the darkness. I held my breath. What was that? Did I hear steps, or was it my heart beating again? Who is here? I faltered, hardly audibly. What was that again? A smothered laugh, or a rustling in the leaves, or a sigh just at my ear? I felt afraid. Who is here? I repeated, still more softly. The air blew in a gust for an instant. A streak of fire flashed across the sky. It was a star falling. Sinaida! I wanted to call, but the word died away on my lips. And all at once everything became profoundly still around, as is often the case in the middle of the night. When the grasshoppers ceased their chur in the trees, only a window rattled somewhere. I stood and stood, and then went back to my room, to my chilled bed. I felt a strange sensation, as though I had gone to a trift, and had been left lonely, and had passed close by another's happiness. Chapter 17 The following day I only had a passing glimpse of Sinaida. She was driving somewhere with the old princess in a cab. But I saw Lushin, who however barely vouchsafed me a greeting, and Malevsky. The young count grinned, and began affably talking to me. Of all those who visited at the lodge, he alone had succeeded in forcing his way into our house, and had favourably impressed my mother. My father did not take to him, and treated him with a civility almost insulting. Ah, Monsieur Loupage, began Malevsky, delighted to meet you. What is your lovely queen doing? His fresh, handsome face was so detestable to me at that moment, and he looked at me with such contempt to us amusement, that I did not answer him at all. Are you still angry? he went on. You've no reason to be. It wasn't I who called you a page, you know, and pages attend queens especially. But allow me to remark that you perform your duties very badly. How so? Pages ought to be inseparable from their mistresses. Pages ought to know everything they do. They ought indeed to watch over them. He added, lowering his voice, day and night. What do you mean? What do I mean? I express myself pretty clearly, I fancy. Day and night. By day it's not so much matter, it's light, people are about in the daytime, but by night then look out for misfortune. I advise you not to sleep at night, and to watch. Watch with all your energies. You remember, in the garden, by night, at the fountain, that's where there's need to look out. You will thank me. Mileski laughed and turned his back on me. He most likely attached no great importance to what he had said to me. But he had a reputation for mystifying, and was noted for his power of taking people in at masquerades, which was greatly augmented by the almost unconscious fall-city in which his whole nature was steeped. He only wanted to tease me. But every word he uttered was a poison that ran through my veins. The blood rushed to my head. Ah, so that's it, I said to myself. Good! So there was reason for me to feel drawn into the garden. That shan't be so. I cried aloud, and struck myself on the chest with my fist. Though precisely what should not be so, I could not have said. Whether Mileski himself goes into the garden, I thought. He was bragging perhaps. He has insolence enough for that, or someone else. The fence of our garden was very low, and there was no difficulty in getting over it. Anyway, if any one falls into my hands, it will be the worse for him. I don't advise any one to meet me. I will prove to all the world, and to her, the traetress. I actually used the word traetress, that I can be revenged. I returned to my own room, took out of the writing-table an English knife I had recently bought, felt its sharp edge, and knitting my brows with an air of cold and concentrated determination thrust it into my pocket, as though doing such deeds was nothing out of the way for me, and not the first time. My heart heaved angrily, and felt heavy as a stone. All day long I kept a scowling brow and lips tightly compressed, and was continually walking up and down, clutching with my hand in my pocket the knife, which was warm from my grasp, while I prepared myself beforehand for something terrible. These new, unknown sensations so occupied, and even delighted me, that I hardly thought of Zinaida herself. I was continually haunted by Aleco, the young gypsy. Where art thou going, young, handsome man? Lie there! And then thou art all besprint with blood. Oh, what hast thou done? Nought! With a cruel smile I repeated that, Nought! My father was not at home, but my mother, who had for some time been in an almost continual state of dumb exasperation, noticed my gloomy and heroic aspect, and said to me at supper, Why are you sulking like a mouse in a meal-tub? I merely smiled condescendingly in reply, and thought, If only they knew! It struck eleven. I went to my room, but did not undress. I waited for midnight, at last it struck. The time has come, I muttered between my teeth, and buttoning myself up to the throat, and even pulling my sleeves up, I went into the garden. I had already fixed on the spot from which to keep watch. At the end of the garden, at the point where the fence, separating our domain from the Zasiakins, joined the common wall, grew a pine-tree standing alone. Standing under its low, thick branches, I could see well, as far as the darkness of the night permitted, what took place around. Close by ran a winding path which had always seemed mysterious to me. It coiled like a snake under the fence, which at that point bore traces of having been climbed over, and led to a round arbor formed of thick Ocasias. I made my way to the pine-tree, leaned my back against its trunk, and began my watch. The night was as still as the night before, but there were fewer clouds in the sky, and the outlines of bushes, even of tall flowers, could be more distinctly seen. The first moments of expectation were oppressive, almost terrible. I had made up my mind to everything. I only debated how to act, whether to thunder, where goest thou stand, show thyself, or death, or simply to strike. Every sound, every whisper and rustle seemed to me portentous and extraordinary. I prepared myself. I bent forward. But half an hour passed, an hour passed. My blood had grown quieter, colder. The consciousness as I was doing all this for nothing, that I was even a little absurd, that Malevsky had been making fun of me, began to steal over me. I left my ambush, and walked all about the garden, as if to taunt me there was not the smallest sound to be heard anywhere. Everything was at rest. Even our dog was asleep, curled up into a ball at the gate. I climbed up into the ruins of the greenhouse, saw the open country far away before me, recalled my meeting with Zinaida, and felt a dreaming. I started. I fancied I heard the creak of a door opening, then the faint crack of a broken twig. In two bounds I got down from the ruin, and stood still, all aghast. Rapid light but cautious footsteps sounded distinctly in the garden. They were approaching me. Here he is. Here he is at last, flashed through my heart. With spasmodic haste I pulled the knife out of my pocket. With spasmodic haste I opened it. Flashes of red were whirling before my eyes. My hair stood up on my head in my fear and fury. The steps were coming straight towards me. I bent. I craned forward to meet him. A man came into view. My God! It was my father. I recognised him at once, though he was all muffled up in a dark cloak, and his hat was pulled down over his face. On tiptoe he walked by. He did not notice me, though nothing concealed me. But I was so huddled up and shrunk together that I fancy I was almost on the level of the ground. The jealous Othello ready for murder was suddenly transformed into a schoolboy. I was so taken aback by my father's unexpected appearance that for the first moment I did not notice where he had come from or in what direction he disappeared. I only drew myself up and thought, why is it that my father is walking about in the garden at night when everything was still again? In my horror I had dropped my knife in the grass, but I did not even attempt to look for it. I was very much ashamed of myself. I was completely sobered at once. On my way to the house, however, I went up to my seat under the elder tree and looked up at Zinaida's window. The small, slightly convex panes of the window shone dimly blue in the faint light thrown on them by the night sky. All at once their colour began to change. Behind them I saw this, saw it distinctly. Softly and cautiously a white blind was let down, let down right to the window frame, and so stayed. What is that for? I said aloud almost involuntarily when I found myself once more in my room. A dream, a chance, or— The suppositions which suddenly rushed into my head were so new and strange that I did not dare to entertain them. CHAPTER 18 I got up in the morning with a headache. My emotion of the previous day had vanished. It was replaced by a dreary sense of blankness and a sort of sadness I had not known till then, as though something had died in me. Why is it you're looking like a rabbit with half its brain removed? said Lucien on meeting me. At lunch I stole a look first at my father, then at my mother. He was composed as usual. She was as usual secretly irritated. I waited to see whether my father would make some friendly remarks to me as he sometimes did. But he did not even bestow his every day cold greeting upon me. Shall I tell Zinaida all? I wondered. It's all the same, anyway. All is as an end between us. I went to see her, but told her nothing, and indeed I could not even have managed to get a talk with her if I had wanted to. The old princess's son, a cadet of twelve years old, had come from Petersburg for his holidays. Zinaida at once handed her brother over to me. Here, she said, my dear Volodya, it was the first time she had used this pet name to me. He's a companion for you. His name is Volodya, too. Please like him. He is still shy, but he has a good heart. Show him neskuchny gardens, go walks with him. Take him under your protection. You'll do that, won't you? You're so good, too. She laid both her hands affectionately on my shoulders, and I was utterly bewildered. The presence of this boy transformed me, too, into a boy. I looked in silence at the cadet, who stared as silently at me. Zinaida laughed and pushed us towards each other. Embrace each other, children. We embraced each other. Would you like me to show you the garden, I inquired of the cadet? If you please," he replied, in the regular cadet's hoarse voice, Zinaida laughed again. I had time to notice that she had never had such an exquisite colour in her face before. I set off with the cadet. There was an old-fashioned swing in our garden. I sat him down on the narrow plank seat, and began swinging him. He sat rigid in his new little uniform of stout cloth, with its broad gold braiding, and kept tight hold of the cords. You'd better unbutton your collar, I said to him. It's all right, we're used to it," he said, and cleared his throat. He was like his sister. The eyes especially recalled her. I liked being nice to him, and at the same time an aching sadness was gnawing at my heart. Now I certainly am a child, I thought, but yesterday I remembered where I had dropped my knife the night before and looked for it. The cadet asked me for it, picked a thick stalk of wild parsley, cut a pipe out of it, and began whistling. Othello whistled too. And in the evening how he wept, this Othello, in Zinaida's arms, when seeking him out in a corner of the garden, she asked him why he was so depressed. My tears flowed with such violence that she was frightened. What is wrong with you? What is it for Lodia? She repeated, and seeing I made no answer, and did not cease weeping, she was about to kiss my wet cheek. But I turned away from her, and whispered through my sobs, I know all. Why did you play with me? What need had you of my love? I am to blame, Volodia, said Zinaida. I am very much to blame," she added, wringing her hands. How much there is bad and black and sinful in me! But I am not playing with you now. I love you. You don't even suspect why and how. But what is it you know? What could I say to her? She stood facing me and looked at me, and I belonged to her altogether from head to foot directly she looked at me. A quarter of an hour later I was running races with the cadet and Zinaida. I was not crying. I was laughing, though my swollen eyelids dropped a tear or two as I laughed. I had Zinaida's ribbon round my neck for a cravat, and I shouted with delight whenever I succeeded in catching her round the waist. She did just as she liked with me. CHAPTER 19 I should begin a great difficulty if I were forced to describe exactly what passed within me in the course of the week after my unsuccessful midnight expedition. It was a strange feverish time, a sort of chaos, in which the most violently opposed feelings, thoughts, suspicions, hopes, joys and sufferings whirled together in a kind of hurricane. I was afraid to look into myself. If a boy of sixteen ever can look into himself, I was afraid to take stock of anything. I simply hastened to live through every day till evening, and at night I slept. The light-heartedness of childhood came to my aid. I did not want to know whether I was loved, and I did not want to acknowledge to myself that I was not loved. My father I avoided, but Zinaida I could not avoid. I burnt as in a fire in her presence, and what did I care to know what the fire was in which I burned and melted? It was enough that it was sweet to burn and melt. I gave myself up to all my passing sensations, and cheated myself, turning away from memories and shutting my eyes to what I forboded before me. This weakness would not most likely have lasted long in any case. A thunderbolt cut it all short in a moment, and flung me into a new track altogether. Coming in one day to dinner from a rather long walk, I learnt with amazement that I was to dine alone, that my father had gone away, and my mother was unwell, did not want any dinner, and had shut herself up in her bedroom. From the faces of the footmen I surmised that something extraordinary had taken place. I did not dare to cross-examine them, but I had a friend in the young waiter, Philippe, who was passionately fond of poetry and a performer on the guitar. I addressed myself to him. From him I learnt that a terrible scene had taken place between my father and mother, and every word had been overheard in the maid's room. Much of it had been in French, but Marsha, the lady's maid, had lived five years with a dressmaker from Paris, and she understood it all. That my mother had reproached my father with infidelity, with an intimacy with the young lady next door. That my father at first had defended himself, but afterwards had lost his temper, and he too had said something cruel, reflecting on her age which had made my mother cry. That my mother too had alluded to some loan which it seemed had been made to the old princess, and had spoken very ill of her and of the young lady too, and that then my father had threatened her. And all the mischief, continued Philippe, came from an anonymous letter, and who wrote it no one knows, or else there'd have been no reason whatever for the matter to have come out at all. But was there really any ground I brought out with difficulty, while my hands and feet went cold, and a sort of shudder ran through my inmost being? Philippe winked meaningly. There was—there's no hiding those things. For all that your father was careful this time, but there you see he'd for instance used to hire a carriage or something, no getting on without servants either. I dismissed Philippe, and fell on to my bed. I did not sob, I did not give myself up to despair. I did not ask myself when and how this had happened. I did not wonder how it was I had not guessed it before, long ago. I did not even up-braid my father. What I had learnt was more than I could take in. This sudden revelation stunned me. All was at an end. All the fair blossoms of my heart were roughly plucked at once, and lay about me, flung on the ground, and trampled underfoot. CHAPTER XX My mother next day announced her intention of returning to the town. In the morning my father had gone into her bedroom, and stayed there a long while alone with her. No one had overheard what he said to her, but my mother wept no more. She regained her composure, and asked for food, but did not make her appearance nor change her plans. I remember I wandered about the whole day, but did not go into the garden. I never once glanced at the lodge, and in the evening I was the spectator of an amazing occurrence. My father conducted Count Malefsky by the arm through the dining-room into the hall, and in the presence of a footman said icily to him, A few days ago your Excellency was shown the door in our house, and now I am not going to enter into any kind of explanation with you, but I have the honour to announce to you that if you ever visit me again I shall throw you out of window. I don't like your handwriting. The Count bowed, bit his lips, shrank away, and vanished. Preparations were beginning for our removal to town, to Arbatis Street, where we had a house. My father himself probably no longer cared to remain at the country-house, but clearly he had succeeded in persuading my mother not to make a public scandal. Everything was done quietly, without hurry. My mother even sent her compliments to the old princess, and expressed her regret that she was prevented by indisposition from seeing her again before her departure. I wandered about like one possessed, and only longed for one thing, for it all to be over as soon as possible. One thought I could not get out of my head, how could she, a young girl, and a princess too, after all, bring herself to such a step, knowing that my father was not a free man, and having an opportunity of marrying, for instance, Bielov Zorov? What did she hope for? How was it she was not afraid of ruining her whole future? Yes, I thought, this is love, this is passion, this is devotion, and Lucien's words came back to me, to sacrifice oneself for some people is sweet. I chanced somehow to catch sight of something white in one of the windows of the lodge. Can it be Zinaida's face, I thought? Yes, it really was her face. I could not restrain myself. I could not part from her without saying a last good-bye to her. I seized a favourable instant, and went into the lodge. In the drawing-room the old princess met me with her usual slovenly and careless greetings. How's this, my good man, your folks are off in such a hurry? She observed thrusting snuff into her nose. I looked at her, and a load was taken off my heart. The word loan, dropped by Philippe, had been torturing me. She had no suspicion, at least I thought so then. Zinaida came in from the next room, pale and dressed in black, with her hair hanging loose. She took me by the hand without a word, and drew me away with her. I heard your voice, she began, and came out at once. Is it so easy for you to leave us, bad boy? I have come to say good-bye to you, princess. I answered, probably, for ever. You have heard, perhaps, we are going away. Zinaida looked intently at me. Yes, I have heard. Thanks for coming. I was beginning to think I should not see you again. Don't remember evil against me. I have sometimes tormented you, but all the same I am not what you imagine me. She turned away, and leaned against the window. Really, I am not like that. I know you have a bad opinion of me. I? Yes, you. You! I, I repeated mournfully, and my heart throbbed as of old under the influence of her overpowering indescribable fascination. I, believe me, Zinaida Alexandrovna, whatever you did, however you tormented me, I should love and adore you to the end of my days. She turned with a rapid motion to me, and, flinging wide, her arms embraced my head, and gave me a warm and passionate kiss. God knows whom that long farewell kiss was seeking, but I eagerly tasted its sweetness. I knew that it would never be repeated. Good-bye! Good-bye! I kept saying. She tore herself away and went out. And I went away. I cannot describe the emotion with which I went away. I should not wish it ever to come again. But I should think myself unfortunate had I never experienced such an emotion. We went back to town. I did not quickly shake off the past. I did not quickly get to work. My wound slowly began to heal. But I had no ill feeling against my father. On the contrary, he had, as it were, gained in my eyes. Let psychologists explain the contradiction as best they can. One day I was walking along a boulevard, and to my indescribable delight I came across Lucien. I liked him for his straightforward and unaffected character, and besides he was dear to me for the sake of the memories he aroused in me. I rushed up to him. Ah! he said, knitting his brows, so it's you, young man! Let me have a look at you. You're still as yellow as ever, but yet there's not the same nonsense in your eyes. You look like a man, not a lap-dog. That's good. Well, what are you doing, working? I gave a sigh. I did not like to tell a lie, while I was ashamed to tell the truth. Well, never mind," Lucien went on,--"don't be shy. The great thing is to lead a normal life, and not be the slave of your passions. What do you get, if not, wherever you are carried by the tide? It's all a bad look-out, a man must stand on his own feet, if he can get nothing but a rock to stand on. Here I've got a cough. And Bielov Zorov, have you heard anything of him? No. What what is it? He's lost, and no news of him. They say he's gone away to the Caucasus. A lesson to you, young man, and it's all from not knowing how to part in time, to break out of the net. You seem to have got off very well. Mind you don't fall into the same snare again. Goodbye." I shan't," I thought. I shan't see her again. But I was destined to see Zinaida once more. After twenty-one. My father used every day to ride out on horseback. He had a splendid English mare, a chestnut pie-balled, with a long slender neck and long legs, an inexhaustible and vicious beast. Her name was Electric. No one could ride her except my father. One day he came up to me in a good humour, a frame of mind in which I had not seen him for a long while. He was getting ready for his ride, and had already put on his spurs. I began in treating him to take me with him. "'With much better have a game of leap-frog,' my father replied, "'you'll never keep up with me on your cob.' "'Yes, I will. I'll put on spurs, too.' "'All right, come along, then.' We set off. I had a shaggy black horse, strong and fairly spirited. It is true it had to gallop its utmost when Electric went at full trot. Still, I was not left behind. I have never seen any one ride like my father. He had such a fine, carelessly easy seat, that it seemed that the horse under him was conscious of it and proud of its rider. We rode through all the boulevards, reached the maiden's field, jumped several fences. At first I had been afraid to take a leap, but my father had a contempt for cowards, and I soon ceased to feel fear. Twice crossed the River Muscava, and I was under the impression that we were on our way home, especially as my father, of his own accord, observed that my horse was tired, when suddenly he turned off away from me at the Crimean Ford, and galloped along the river-bank. I rode after him. When he had reached a high stack of old timber, he slid quickly off Electric, told me to dismount, and giving me his horse's bridle, told me to wait for him there at the timber-stack, and turning off into a small street, disappeared. I began walking up and down the river-bank, leading the horses, and scolding Electric, who kept pulling, shaking her head, snorting and naing as she went. And when I stood still, never failed to pour the ground, and whining, bite my cob on the neck. In fact she conducted herself altogether like a spoiled thoroughbred. My father did not come back. A disagreeable damp mist rose from the river. A fine rain began softly blowing up, and spotting with tiny dark flecks the stupid grey timber-stack which I kept passing and repassing, and was deadly sick of by now. I was terribly bored, and still my father did not come. A sort of sentryman, a fin gray all over like the timber, and with a huge old-fashioned shackle like a pot on his head, and with a hall-bird, however came a sentry, if you think of it, on the banks of the masquerade, drew near, and turning his wrinkled face, like an old woman's, towards me. He observed, What are you doing here with the horses, young master? Let me hold them. I made him no reply. He asked me for tobacco. To get rid of him, I was in a fret of impatience, too. I took a few steps in the direction in which my father had disappeared, then walked along the little street to the end, turned the corner, and stood still. In the street forty paces from me, at the open window of a little wooden house, stood my father, his back turned to me. He was leaning forward over the windowsill, and in the house, half hidden by a curtain, sat a woman in a dark dress talking to my father. This woman was Zinaida. I was petrified. This I confess I had never expected. My first impulse was to run away. My father will look round, I thought, and I am lost. But a strange feeling, a feeling stronger than curiosity, stronger than jealousy, stronger even than fear, held me there. I began to watch. I strained my ears to listen. It seemed as though my father were insisting on something. Zinaida would not consent. I seemed to see her face now, mournful, serious, lovely, and with an inexpressible impress of devotion, grief, love, and a sort of despair. I can find no other word for it. She uttered monosyllables, not raising her eyes, simply smiling, submissively, but without yielding. By that smile alone I should have known my Zinaida of old days. My father shrugged his shoulders and straightened his hat on his head, which was always a sign of impatience with him. Then I caught the words, vous devez vous séparer de cette. Zinaida sat up and stretched out her arm. Suddenly before my very eyes the impossible happened. My father suddenly lifted the whip, with which he had been switching the dust off his coat, and I heard a sharp blow on that arm, bare to the elbow. I could scarcely restrain myself from crying out, while Zinaida shuddered, looked without a word at my father, and slowly raising her arm to her lips, kissed the streak of red upon it. My father flung away the whip, and running quickly up the steps, dashed into the house. Zinaida turned round, and with outstretched arms and downcast head, she too moved away from the window. My heart, sinking with panic, with a sort of awestruck horror, I rushed back, and running down the lane, almost letting go my hold of electric, went back to the bank of the river. I could not think clearly of anything. I knew that my cold and reserved father was sometimes seized by fits of fury, and all the same I could never comprehend what I had just seen. But I felt at the time that, however long I lived, I could never forget the gesture, the glance, the smile of Zinaida. At her image, this image so suddenly presented to me, was imprinted for ever on my memory. I stared vacantly at the river, and never noticed that my tears were streaming. She is beaten, I was thinking. Beaten. Beaten. Hello! What are you doing? Give me the mare. I heard my father's voice saying behind me. Mechanically I gave him the bridle. He leapt onto electric. The mare, chill withstanding, reared on her haunches, and leapt ten feet away. But my father soon subdued her. He drove the spurs into her side, and gave her a blow on the neck with his fist. Ah! I've no whip, he muttered. I remembered the swish and fall of the whip, heard so short a time before, and shuddered. Where did you put it? I asked my father after a brief pause. My father made no answer, and galloped on ahead. I overtook him. I felt that I must see his face. Were you bored, waiting for me? He muttered through his teeth. A little. Where did you drop your whip? I asked again. My father glanced quickly at me. I didn't drop it, he replied. I threw it away. He sank into thought, and dropped his head. And then for the first, and almost for the last time, I saw how much tenderness and pity his stern features were capable of expressing. He galloped on again, and this time I could not overtake him. I got home a quarter of an hour after him. It's love, I said to myself again, as I sat at night before my writing-table, on which books and papers had begun to make their appearance. That's passion, to think of not revolting, of bearing a blow from any one whatever, even the dearest hand. But it seems one can if one loves, while I, I imagined. I had grown much older during the last month, and my love with all its transports and sufferings struck me myself as something small and childish and pitiful beside this other unimagined something, which I could hardly fully grasp, and which frightened me like an unknown, beautiful but menacing face, which one strives in vain to make out clearly in the half-darkness. A strange and fearful dream came to me that same night. I dreamed I went into a low-dark room. My father was standing with a whip in his hand, stamping with anger. In the corner crouched Zinaida. And not on her arm, but on her forehead, was a stripe of red, while behind them both towered Bielas Vorov covered with blood. He opened his white lips, and wrathfully threatened my father. Two months later I entered the university, and within six months my father died of a stroke in Petersburg, where he had just moved with my mother and me. A few days before his death he received a letter from Moscow which threw him into a violent agitation. He went to my mother to beg some favour of her. And I was told he positively shed tears—he, my father!—on the very morning of the day when he was stricken down he had begun a letter to me in French. My son, he wrote to me, fear the love of woman, fear that bliss, that poison! After his death my mother sent a considerable sum of money to Moscow. CHAPTER XXII Four years passed. I had just left the university, and did not know exactly what to do with myself, at what door to knock. I was hanging about for a time with nothing to do. One fine evening I met May Darnoff at the theatre. He had got married, and had entered the civil service. But I found no change in him. He fell into ecstasies in just the same superfluous way, and just as suddenly grew depressed again. You know, he told me, among other things, Madame Dalsky is here. What Madame Dalsky? Can you have forgotten her? The young Princess Zaziekin whom we were all in love with, and you too. Do you remember at the country house near Niskutschny Gardens? She married a Dalsky. Yes. And is she here in the theatre? No, but she's in Petersburg. She came here a few days ago. She's going abroad. What sort of fellow is her husband, I asked? The splendid fellow with property. He's a colleague of mine in Moscow. You can well understand, after the scandal. You must know all about it. May Darnoff smiled significantly. It was no easy task for her to make a good marriage. There were consequences, but with her cleverness everything is possible. Go and see her. She'll be delighted to see you. She's prettier than ever. May Darnoff gave me Zinaida's address. She was staying at the Hotel Demut. Old memories were a stir within me. I determined next day to go to see my former flame. But some business happened to turn up, a week past, and then another. And when at last I went to the Hotel Demut and asked for Madame Dalsky, I learnt that four days before she had died almost suddenly in childbirth. I felt a sort of stab at my heart. The thought that I might have seen her, and had not seen her, and should never see her. That bitter thought stung me with all the force of overwhelming reproach. She is dead, I repeated, staring stupidly at the Hall Porter. I slowly made my way back to the street, and walked on without knowing myself where I was going. All the past swam up and rose at once before me. So this was the solution. This was the goal to which that young, ardent, brilliant life had striven, all hastened agitation. I mused on this. I fancied those dear features, those eyes, those curls, in the narrow box, in the damp underground darkness, lying here not far from me, while I was still alive, and maybe a few paces from my father. I thought all this. I strained my imagination, and yet all the while the lines from lips indifferent of her death I heard, indifferently I listened to it, too, where echoing in my heart. O youth, youth, little dust thou care for anything, thou art master as it were of all the treasures of the universe. Even sorrow gives the pleasure, even grief thou canst turn to thy profit, thou art self-confident and insolent, thou sayest, I alone am living, look you. But thy days fly by all the while, and vanish without trace or reckoning, and everything in thee vanishes like wax in the sun, like snow. And perhaps the whole secret of thy charm lies not in being able to do anything, but in being able to think thou wilt do anything, lies just in thy throwing to the winds, forces which thou couldst not make other use of, in each of us gravely regarding himself as a prodigal, gravely supposing that he is justified in saying, O what might I not have done if I had not wasted my time? I know what did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee when the phantom of my first love rising up for an instant barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment, and what has come to pass of all I hoped for, and now when the shades of evening begin to steal over my life, what have I left fresher, more precious than the memories of the storm so soon over, of early morning, of spring? But I do myself injustice, even then in those light-hearted young days I was not deaf to the voice of sorrow when it called upon me, to the solemn strains floating to me from beyond the tomb. I remember a few days after I heard of Zinaida's death, I was present through a peculiar, irresistible impulse at the death of a poor old woman who lived in the same house as we. Covered with rags, lying on hard boards with a sack under her head, she died hardly and painfully. Her whole life had been passed in the bitter struggle with daily want. She had known no joy, had not tasted the honey of happiness. One would have thought surely she would rejoice at death at her deliverance, her rest. But yet as long as her decrepit body held out, as long as her breast still heaved in agony under the icy hand weighing upon it, until her last forces left her, the old woman crossed herself and kept whispering, Lord, forgive my sins, and only with the last spark of consciousness vanished from her eyes the look of fear, of horror of the end. And I remember that then, by the deathbed of that poor old woman, I felt aghast for Zinaida and longed to pray for her, for my father, and for myself.