Love and Youth Read online

  ‘Well, I won’t wear you out with telling you more. It’s hard on me too, I confess, remembering all that. My sick girl died the next day. God rest her soul!’ (the doctor added quickly, with a sigh). ‘Before she died, she asked all her family to go out and leave me alone with her. “Forgive me,” she says, “perhaps I’ve done you wrong … my illness … but believe me, I’ve never loved anybody more than you … please don’t forget me … look after my ring for me …”’

  The doctor turned away. I took his hand.

  ‘Eh!’ he sighed. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Or would you like a hand of Preference, for small stakes? We doctors, you know, we’re not supposed to give way to such sublime sentiments. We’re meant to keep our minds on one thing: how to keep the children from squalling and the wife from brawling. I’ve entered into an honourable marriage, as they call it, since then … of course I have … A merchant’s daughter, with seven thousand roubles. They call her Akulina—it goes perfectly with Trifon. A bad-tempered woman, I have to say, but as she spends all day asleep … So, shall it be Preference?’

  We sat down to Preference for one-kopek stakes. Trifon won two and a half roubles off me and left late at night, very pleased with his winnings.

  THE LOVERS’ MEETING

  One autumn, around mid-September, I was sitting in a birch wood. A fine drizzle had been falling since morning, now and then giving way to a spell of warm sunlight, for the weather was unsettled. Ragged white clouds would cover the sky, only to disperse for a moment, letting the bright, gentle azure peep through like a lovely eye. I sat and looked around me, and listened. The leaves rustled faintly overhead—their very sound told you what time of year it was. This was not the cheerful, fluttering laughter of spring, nor the soft whispering and leisurely chatter of summer, nor the timid, cold lisping of late autumn, but an almost inaudible, dreamlike murmur. A faint breeze was just touching the treetops. The depths of the wood, wet with rain, were constantly changing, as the sun now shone out, now hid behind clouds. Sometimes the whole wood became radiant, as if everything within it were smiling: the slender trunks of the sparse birch trees suddenly took on a gentle sheen like white silk, the little leaves covering the ground became burning specks of purest gold, and the handsome fronds of tall curly-headed ferns, already decked out in their autumn tints like overripe grapes, seemed to criss-cross and tangle together before my eyes. And the next moment everything around me turned faintly blue again, the bright colours were quenched in an instant, the birches lost their sheen and turned stark white, like fresh snow still untouched by the cold glint of a winter sun; and a sly, secret rustle of fine raindrops spread whispering through the trees. Almost all the leaves on the birches were still green, though markedly paler than before. Only a few young trees stood out, here and there, that were red or gold all over; and what a sight it was to see them burst into bright colour the instant the sun’s rays broke through to touch them, bathing them in a patchwork of light, wherever it could penetrate the dense meshwork of thin branches overhead, washed clean by the glittering rain. Not a single bird could be heard—they had all fallen silent and gone into hiding, save for the rare ringing sound of the tomtit’s mocking call, like a little steel bell. Before stopping in this birch wood, I had walked with my dog through a copse of tall aspens. I must confess that I’m not too fond of this tree, with its pale lilac trunk and grey-green metallic leaves, which it raises as high as it can reach and fans out to tremble up in the air. I dislike the ceaseless quivering of its untidy round leaves that hang so awkwardly off their long stems. Only on occasional summer evenings does it look attractive, as it stands tall and solitary amidst low bushes, and captures the reddening rays of the setting sun, and trembles and glows, drenched from roots to crown in an even, crimson-gold radiance. Or on a clear, windy day, when it ripples and rustles noisily against a blue sky, every leaf is caught up in the flow and seems desperate to break away, fly off and soar into the distance. But generally I’m not fond of that tree, so I didn’t stop to rest in the aspen thicket, but walked on to the birch wood, nestled down under a little tree with low-growing branches which would protect me from the rain. Here I sat admiring the prospect around me until I fell into that sweet, untroubled sleep which only a hunter knows.

  I can’t say how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes, the very depths of the wood were bathed in sunlight, while all around me a bright blue sky shone—almost sparkled—through the joyously rustling leaves. The clouds had disappeared, scattered by the wind that had sprung up; the weather had cleared, and you could feel that peculiar dry freshness in the air which fills your heart with exhilaration and almost always promises a fine, clear evening after a rainy day. I was about to get up and try my luck again, when suddenly my eyes fell on a human figure sitting very still. I looked again. It was a young peasant girl, sitting twenty paces away from me, her head sunk in thought, both hands resting in her lap. One of her hands, half open, held a neat posy of wild flowers, which rose and fell gently over her checked skirt with every breath. A clean white smock, buttoned at her throat and wrists, fell in soft, short folds about her figure; a necklace of big yellow beads, wound twice round her neck, hung over her bosom. She was very pretty indeed. Her rich fair hair, a lovely ash-blond, was parted into two carefully combed loops peeping out from under a narrow red headband stretched round her ivory-white forehead. Her face and cheeks were faintly tanned that shade of gold that one only sees on delicate skin. I could not see her eyes, which remained downcast; but I could clearly see her fine, high eyebrows and long lashes: they were wet, and on one of her cheeks the sunlight picked out the trace of a dried tear that had run down to her rather pale lips. Her whole face was charming, and even her rather thick snub nose did not spoil it. I particularly liked her expression, so simple and meek, so sad, and so full of childlike wonder at her own sadness. She was evidently expecting someone. There was a faint crackle in the woods, and at once she raised her head and looked around. Through the transparent shadows I caught a fleeting glimpse of her eyes, large, clear and timid as a doe’s. She listened for a few moments, staring wide-eyed towards the place where she had heard the faint sound; then she sighed, slowly turned away, bent forward even lower, and began slowly sorting her flowers. Her eyelids reddened, her lips twisted bitterly, and another tear rolled out from under her thick lashes, to rest bright and shining on her cheek. A long time passed. The poor girl did not move, save for a despairing gesture of her hands now and then; but she listened, listened … Once again there was a sound in the forest, and she gave a start. The sound did not stop, but drew nearer, becoming more distinct, till at last one could hear quick, resolute footsteps approaching. She straightened up nervously, her watchful face alight with tremulous expectation. Through the thicket there appeared the figure of a man walking fast. She looked, and suddenly flushed, then broke into a happy, joyous smile. She half rose to her feet, only to sink back, pale and confused, and at last raised her tremulous, almost pleading eyes to the man who had stopped by her side.

  I looked curiously at him from my hiding place. I have to say that he did not make a good impression. Everything pointed to his being the pampered valet of a rich young gentleman. His clothing betrayed some pretension to style and dandified nonchalance: he was wearing a short bronze-coloured coat, probably passed on from his master, buttoned up to the neck, a pink cravat with lilac ends, and a black velvet cap decorated with gold braid, pulled right down to his eyebrows. The round collar of his white shirt dug mercilessly into his ears and cut into his cheeks; his starched cuffs hid the whole of his hands down to the crooked red fingers adorned with gold and silver rings, one decorated with turquoise forget-me-nots. He had a fresh, red, insolent face—the kind which, in my experience, almost always annoys men but, sadly, very often appeals to women. He was evidently doing his best to give his coarse features an air of bored contempt; he kept screwing up his milky-grey eyes (tiny enough without that), scowling, letting his mouth droop, yawning affectedly, or, wit
h careless but rather clumsy nonchalance, adjusting the dashing curls over his temples and fingering the yellow hairs that sprouted on his thick upper lip. In short, he gave himself insufferable airs. He had started putting on this act as soon as he caught sight of the young peasant girl waiting for him. He sauntered casually up to her, stopped and shrugged his shoulders, thrust both hands into his coat pockets, and scarcely sparing the poor girl a cursory, indifferent glance, lowered himself to the ground.

  ‘So,’ he began, still looking away to one side, swinging his leg and yawning, ‘been here long?’

  The girl couldn’t reply straight away.

  ‘Yes, Viktor Alexandrich,’ she whispered at last, almost inaudibly. ‘A long time.’

  ‘Oh.’—He took off his cap and swept his hand majestically over his thick, stiffly curled hair, which grew almost down to his eyebrows. ‘Well, I almost forgot. And besides, this rain!’ (He yawned once more.) ‘I’ve got lots to do—can’t see to everything, and he keeps yelling at me. We’re leaving tomorrow …’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ the girl exclaimed with a startled look.

  ‘Yes, tomorrow … Oh, come on, come on, please,’ he added quickly and crossly, seeing her trembling all over and quietly drooping her head. ‘Akulina, please, stop crying. You know I hate that.’ (And he wrinkled his snub nose.) ‘Or I’ll go away right now … How stupid—blubbering like that!’

  ‘No, I won’t, I won’t,’ said Akulina hurriedly, making an effort to swallow her tears. ‘So you’re leaving tomorrow?’ she added after a pause. ‘And when will God grant that we see each other again, Viktor Alexandrich?’

  ‘Oh, we will, we will. If not next year, then later on. My master wants to go to Petersburg and enter the service, I believe,’ he went on, giving his words a careless nasal twang. ‘And we might go abroad too.’

  ‘You’ll forget me, Viktor Alexandrich,’ she said sadly.

  ‘No, why should I? I shan’t forget you. But you’ve got to be a sensible girl, don’t act silly, do as your father says … But I shan’t forget you—no-o-o.’ (And he stretched himself coolly and yawned again.)

  ‘Don’t forget me, Viktor Alexandrich,’ she went on imploringly. ‘It seems to me … I’ve loved you so, so much … I’ve done everything for you … You’re telling me to do as my father says, Viktor Alexandrich … but how can I?’

  ‘Why not?’ (He seemed to be speaking from his stomach, as he lay on his back with his hands under his head.)

  ‘What do you mean, Viktor Alexandrich? You know perfectly well why not …’ She stopped. Viktor fingered his steel watch chain.

  ‘Akulina, you’re not a stupid girl,’ he said at last. ‘So don’t you talk rubbish. This is for your own good, can’t you understand? Of course you’re not stupid, you’re not just a peasant, I mean; and your mother wasn’t always a peasant either. But still you’ve got no education, so of course you’ve got to do what people tell you.’

  ‘But it’s scary, Viktor Alexandrich.’

  ‘O-oh, what nonsense, my good girl! What is there to be scared of?—What have you got there?’ he added, moving closer to her. ‘Flowers?’

  ‘Yes,’ Akulina answered miserably. ‘This is some wild tansy I picked,’ she went on, brightening up a bit, ‘it does the little calves good. And these here are marigolds, for the scrofula. Just look, what a pretty flower it is, I’ve never seen such a lovely one in my life. And these are forget-me-nots, and those are sweet violets … And I picked these for you,’ she added, reaching under the yellow tansy to bring out a little posy of blue cornflowers, tied up with a thin blade of grass. ‘Would you like them?’

  Viktor stretched out a languid hand to take them, sniffed them carelessly and began twisting them in his fingers, raising his eyes with an expression of pensive self-importance. Akulina gazed at him. Her sorrowful eyes were filled with tender devotion, humble adoration and love. She was afraid of him, and dared not weep, and was bidding him farewell, and admiring him for the last time; while he lay sprawled like a sultan, accepting her adoration with magnanimous tolerance and condescension. I must admit that I felt indignant as I looked at his red face, whose mask of contemptuous indifference could not hide a satisfied and surfeited vanity. Akulina was so lovely at that moment; her very soul lay open before him, trusting and passionate, full of longing and tender affection, while he … dropping her cornflowers into the grass, he took a round eyeglass with a bronze rim out of his coat pocket and started screwing it into his eye. But however hard he tried to keep it in place by frowning, pulling up his cheek and even using his nose, the glass kept falling out into his hand.