Love and Youth Page 3
Zinaida carried on making me her favourite, and kept me by her side. For one of my forfeits I found myself sitting next to her with both our heads under one silk scarf, and I was supposed to tell her my secret. I remember how both our heads suddenly found themselves in that steamy, half-transparent, fragrant darkness, with her eyes gently shining close to my face, her open lips breathing warm air onto me, and I saw her teeth, and the ends of her hair tickled my skin and set it on fire. I said nothing. She smiled a sly, mysterious smile, and eventually whispered ‘Well then?’, but I merely blushed and giggled, and turned my head away, barely able to breathe. Then we got tired of forfeits, and began playing the string game. My God! imagine my delight, when for a moment’s absent-mindedness on my part, she gave me a hard, sharp smack on my fingers. After that, I did my best to pretend to have my head in the clouds, but she just teased me and never touched my outstretched hands again!
What didn’t we get up to that evening! We played the piano, and sang, and danced, and pretended to set up a gypsy camp. We dressed Nirmatsky up as a bear, and made him drink salt water. Count Malevsky performed some card tricks, finally shuffling the pack for whist and dealing himself all the trumps, for which Lushin ‘had the honour to congratulate him’. Maidanov declaimed some passages from his epic poem ‘The Assassin’ (this was the heyday of Romanticism); he planned to publish it in a black binding with the title in blood-coloured letters. The clerk from the Iberian Gate had his cap stolen off his knees, and in order to get it back he was made to perform a Cossack dance. Old Boniface was decked out in a lady’s cap, while the young princess put on a man’s hat … I couldn’t go through all the things we did. Belovzorov alone retired further and further into a corner, scowling furiously. Sometimes his eyes would grow bloodshot, he would turn red in the face and seem to be about to hurl himself at us and scatter us in all directions like wood shavings. But when the princess looked at him and wagged a warning finger, he would retreat back into his corner.
At last we were exhausted. Even the old princess, though she was up for anything, as she put it, and didn’t mind any amount of screaming, eventually felt tired and wanted to rest. Dinner was served shortly before midnight—a lump of stale dry cheese and some cold chopped ham pies, which I found more delicious than the most delicate pastries; there was only one bottle of wine, and that a rather peculiar one of dark-coloured glass with a wide neck, containing pink wine—anyway, no one drank any. Completely happy and quite exhausted, I left the lodge; as we parted, Zinaida squeezed my hand tightly and gave me another mysterious smile.
The night air was heavy and damp on my overheated face. There seemed to be a thunderstorm on the way, with black rain clouds advancing across the sky, growing larger and constantly changing their smoky shapes. The wind was gusting fitfully in the dark trees, and somewhere far away over the horizon, the muffled thunder was grumbling crossly to itself.
I came in through the back door and slipped upstairs to my room. The old servant who looked after me was asleep on the floor, so I had to step over him. He woke and saw me, and said that my mama was annoyed with me again and had wanted to send for me, but my father had stopped her. (I used never to go to bed without saying goodnight to her and asking for her blessing.) But there was nothing to be done.
I told the servant that I’d get undressed and put myself to bed on my own; and I blew out my candle. But I didn’t get undressed, and I didn’t go to bed.
I sat down on my chair and stayed sitting there like a man bewitched. What I was feeling was so new, and so delicious … I sat quite still, barely glancing this way and that, and breathing slowly. Now and then I laughed silently to myself, going over what had happened; or froze inwardly at the thought that I was in love, that this was it, this was love. Zinaida’s countenance floated gently before my eyes in the darkness—floated in the air, without drifting away; her lips still smiled that enigmatic smile, her eyes gazed at me from one side, questioningly, thoughtfully and tenderly … just as they had at the moment when we parted. At last I stood up and tiptoed to my bed; without undressing, I carefully lowered my head onto my pillow, as if afraid that any abrupt movement might disturb the sensations that flooded my being.
I lay down on the bed but never shut my eyes. Soon I noticed a succession of faint flashes of light shining into my room. I raised my head and looked out of the window. The window frame stood out sharply against the pale, mysterious light on the panes. ‘A thunderstorm,’ I thought to myself. And so it was, but very far away, too far to hear the thunder, though there was a constant flickering of faint, long, forked lightnings, not exactly flashing, but rather quivering and twitching like the wings of a dying bird. I got up, walked over to the window and stayed standing there till morning. The lightning flashes never ceased for an instant; it was what the peasants call a ‘sparrows’ night’. I looked out at the silent sandy expanse, at the dark shape of Neskuchny Gardens, the yellow façades of distant buildings, which also seemed to be twitching at each faint lightning flash … I gazed out, and couldn’t tear myself away from the sight. Those silent lightnings, that shy flickering, seemed to echo the secret, wordless yearnings burning in my soul. The morning dawned; patches of crimson light announced daybreak. As the sun began to appear, the lightnings became fainter and more fleeting, quivering more and more rarely, and eventually vanishing altogether, drowned in the uncompromising, sober light of a new day.
And the lightnings within me vanished too. I felt a profound weariness and peace … but the image of Zinaida still hovered triumphantly over my soul. And yet this very image, too, seemed more tranquil: like a swan taking flight out of the reeds of a swamp, it separated itself from the unsightly images that surrounded it. As I fell asleep, I flung myself down before it for the last time, to bid it a trusting, adoring farewell.
Oh, you meek emotions, you gentle sounds, the goodness and peace of a softened heart, the melting joy of the first raptures of love—where are you now, where are you?
VIII
When I came down to tea next morning, my mother scolded me—but less than I had expected. She made me tell her what I had been doing the evening before. I answered her shortly, leaving out many of the details and trying to make the whole evening sound quite innocent.
‘Even so, they’re not comme il faut,’ remarked my mother. ‘And you’ve no business to be hanging about there instead of studying for your exams.’
I knew that my mother’s concerns about my studies weren’t going to go beyond those few words, so I didn’t bother to argue with her. But after tea my father took my arm, walked me out into the garden and made me tell him everything that I had seen at the Zasekins’.
He had a strange influence over me—and our relations were strange ones too. He took almost no interest in my education, but he was never rude to me; he respected my freedom, and even treated me courteously, if one could call it that. But he never allowed me to get close to him. I loved him and admired him, he was my ideal of a man—and my God, how passionately I would have adored him, if I hadn’t always felt him holding me at a distance! And yet he could awaken my boundless trust with a single word, a single gesture, in an instant, whenever he pleased. My soul would open up to him, and I would chat with him as though he were a wise friend or an indulgent teacher … And then, just as abruptly, he would drop me, and his hand would push me away—softly and gently, but it would push me away.
Sometimes he would indulge in a fit of high spirits, and then he would be happy to romp and play with me like a boy (he loved any kind of physical activity). Once—and only once!—he caressed me so tenderly that I almost burst into tears … But his high spirits, and his tenderness, would vanish without a trace; and whatever passed between us gave me no hopes for the future—I might as well have dreamt it all. I sometimes found myself gazing at his bright, handsome, intelligent face … my heart would tremble, my whole being would long to be close to him … and he would seem to sense what I was feeling, give me a casual pat on the cheek, and eith
er go away, or take up some activity, or suddenly grow cold, the way he alone knew how to do—and I would instantly shrink into myself and turn cold too. His rare moments of friendliness were never in response to my eloquent though unspoken entreaties—they always came unexpectedly. When I later reflected on my father’s character, I concluded that he wasn’t really interested in me, nor in family life; he loved something different, and enjoyed that to the full. ‘Take everything you can for yourself, and don’t let others rule you; to belong to yourself—that’s the whole point of life,’ he once said to me. On another occasion, I was playing the role of a young democrat in front of him, and began arguing about freedom (that was one of his ‘kind’ days, as I called them, and on days like that I could talk to him about anything I liked).
‘Freedom,’ he repeated. ‘But do you know what can give a man freedom?’
‘What?’
‘Will. One’s own will. And it gives you power, which is better than freedom. Learn to exercise your will, and you’ll be free, and in command.’
More than anything else, and beyond anything else, my father wanted to live. And live he did … Perhaps he had a premonition that he had not long to enjoy ‘this thing called life’: he died at forty-two. I told him about my visit to the Zasekins in great detail. He listened to me, half attentively and half absently, sitting on a bench and tracing patterns in the sand with the tip of his cane. From time to time he laughed, giving me a bright, quizzical look, or challenged me with a brief question or objection. At first I didn’t even dare to pronounce Zinaida’s name, but then I couldn’t restrain myself and began singing her praises. My father laughed once more. Then he became thoughtful, stretched and stood up.
I recalled that as he came out of the house, he had ordered his horse saddled up. He was a first-class rider, and had known how to tame the wildest of horses long before Mister Rarey.
‘Can I come with you, Papa?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he replied, and his face took on his usual look of affectionate indifference once again. ‘You go, if you like. Tell the coachman I’m not riding.’
He turned his back on me and walked quickly off. I watched him disappear out of the gate, and saw his hat moving along the fence. He went into the Zasekins’ house.
He spent no more than an hour there, but then went straight off to town, only returning in the evening.
After dinner I went round to the Zasekins’ myself. I found no one in the drawing room but the old princess. When she saw me, she scratched her head under her cap with the tip of a knitting needle and asked me whether I could copy out a petition for her.
‘With pleasure,’ I replied, and sat down on the edge of a chair.
‘Only be sure to write the letters big,’ she said, handing me a dirty sheet of paper. ‘Couldn’t you do it today, my young man?’
‘Certainly, I’ll copy it out today.’
The door to the next room opened a crack, and Zinaida’s face appeared—pale, pensive, with her hair carelessly swept back. She looked at me with her large, cold eyes and quietly closed the door again.
‘Zina! Hey, Zina!’ called the old lady. But Zinaida didn’t answer. I took away the old lady’s petition and spent the whole evening on it.
IX
My ‘passion’ began that day. I remember feeling rather like a young man about to enter government service. I had ceased to be just a young boy: now I was someone in love. I have said that my passion began that day, but I might have added that my sufferings, too, began that same day. In Zina’s absence, I pined for her; my head was empty, nothing that I did came right, and for days on end I thought obsessively about her … I pined for her; but when she was there I felt no better. I was jealous, and conscious of my own insignificance, and stupidly sulky, or stupidly servile—and still some invincible force drew me to her, and every time I walked into her room, I could not help trembling with happiness.
Zinaida immediately realized that I had fallen in love with her—it never crossed my mind to hide it—and she made fun of my feelings, led me on, petted me and tormented me. It must be delicious to be the sole source, despotic and arbitrary, of someone else’s profoundest joys and deepest miseries: I was like soft wax in Zinaida’s hands. As a matter of fact, I was not the only one to be in love with her. All the men who came to her house were madly in love with her, and she kept every one of them on a leash at her feet. She enjoyed filling them with hope and fear in turn, playing with them just as she pleased, like puppets on a string (she called that ‘knocking people against each other’); and they all happily submitted and never thought to resist. Her whole lively, attractive personality was an enchanting mixture of cunning and thoughtlessness, artifice and simplicity, tranquillity and mischief. Everything she did or said, every gesture, carried a subtle aura of light-hearted charm, it all conveyed her unique power and playfulness. And her face, too, was always changing, always playful; it reflected a mocking, thoughtful and passionate nature, all in an instant. The most varied emotions, light and fleeting as cloud shadows on a day of sun and wind, constantly chased one another across her lips and eyes.
She needed every one of her admirers. Belovzorov, whom she sometimes called ‘my wild beast’, and sometimes just ‘mine’, would happily have thrown himself into the flames for her. With no hopes of winning her by his intellect or other qualities, he yet went on proposing marriage to her and hinting that all the others were mere time-wasters. Maidanov echoed the poetic notes in her spirit: like almost all writers, he had quite a cold personality, but he fervently assured her (and perhaps himself too) that he worshipped her; he extolled her in his interminable verses, declaiming them to her with an ecstasy that was forced and yet sincere. She was fond of him, but made fun of him a bit; she didn’t entirely trust him, and after listening to one of his outpourings she would make him read Pushkin to her, to ‘clear the air’ as she put it.
Lushin, the ironic, cynical-sounding doctor, knew her better than anyone—and loved her more than anyone, though he abused her to her face and behind her back. She respected him, but didn’t let him get away with anything, and sometimes took a particular sadistic pleasure in reminding him that he was her slave as well. ‘I’m a flirt, I’m heartless, I have the soul of an actress,’ she once said to him in my presence. ‘So, that’s fine! Give me your hand, and I’ll stick a pin in it, and you’ll be embarrassed in front of this young man—it’ll hurt, but you, Sir Truth-teller, will have to laugh it off!’ Lushin blushed and turned away, biting his lip, but finally offered his hand. She pricked it, and he really did burst out laughing … and she laughed too, pressing the pin quite deep into his flesh and looking into his eyes, while he looked helplessly this way and that …
The relationship between Zinaida and Count Malevsky was the one I found hardest of all to understand. He was handsome, sharp and intelligent, but even I, a boy of sixteen, could sense something ambivalent and false in him, and I was amazed that Zinaida didn’t see it. Or perhaps she did see that falseness in him, and wasn’t put off by it. Her irregular upbringing, her strange acquaintances and habits, the constant presence of her mother, the poverty and disorder of her home—everything, even the very freedom of this young girl’s life and her awareness that she was superior to everyone around her, must have combined to instil in her a sort of half-contemptuous, careless indifference. There were times when she would react to anything that happened—Boniface coming in to announce that there was no sugar, or some nasty piece of gossip emerging, or the guests quarrelling—by merely tossing her curls and saying ‘what a lot of nonsense!’—she simply couldn’t care less.
But I myself would seethe with indignation to see Malevsky sauntering up to her in his sly, foxy way, leaning elegantly against the back of her chair and whispering in her ear with his smug, ingratiating little smile—only for her to fold her arms, give him a searching look, and smile back at him, shaking her head.
‘What’s the great attraction of receiving Mister Malevsky?’ I asked her once.
‘You wouldn’t be thinking I love him, would you?’ she asked me another time. ‘No, I couldn’t love anyone I had to look down on. I need someone who can master me … But I’ll never come across anyone like that, thank heavens! I’m never going to let anyone get his claws into me, certainly not!’
‘So you’re never going to love anyone?’
‘What about you? Don’t I love you?’ she said, flicking me on the nose with the tip of her glove.
Yes, Zinaida used to tease me a great deal. For three weeks I saw her every day—and what didn’t she do with me! She rarely visited us, and I wasn’t sorry about that. In our home she would turn into a young lady, a princess—and I felt shy of her. I was afraid of betraying myself to my mother, who was very hostile to Zinaida and kept an unfriendly eye on us. I was not so scared of my father, who seemed almost not to notice me and spoke very little to her, though in a particularly meaningful and intelligent way. I stopped doing any work, or reading anything; I even stopped going for walks or riding. Like a beetle tied by the leg, I circled endlessly round my beloved little lodge; I felt as if I wanted to stay there for ever … but that was impossible. My mother grumbled at me, and even Zinaida herself sometimes sent me packing. Then I would lock myself in my room, or go right down to the end of the garden, climb onto the ruins of a tall stone orangery, dangle my legs over the wall facing the street, and sit there for hours on end, gazing and gazing and not seeing anything. On the dusty nettles at my feet, white butterflies flitted idly to and fro; a saucy sparrow perched on the dilapidated red brickwork nearby and twittered crossly, turning his little body constantly this way and that and fanning his tail; the rooks, still suspicious of me, perched high up on the leafless top of a birch tree and cawed from time to time; the sun and the wind played softly over the spindly branches; now and then the sound of the bells of the Donskoy monastery drifted over to me, peaceful and melancholy; and I sat and gazed, and listened, and all my soul was filled with a nameless sensation that embraced everything—sadness, and happiness, and a premonition of the future, and longing, and fear. But at the time I understood none of all that; I could never have given a name to any of the thoughts and feelings seething within me, or else I would have called them all by a single name—the name of Zinaida.