Love and Youth Read online

  Her breast as she breathed was next to mine, her hands touched my head, and suddenly—what I felt at that moment!—her fresh, soft lips began covering my face with kisses … they touched my lips … But now Zinaida probably realized from my expression that I had come round, though I still kept my eyes shut—and she quickly stood up and said:

  ‘Well, get up then, you rascal! You mad thing—what are you doing, lying there in the dust?’

  So I got up.

  ‘Pass me my parasol,’ said Zinaida. ‘Just see where I threw it! And don’t look at me that way … what a lot of nonsense it is! Not hurt, are you? Stung by the nettles, I dare say? Don’t look at me, I said … But he can’t understand a thing, he’s not saying a word,’ she went on, seemingly talking to herself. ‘Now take yourself home, Monsieur Voldemar, and clean yourself up. And don’t you dare follow me, or else I’ll be cross, and I’ll never—’

  She broke off and walked briskly away. I sank down on the path … my legs wouldn’t carry me. My hands were burning from nettle stings, my spine ached, my head swam; but the sense of bliss that filled me then is something I have never experienced again in my whole life. It lingered as a sweet pain in all my limbs, and eventually resolved itself in little hops and skips and cries of joy. Yes, I really was still a child.

  XIII

  I was so light-hearted and proud, all that day—I could still feel Zinaida’s kisses so vividly on my face, I remembered every word she had spoken with such a shudder of delight, I cherished my unexpected happiness so fondly, that I actually felt scared. I didn’t even want to see her, the cause of all these new emotions. I felt that I could ask no more from destiny; that all that was left to me now was to ‘take a last deep sigh, and die’.

  Next day, however, when I set off to the lodge, I was feeling very embarrassed, and vainly tried to hide the fact under a veneer of modest nonchalance such as would suit a man wanting to show that he knew how to keep a secret. Zinaida greeted me very simply, quite unflustered; she just wagged a finger at me and asked whether I had any bruises. All my modest nonchalance and my air of mystery vanished in an instant, together with my embarrassment. Of course I had not been expecting any special reception, but Zinaida’s cool manner was like a pailful of cold water flung over me. I realized that I was just a child in her eyes—and that made me very miserable! Zinaida paced back and forth across the room, giving me a quick smile whenever she looked at me; but her thoughts were far away, I could see that clearly … ‘Should I be the one to say something about yesterday,’ I thought, ‘ask her where she was going in such a hurry, find out once and for all? …’—but I gave up the idea and sat down in a corner.

  Belovzorov came in. I was glad to see him.

  ‘I couldn’t find a quiet horse for you,’ he said sombrely. ‘Freitag has one that he’ll vouch for—but I’m not sure. I’m uneasy about it.’

  ‘What are you afraid of, might I ask?’ said Zinaida.

  ‘What I’m afraid of? Why, you can’t ride! Heaven help you if anything happens! What is this crazy idea you’ve got into your head?’

  ‘Well, that’s my business, Monsieur Beast. Then I’ll ask Piotr Vasilievich …’ (Piotr Vasilievich was my father’s name. I was surprised to hear her dropping it so lightly and carelessly, as though she were confident that he would do what she wanted.)

  ‘I see,’ replied Belovzorov. ‘You want to go out riding with him?’

  ‘With him, or someone else—that’s none of your business. Not with you, anyway.’

  ‘Not with me,’ repeated Belovzorov. ‘Just as you like. All right, then, I’ll get you a horse.’

  ‘Yes, but mind—I don’t want some kind of cow. I’m warning you, I want to gallop.’

  ‘Gallop all you want … Who’s going with you, Malevsky?’

  ‘Why not him, soldier? Now calm down and stop flashing your eyes at me. I’ll take you along with us. You know what I think of Malevsky now—ffft!’ And she tossed her head.

  ‘You’re only saying that to console me,’ grumbled Belovzorov.

  Zinaida narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘Does that console you? … Oh … oh … oh … you soldier!’ she finally said, as if that was the only word she could find. ‘What about you, Monsieur Voldemar, would you come out with us?’

  ‘I don’t like … large parties …’ I mumbled, keeping my eyes lowered.

  ‘You prefer a tête-à-tête? … Well, freedom for the free, and paradise for the … saved,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Go on, then, Belovzorov, get busy. I need a horse by tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ the old princess interrupted, ‘but where’s the money to come from?’

  Zinaida frowned.

  ‘I’m not asking you for it. Belovzorov will trust me.’

  ‘Trust you, will he …’ muttered the princess. And suddenly she yelled at the top of her voice: ‘Dunyashka!’

  ‘Maman, I gave you a little bell,’ Zinaida observed.

  ‘Dunyashka!’ repeated the old lady.

  Belovzorov bowed himself out, and I went with him. Zinaida did not try to keep me.

  XIV

  Next morning I rose early, cut myself a stick and set out through the town gates. I’ll walk off my misery, I said to myself. The weather was beautiful, clear and not too hot; a fresh, lively breeze rustled and frolicked over the fields, so that all the leaves fluttered but nothing was troubled. I wandered far over the hills and through the woods. I was not feeling happy, having left home planning to plunge myself in gloom; but I was young, and the weather was beautiful, and the air was fresh, and I was walking fast, and it was so sweet to lie down and rest alone on the thick grass … all that carried the day. Those unforgettable words, those kisses, found their way into my soul again. I enjoyed the thought that Zinaida would have to do justice to my determination, my heroism … ‘She may like the others better than me,’ I thought, ‘but so what! The others only talk about what they’re going to do, but I did it! And how much more I could do for her! …’ My imagination took off, and I began picturing to myself how I would save her from her enemies, how I would fight, all bathed in blood, to rescue her from prison, how I would die at her feet. I remembered the picture that hung in our salon: Malek-Adel riding off with Matilda—but now my attention was caught by the sudden appearance of a large spotted woodpecker, busily climbing the narrow trunk of a birch tree and peeping fearfully out from behind it, to right and left, like a musician looking out from behind the neck of a double bass.

  Then I sang ‘It’s not the white snows’, and followed that with another romantic song that was popular at the time, ‘I await you, when the wanton zephyr’. Then I started declaiming out loud, reciting Yermak’s soliloquy to the stars from Khomyakov’s tragedy, after which I tried to compose something in a sentimental vein, and even thought up the line that was to conclude my whole poem: ‘O Zinaida! Zinaida!’ But it didn’t work out.

  By now it was getting towards dinnertime. I went down into the valley, where a narrow sandy path wound its way towards the town. I followed the path … There was a dull thudding of horses’ hooves behind me. I looked round, automatically stopping and taking off my cap, and saw my father and Zinaida, riding side by side. My father was telling her something, leaning his whole body over towards her, resting his hand on his horse’s neck, and smiling. Zinaida was listening in silence, tight-lipped and with her eyes firmly lowered. At first I could only see the two of them; it was not till some moments later that Belovzorov emerged round a bend in the valley, wearing a hussar’s uniform and cape and riding a black horse with foam-flecked lips. This fine horse was tossing its head, snorting and rearing, while its rider at once reined it in and spurred it on. I stood aside. My father gathered up his reins, moved away from Zinaida, she slowly raised her eyes to him—and both galloped off … Belovzorov raced after them, clattering his sabre. ‘He’s as red as a lobster,’ I thought; ‘and she … why is she so pale? She’s been riding all morning, and still she’s pale?’


  I redoubled my pace, and got home just before dinnertime. My father was already there, changed, washed and freshened up, sitting by my mother’s armchair reading the Journal des Débats to her in his smooth, resonant voice. But she was paying him no attention, and when she saw me she asked what I had been up to all day, adding that she didn’t like people wandering off heaven knew where or who with. ‘But I was out for a walk on my own,’ I was about to point out—but I looked at my father, and for some reason said nothing.

  XV

  I saw almost nothing of Zinaida for the next five or six days. She had let it be known she was ill, though that didn’t stop her usual visitors from turning up, as they put it, to pay their respects. All, that is, except Maidanov, who always became sulky and dejected if there was no hope of going into raptures. Belovzorov was sitting gloomily in the corner, tightly buttoned and red in the face. Count Malevsky had a constant unfriendly smirk on his thin face; he really was out of favour with Zinaida, and was making great efforts to be obliging to the old princess, riding out in a hired carriage with her to visit the Governor General. Though that excursion had turned out a failure: there had been some unpleasantness for Malevsky, who had been reminded of a scene that had once occurred with some communications officers, and while explaining had been forced to admit that he still lacked experience. Lushin came in twice a day, but did not stay long. I was a little afraid of him after our last heart-to-heart talk, although I felt sincerely drawn to him. One day he went for a walk with me in Neskuchny Park, and was very friendly and nice to me, told me the names and properties of various herbs and flowers, and then suddenly, out of the blue you might say, he struck himself on the forehead and exclaimed, ‘Oh, what a fool I was, to think she was a flirt! Some people, obviously, find it sweet to sacrifice themselves.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing—to you,’ he snapped back at me.

  As for me, Zinaida avoided me. My behaviour, I couldn’t help noticing, had an unpleasant effect on her. Instinctively, she would turn away from me … Instinctively: that was what was so bitter for me, that was what crushed me. But there was no help for it. I tried not to let her see me, but just watched out for her from a distance, not always successfully. As before, something was happening to her that I could not understand: her face had become different, she herself had become different. I was particularly struck by the change I saw in her on one warm, still evening. I was sitting on a low bench under a spreading elder bush; I liked that place because I could see Zinaida’s window from there. As I sat there, a little bird fluttered busily around among the dark leaves; a grey cat, stretching its body to its full length, crept cautiously into the garden; the first beetles buzzed heavily around in the clear air, now beginning to grow dark. I sat and looked at the window—and waited to see if it would open. And so it did, and Zinaida appeared there. She was wearing a white dress, and she herself, her face, her shoulders and arms, were so pale they were almost white as well. She stood there motionless for a long time; for a long time she stared motionlessly straight ahead, from under puckered brows. I had never before seen such a look on her face. Then she squeezed her hands tightly together, very tight, lifted them to her lips, to her brow—and then suddenly wrenched her fingers apart, pushed her hair back behind her ears, tossed it free, gave a decisive nod of her head, and slammed the window shut.

  Three days later she met me in the garden. I was going to step aside, but she stopped me.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ she said, as affectionately as ever. ‘We haven’t had a chat for ages.’

  I glanced at her, with her gentle shining eyes and a smile on her face that I seemed to be seeing through a mist.

  ‘Are you still feeling ill?’ I asked.

  ‘No, that’s all over now,’ she answered, breaking off a small red rose. ‘I’m a little tired, but that’ll pass too.’

  ‘And you’ll be the same as you were before?’ I asked.

  Zinaida brought the rose up to her face—and I seemed to see the reflection of its vivid petals on her cheeks.

  ‘Why, have I changed?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, you have,’ I answered in a low voice.

  ‘I’ve been cold to you, I know,’ Zinaida began, ‘but you shouldn’t have taken any notice … I couldn’t help it … Anyway, what’s the point of talking about it?’

  ‘You don’t want me to love you, that’s what!’ I burst out wretchedly.

  ‘No, you can love me—but not the way you did before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s be friends—that’s what I mean!’ Zinaida let me sniff her rose. ‘Look, I’m much older than you. I could have been your aunt; well, not your aunt, but your older sister. You—’

  ‘You just think of me as a child,’ I interrupted her.

  ‘All right, then, a child—but a nice, dear, clever one whom I love a lot. Do you know what? I’m appointing you as my page, starting from today. And don’t forget: pages have to stick close to their ladies. Here’s a symbol of your new dignity,’ she added, threading the rose into the buttonhole of my jacket, ‘and a token of my favour.’

  ‘There was a time when I had other favours from you,’ I muttered.

  ‘Ah!’ said Zinaida, giving me a sidelong look. ‘What a memory he has! And so? Well, I’m quite willing, right now …’

  And she bent over and planted a pure, calm kiss on my brow.

  I just stared at her. She turned away, saying ‘Follow me, my page,’ and walked off to the lodge.

  I followed her, lost in wonder. Could it be, I asked myself, that this meek, rational girl is that same Zinaida I used to know? Her very walk seemed calmer to me, and her whole figure more stately and graceful …

  And, my God! how my love burned up again inside me, brighter than ever!

  XVI

  After dinner the guests gathered in the lodge again, and the young princess came to join them. Everyone was there, just as they had been on that first unforgettable evening. Even Nirmatsky had dragged himself there. This time Maidanov arrived before all the others, bringing a new poem. And we started playing forfeits again, but without the old pranks, the fooling around or the noise. The gypsy quality had gone. Zinaida gave our gathering its new mood. I had the page’s privilege of sitting next to her. She had proposed that the person who lost the draw should have to tell his dream; but that was a failure. The dreams either turned out boring (Belovzorov had dreamt he was feeding his horse on carp, and that the horse had a wooden head), or else they were far-fetched inventions. Maidanov served us up a whole romance, with burial vaults, and angels with lyres, and talking flowers, and music borne on the air from afar. Zinaida didn’t let him finish.

  ‘If we’ve moved on to inventions,’ she said, ‘then let’s have everybody tell us some made-up story.’

  Belovzorov again found himself first in line.

  The young hussar was embarrassed. ‘I can’t think of anything!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Nonsense!’ replied Zinaida. ‘Just imagine, say, that you’re married, and tell us how you’d pass the time with your wife. Would you lock her up?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘And you’d stay by her side?’

  ‘Yes, I’d definitely stay with her.’

  ‘Fine. Well, and then suppose she got bored with that, and was unfaithful to you?’

  ‘Then I’d kill her.’

  ‘But supposing she ran away?’

  ‘I’d chase her and catch her up and kill her anyway.’

  ‘All right. Well, and supposing I was your wife, what would you do then?’

  Belovzorov was silent for a while, then:

  ‘I would kill myself.’

  Zinaida laughed.

  ‘I can see your story isn’t a long one.’

  The next forfeit fell to Zinaida. She looked up at the ceiling and pondered.

  ‘All right, listen,’ she began at last. ‘This is what I’ve thought up … Imagine a splendid palace,
a summer night, and an amazing ball. This ball is being given by a young queen. Everywhere there’s gold, marble, crystal, silk, lights, diamonds, flowers, incense, every caprice of luxury.’

  ‘You like luxury?’ Lushin interrupted.

  ‘Luxury is pretty,’ she returned, ‘and I like pretty things.’

  ‘More than beauty?’

  ‘Now you’re being difficult. I don’t understand you. Stop interrupting. So, it’s a splendid ball. Lots of guests, they’re all young, handsome, brave, and they’re all hopelessly in love with the queen.’

  ‘No women among all these guests?’ asked Malevsky.

  ‘No. Wait a moment—yes, there are.’

  ‘All ugly?’

  ‘Ravishing. But all the men are in love with the queen. She’s tall and graceful. She wears a little gold diadem in her black hair.’

  I looked at Zinaida—and in that moment she seemed to stand so far above us all, her pale forehead and steady brows radiated such luminous intelligence and power, that I thought to myself ‘You are that queen yourself!’

  ‘They all crowd round her,’ Zinaida went on, ‘and lavish the most flattering speeches upon her.’

  ‘And does she enjoy flattery?’ asked Lushin.

  ‘What an intolerable man! He keeps interrupting … Doesn’t everyone enjoy flattery?’

  ‘One last question,’ said Malevsky. ‘Does this queen have a husband?’

  ‘I never even thought of that. No, why should she have a husband?’

  ‘Of course,’ echoed Malevsky. ‘Why should she have a husband?’

  ‘Silence!’ cried Maidanov in French, which he spoke badly.

  ‘Merci,’ said Zinaida. ‘So, the queen listens to those speeches, and the music, but she doesn’t look at any of the guests. There are six windows, all open from top to bottom, from floor to ceiling, and outside there’s the dark sky with big stars, and a dark garden with big trees. The queen looks out into the garden. There, among the trees, is a fountain, a white shadow in the darkness—it rises tall, tall as a spectre. And over the people’s voices and the music, the queen hears the water plashing quietly. She looks out and thinks to herself: gentlemen, you are all noble, and clever, and rich, you have all gathered round me and you treasure every word I say, you are all ready to die at my feet, you are in my power … But out there, by the fountain, by that plashing water, stands the one who is waiting for me, the one I love, who has me in his power. He is not arrayed in rich clothing, nor with precious stones, no one knows him, but he is waiting for me there and knows that I am coming—and I shall come, and there is no power that could prevent me, when I desire to come to him, and stay with him, and lose myself with him out there, in the darkness of the garden, with the rustling trees and the plashing fountain …’