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  “They all throng about her,” Zinaïda 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, “has 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?”

  “Silence!” cried Meidanov in French, which he spoke very badly.

  “Merci!” Zinaïda said to him. “And so the queen hears their speeches, and hears the music, but does not look at one of the guests. Six 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 to 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.…” Zinaïda ceased.

  “Is that a made-up story?” Malevsky inquired slyly. Zinaïda did not even look at him.

  “And what should we have done, gentlemen?” Lushin 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 Zinaïda, “I will tell you myself what each of you would have done. You, Byelovzorov, would have challenged him to a duel; you, Meidanov, 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 Lushin, “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 sweetmeat.”

  Malevsky’s face changed slightly, and assumed for an instant a Jewish expression, but he laughed directly.

  “And as for you, Voldemar …” Zinaïda went on, “but that’s enough, though; let us play another game.”

  “M’sieu 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 Zinaïda 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 Byelovzorov, and he too rose.

  “Good God, I’d 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.”

  Zinaïda looked him up and down coldly, and coldly smiled. “Stay, then, certainly,” she pronounced with a careless gesture of her arm. “M’sieu 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 Zinaïda’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; every one felt rather ill at ease, not so much on account of this scene, as from another, not quite definite, but oppressive feeling. No one spoke of it, but every one was conscious of it in himself and in his neighbour. Meidanov read us his verses; and Malevsky praised them with exaggerated warmth. “He wants to show how good he is now,” Lushin whispered to me. We soon broke up. A mood of reverie seemed to have come upon Zinaïda; the old princess sent word that she had a headache; Nirmatsky began to complain of his rheumatism.…

  I could not for a long while get to sleep. I had been impressed by Zinaïda’s story. “Can there have 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 on to the other.… But I remembered the expression of Zinaïda’s face during her story.… I remembered the exclamation that had broken from Lushin in the Neskutchny 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 Zasyekins; their disorderly ways, tallow candle-ends, broken knives and forks, grumpy Vonifaty, and shabby maidservants, the manners of the old princess—all their strange mode of life no longer struck me.… But what I was dimly discerning now in Zinaïda, I could never get used to.… “An adventuress!” my mother had said of her one day. An adventuress—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 mused, “… 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. “Zinaïda?” 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.… Even the grasshoppers ceased their chirr 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 tryst, and had been left lonely, and had passed close by another’s happiness.

  XVII

  The following day I only had a passing glimpse of Zinaïda: 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
le page,” 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 contemptuous 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, and people are about in the daytime; but by night, then look out for misfortune. I advise you not to sleep at nights 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.”

  Malevsky laughed and turned his back on me. He, most likely, attached no great importance to what he had said to me, 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 falsity 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 Malevsky himself goes into the garden,” I thought (he was bragging, perhaps; he has insolence enough for that), “or some one else (the fence of our garden was very low, and there was no difficulty in getting over it), anyway, if anyone falls into my hands, it will be the worse for him! I don’t advise anyone to meet me! I will prove to all the world and to her, the traitress (I actually used the word ‘traitress’) 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 Zinaïda herself. I was continually haunted by Aleko, the young gipsy—“Where art thou going, young handsome man? Lie there,” and then, “thou art all besprent with blood.… Oh, what hast thou done?… Naught!” With what a cruel smile I repeated that “Naught!” My father was not at home, but my mother, who had for some time past 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 Zasyekins’, joined the common wall, grew a pinetree, 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 arbour formed of thick acacias. I made my way to the pinetree, 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 that 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 Zinaïda, and fell to 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 tip-toe 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 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 Zinaïda’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.

  XVIII

  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 Lushin 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 everyday cold greeting upon me. “Shall I tell Zinaïda all?” I wondered … It’s all the same, anyway; all is at 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; Zinaïda 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—“is a companion for you. His name is Volodya, too. Please, like him; he is still shy, but he has a good heart. Show him Neskutchny gardens, go on 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. Zinaïda 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. Zinaïda 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.

  But in the evening how he wept, this Othello, in Zinaïda’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, Volodya?” 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?”