Love and Youth Page 6

  Zinaida fell silent.

  ‘Is that all made up?’ asked Malevsky slyly.

  Zinaida did not even deign to look at him.

  ‘And what would we do, gentlemen,’ Lushin suddenly spoke up, ‘if we were among those guests, and knew about the lucky fellow by the fountain?’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Zinaida interrupted him. ‘I’ll tell you what each one of you would do. You, Belovzorov, you’d challenge him to a duel. Maidanov, you’d write an epigram against him … Actually, no, you can’t write epigrams; you’d compose some interminable iambic verses in the style of Barbier, and get them printed in the Telegraph. Nirmatsky, you’d borrow money off him—no, you’d lend him money and charge him interest. You, Doctor …’ She stopped. ‘You—I don’t know what you’d do.’

  ‘As her court physician,’ replied Lushin, ‘I’d advise the queen not to give balls when she couldn’t be bothered with her guests.’

  ‘And perhaps you’d be right. As for you, Count …’

  ‘As for me? …’ Malevsky repeated with his malicious smile.

  ‘You’d offer him a poisoned sweetmeat.’

  Malevsky’s face twisted for a moment into a Jewish grimace, but then he burst out laughing.

  ‘And coming to you, Monsieur Voldemar …’ Zinaida went on; ‘Anyway, that’s enough of that. Let’s play at something else.’

  ‘Monsieur Voldemar, in his role as page to the queen, would have held her train as she ran out into the garden,’ remarked Malevsky venomously.

  I flushed with anger, but Zinaida quickly laid her hand on my shoulder, rose to her feet and said in a rather shaky voice:

  ‘I have never given Your Excellency permission to be impertinent, and therefore I request you to leave us.’

  And she pointed to the door.

  ‘Heavens, Princess!’ stammered Malevsky, turning pale.

  ‘The princess is right,’ cried Belovzorov, rising in his turn.

  ‘I say … I never meant …’ Malevsky went on, ‘I don’t think I said anything that … I never had the faintest intention of offending you … I’m very sorry.’

  Zinaida glanced frigidly at him and gave him a chilly smile.

  ‘Very well, then, you can stay,’ she said with a contemptuous shrug. ‘Monsieur Voldemar and I were wrong to take offence. If you enjoy being spiteful, good luck to you.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Malevsky repeated once more—while I, remembering Zinaida’s gesture, again thought that even a real queen could never have displayed greater dignity than Zinaida when showing an impertinent man the door.

  The game of forfeits did not last long after this little scene. Everyone felt rather awkward, not so much from the scene itself, but from a different, not quite definite but yet oppressive sensation. No one spoke about it, but each man could feel it in himself and in his neighbour. Maidanov read us his poem—and Malevsky praised it with exaggerated warmth. ‘He’s trying to look kind now,’ Lushin whispered to me. Soon after that we broke up. Zinaida had suddenly become thoughtful, and the old princess sent word that she had a headache. Nirmatsky began complaining of his rheumatism …

  I lay awake a long time, troubled by Zinaida’s story.

  ‘Could she really have been hinting at something there?’ I wondered. ‘But who or what was she hinting at? And if there really is something behind it—how can I know what to do? No, no, there can’t be anything,’ I whispered, turning over from one burning cheek to the other … But then I remembered Zinaida’s expression as she told her story … and remembered Lushin’s sudden exclamation in Neskuchny Gardens, and the sudden changes in the way Zinaida treated me, and lost myself in speculation. ‘Who is he?’ I could see nothing before my eyes but those three words outlined in the darkness, as though there was an ominous cloud hanging low in the sky above me, and I could feel the heavy pressure of it, and was waiting for the imminent cloudburst.

  I had recently come to notice a great many things at the Zasekins’, and grown used to them all—the messy household, the greasy candle ends, the broken knives and forks, surly old Boniface, the down-at-heel maids, the old princess’s own manners—all this strange way of life no longer bothered me … But what I could now dimly perceive in Zinaida herself—that was something I couldn’t get used to. ‘That adventuress’ my mother had once called her. An adventuress—she, my idol, my goddess! That epithet burned in my brain, I buried my head in my pillow to escape it, I seethed with indignation—and yet what would I not have consented to, what would I not have given, just to be that lucky man by the fountain!

  My blood boiled within me. ‘The garden … the fountain …’ I thought to myself. ‘I’m going out into the garden.’ Quickly I dressed and slipped out of the house. The night was dark, the trees were barely whispering, a cool breeze drifted down from the sky, the fragrance of fennel leaves wafted over from the kitchen garden. I explored all the paths; the light sound of my footsteps both embarrassed me and gave me courage. I stood still, waited, and listened to my heart pounding, quick and hard. At last I approached the fence and leaned against the narrow bar. Suddenly—or had I imagined it?—a female form slipped past me. I stared intently into the darkness and held my breath. What was going on? Was I hearing footsteps—or was that my heartbeat again? ‘Who’s there?’ I whispered almost inaudibly. What was that again? Stifled laughter? … or a rustle in the leaves … or a sigh, right by my ear? I was scared … ‘Who’s there?’ I whispered again, even more quietly.

  The air moved for an instant; a fiery streak flashed across the sky—a falling star. ‘Zinaida?’ I tried to say, but the sound died on my lips. And all around me fell deeply silent, as often happens in the middle of the night … Even the grasshoppers in the trees stopped chirruping. All I heard was the chink of a windowpane. I stood and waited, and then went back to my room and my cold bed. I felt strangely excited, as if I had gone to a lovers’ tryst, and been left on my own, but had passed close by another’s happiness.

  XVII

  Next day I only glimpsed Zinaida in passing; she was driving somewhere in a cab with the old princess. I did see Lushin, though he barely spared me a greeting; and Malevsky. The young count bared his teeth in a grin, and spoke to me good-naturedly. Of all the men who visited the lodge, he was the only one who managed to get invited to our house and to find favour with my mother. My father had no time for him, and treated him with almost insulting courtesy.

  ‘Ah, monsieur le page!’ Malevsky began. ‘Very pleased to meet you. How is your delightful queen?’

  I found his fresh, handsome face so repellent at that moment—and he was looking at me with such a scornfully playful expression—that I gave him no answer.

  ‘Still cross?’ he went on. ‘You’ve no reason to be. I wasn’t the one who called you a page—and it’s usual for pages to wait on queens. But let me point out that you’re bad at performing your duties.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Pages have to be inseparable from their ladies. They need to know everything the ladies are doing—in fact they ought to watch over them’—he dropped his voice—‘day and night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean? I thought I was being quite clear. By day—and by night. By day it doesn’t matter much, when it’s light and there are people about; but at night—that’s when you can expect trouble. I’d advise you not to go to sleep at night, but keep watch—watch as hard as you can. Remember—in the garden, at night, by the fountain: that’s where you have to watch. You’ll be thanking me.’

  Malevsky laughed, and turned his back on me. He probably had not attached any great weight to what he had just said; he had the reputation of a fine creator of mysteries, and was famous for his skill at hoodwinking people at a masked ball—greatly helped by the fact that he was an instinctive natural liar, through and through. He was only trying to tease me; but every word he spoke had flowed like venom through my veins. The blood rushed to my head. ‘Aha! So that’s how it is!’ I said to myself. ‘Very well!
So yesterday my suspicions were right! And I had every reason to be drawn to the garden. But it shall not be!’ I cried out loud, striking my fist against my heart—though I had no idea what it was that should not be. ‘Whether it’s Malevsky himself who turns up in the garden,’ I thought (for perhaps he had given himself away—he was certainly impudent enough), ‘or whether it’s someone else,’ (for the fence round our garden was very low, and anyone could have easily climbed it), ‘woe betide whoever it is when I catch him! I wouldn’t advise anyone to cross my path! I’ll prove to the whole world, and her, the traitress,’ (I actually called her a traitress), ‘that I know how to have my revenge!’

  I went back to my room, opened my desk drawer and took out an English knife that I had bought not long ago. I tried the blade, and scowling with cold, concentrated determination, I slipped it into my pocket—as if such deeds were nothing new or strange to me. My heart was pumping with fury—it felt as if it was turned to stone.

  Right up till night-time I kept a scowl on my face, and my lips tight shut; I paced back and forth, clenching my hand round the knife that had grown warm in my pocket, and preparing myself for some dreadful deed. These new, unknown sensations were so fascinating, so delightful even, that I actually did not think much about Zinaida herself. I kept imagining Aleko, the young gypsy—‘Whither away, you fine young man?—Lie there …’, and then ‘You are all bathed in blood! What have you done?’—‘Nothing!’ How cruelly I smiled as I repeated that ‘Nothing!’ My father was out, but my mother, who had for some time been in a state of almost continuous silent exasperation, noticed my ferocious appearance and asked me at supper, ‘What are you glaring at, like a mouse in a meal sack?’ I merely replied with a condescending smile, thinking, ‘If only she knew!’ The clock struck eleven. I went upstairs to my room, but did not undress. I waited till midnight, and finally that struck too. ‘Now!’ I whispered through gritted teeth, buttoned my coat to the neck, rolled up my sleeves and set off for the garden.

  I had already chosen a hiding place to watch from. At the far end of the garden, where the fence between our land and the Zasekins’ abutted against a common wall, there grew a lone fir tree. If I stood under the thick lower branches I should be able to see whatever was going on around me, as far as the darkness allowed. And there was a little winding path beside it, which had always struck me as mysterious; it twisted this way and that like a snake, running along the fence which at this point showed traces of having recently been climbed. The path led to a bower of closely grouped acacia trees. I reached the fir tree, leaned against the trunk and began my watch.

  The night was as quiet as the one before, but there were fewer dark clouds in the sky, so it was easier to make out the shapes of the bushes and even the taller flowers. For the first minutes of my watch I felt anxious, indeed almost scared. I was prepared to do anything, but wondered what exactly to do. Should I shout out in a thunderous voice: ‘Who goes there? Halt! Name yourself, or you’re a dead man!’—or should I simply strike the blow? … Every sound, every rustle and whisper, seemed loaded with mystery and significance … I prepared myself … I leaned forward … But half an hour passed, and then an hour, and my hot blood calmed and cooled, and I began to be painfully aware that this was all a waste of time, that I was being a bit ridiculous, and that Malevsky had made a fool of me. I left my hiding place and walked all over the garden. As if to mock me, there was not the faintest sound anywhere. Everything was asleep; even our own dog was lying by the gate, curled up in a ball. I climbed up onto the ruins of the greenhouse, looked out over the wide field below, remembered my meeting with Zinaida, and became lost in thought …

  I gave a start. I seemed to hear the creak of a door opening, then the quiet crack of a snapped twig. In two hops I was back down on the ground—and froze where I stood. There was the clear sound of footsteps, rapid, light but cautious, somewhere in the garden. They were approaching me. ‘Here he is … Here he is at last!’ said my heart. With convulsive haste I pulled my knife from my pocket, and quickly opened it. Glints of red flashed before my eyes, my hair stood on end with terror and fury … The footsteps were coming straight towards me, and I bent down and craned forward towards them … A man appeared … My God! It was my father!

  I knew him at once, though he was muffled from top to toe in a dark cape and had his hat pulled down over his face. He tiptoed past without seeing me, though there was nothing to hide me: I had huddled myself up and crouched down so low that I seemed to be almost flat on the ground. Jealous Othello, ready to commit murder, had suddenly turned back into a schoolboy … I was so terrified by the sudden appearance of my father that at first I did not even notice where he had come from, or where he had disappeared to. By the time I had straightened up and asked myself ‘Why is my father walking about the garden at night?’ everything had fallen silent again all around. In my terror I had dropped my knife on the grass, but I didn’t even think of looking for it: I was too ashamed. I had sobered up in an instant. On my way home, however, I did go back to my bench under the elder tree and looked up at Zinaida’s bedroom window. The small, slightly convex panes showed faintly blue in the dim reflected light of the night sky. And suddenly their light began to change … Behind them—I could see, I could see quite clearly—a white blind was being cautiously, quietly lowered, all the way down to the windowsill. And there it stayed, motionless.

  ‘What can it all mean?’ I asked aloud. The words came almost unbidden, once I was back in my room. ‘A dream? A coincidence? Or …’ The possibilities that suddenly flooded into my mind were so new and strange that I dared not even entertain them.

  XVIII

  When I rose next morning I had a headache. All my excitement of the day before had evaporated, to give way to a heavy sense of puzzlement and a sadness I had never felt before—as if something within me was dying.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, looking like a rabbit with half its brain taken out?’ asked Lushin when we met.

  At breakfast I kept casting furtive glances, now at my father, now at my mother. He was calm as ever; and she, as ever, was full of suppressed irritation. I waited to see if my father would strike up a friendly conversation with me, as he sometimes did … But he did not even give me his usual cool daily greeting. ‘Shall I tell Zinaida everything?’ I thought. ‘After all, nothing matters any more—it’s all over between us.’ I went over to see her, but not only did I not tell her anything—I did not even manage to have a conversation with her, as I wanted to. The old princess’s son, a twelve-year-old cadet, had arrived from Petersburg for his holidays, and Zinaida immediately put me in charge of her brother.

  ‘Here, Volodia, my dear’ (she had never called me that before), ‘here’s a friend for you. He’s called Volodia too. Please be nice to him: he’s still a bit shy, but he has a kind heart. Take him to see the Neskuchny Gardens, go for walks with him, take him under your wing. You will, won’t you? You’re so very kind too!’

  She laid both her hands affectionately on my shoulders—and I was completely at a loss. The arrival of this boy had turned me into a boy myself. I looked dumbly at the cadet, who stared wordlessly back at me. Zinaida burst out laughing and pushed us towards each other.

  ‘Go on, give each other a hug, children!’

  So we hugged each other.

  ‘Would you like me to show you the garden?’ I asked the cadet.

  ‘If you like, sir,’ he replied in a typical hoarse cadet’s voice.

  Zinaida burst out laughing again … I had time to notice that she had never before had such a beautiful colour to her face. The cadet and I set off. In our garden we had a little old swing; I got him to sit on the narrow seat and began to push him. He sat there motionless, in his new little uniform of thick cloth with broad stripes of gold braid, holding tightly on to the ropes.

  ‘Why don’t you unbutton your collar?’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s all right, sir, I’m used to it,’ he replied, clearing his throat.

 
He looked a bit like his sister—his eyes in particular reminded me of hers. I enjoyed being kind to him, but that aching sadness was still gnawing at my heart. ‘Now I really am a child,’ I thought—‘but yesterday …’ I remembered where I had dropped my knife last night, and found it again. The cadet asked to borrow it, picked a thick stalk of lovage, cut it into a whistle and began whistling into it. Othello had whistled too.

  But that evening, how he wept, that same Othello, in Zinaida’s arms, when she sought him out in a corner of the garden and asked him why he was so miserable. My tears burst out of me so violently that she was alarmed.

  ‘What is it? What is it, Volodia?’ she repeated, and when I said nothing and went on weeping, she made to kiss me on my damp cheek.

  But I turned away, whispering through my sobs:

  ‘I know everything … why have you been making a fool of me?’

  ‘I’ve wronged you, Volodia …’ said Zinaida. ‘Oh, I’ve wronged you …’ she repeated, pressing her hands together. ‘What a lot of evil there is in me, and darkness, and sin … But I’m not fooling you now, I do love you—you can’t even imagine how much, or why … But what is it you know?’