Love and Youth Page 7

  What could I say? She stood before me, looking at me—and I was hers through and through, from head to foot, the instant she looked at me … A quarter of an hour later the cadet and I and Zinaida were all chasing each other round the garden. I wasn’t weeping but laughing, although my swollen eyelids were dropping tears of laughter; instead of my tie, I had Zinaida’s hair ribbon round my neck, and I shouted for joy when I managed to catch her round her waist. She could do anything she liked with me.

  XIX

  I should be hard put to explain what exactly was happening to me in the week after my failed expedition that night. It was a strange, feverish time, a sort of chaos in which the most contradictory emotions, thoughts, suspicions, hopes, joys and sufferings spun around me like a whirlwind. I dreaded looking into myself, if a boy of sixteen is even capable of that; I dreaded facing anything at all, I just rushed to live through each day till evening came. But at night, I slept … a childish nonchalance helped me. I didn’t want to know whether I was loved, nor want to admit to myself that I was not; I avoided my father, but Zinaida I couldn’t avoid … In her presence, I burned as if on fire … Why should I care what sort of a fire it was that burned and melted me?—it was so sweet to melt and to burn. I surrendered to all my passing sensations, and tricked myself by turning away from my memories, and closing my eyes to what I felt was coming. That state of torment could probably not have lasted long … but a thunderbolt fell that put paid to it all in an instant, and hurled me onto a new track.

  One day I came home to dinner after a long walk, and heard to my surprise that I would be eating on my own: my father had gone away, and my mother was unwell, did not want anything to eat, and had locked herself in her room. I guessed from the servants’ expressions that something extraordinary had happened … I dared not question them, but I had a friend, the young waiter Philip, who passionately loved poetry and played the guitar, and I asked him. He told me that my father and mother had had a dreadful scene, and every word could be overheard in the maids’ room. Much of it had been in French, but Masha the chambermaid had lived five years with some dressmakers from Paris and understood it all. My mother had accused my father of being unfaithful, on account of his friendship with the young lady next door; my father had begun by denying it, but lost his temper, and then he too said something cruel, ‘apparently something about their ages’, at which my mother started crying. My mother also mentioned some bill of exchange that he had apparently given to the old princess, and said harsh words about her and about the young lady too. Then my father threatened her.

  ‘And the whole thing happened,’ Philip went on, ‘because of an anonymous letter, but who wrote it nobody knows, and but for that the whole thing needn’t have come out at all, there was no reason why it should.’

  ‘But did anything really happen?’ I forced myself to ask, while my hands and feet grew cold and a kind of shudder ran through the depths of my heart.

  Philip gave me a meaning wink.

  ‘Yes, it did. You can’t hide that sort of thing—though your father was careful this time. You can’t manage without hiring a carriage, say, or something like that—and you can’t do without the servants either.’

  I sent Philip away, and collapsed onto my bed. I did not start sobbing, or give way to despair; I never asked myself when or how this had all happened; I did not wonder why I hadn’t guessed at this before, a long time ago—I didn’t even blame my father … What I had found out now was too much; this sudden revelation had crushed me. It was all over now. All my lovely flowers had been torn out in an instant, and now lay about me, scattered on the ground and trampled underfoot.

  XX

  Next day my mother announced that she was moving to town. My father came to her bedroom in the morning and stayed alone with her for a long time. Nobody heard what he said to her, but afterwards my mother wasn’t crying any more, she had calmed down, and sent for something to eat. But she didn’t make an appearance, nor change her decision. I remember that I spent the whole day out of doors, but I never went into the garden and never once looked over to the lodge. That evening I witnessed an astonishing encounter: my father escorted Count Malevsky through the drawing room to the front hall, holding him by the arm, and in the presence of a footman, said to him icily: ‘A few days ago, in a certain house, Your Excellency was shown the door. I do not propose at present to enter into any explanations with you, but I have the honour to inform you that if you ever show yourself here again, I shall throw you out of the window. I don’t like your handwriting.’ The count bowed, gritted his teeth, squirmed, and vanished.

  We started making preparations for our move to town, to the Arbat, where we had a house. My father himself probably did not feel like staying in the country any longer. He had managed to talk my mother out of creating a scandal. Everything was done calmly and unhurriedly; my mother even sent word to the old princess to express her regret that her poor health made it impossible to call on her before her departure. I wandered round in a daze, just longing for all this to finish. There was one thought that never left me: how could she, a young girl—and a princess, after all—make up her mind to do something like that, knowing that my father wasn’t a free man, when she could easily have married … say, Belovzorov? What was she hoping for? Didn’t she mind ruining her whole future? Yes, I thought, that’s love for you; that’s passion; that’s devotion … And I remembered Lushin’s words: ‘Some people find it sweet to sacrifice themselves.’

  One day I chanced to see a white shape in one of the lodge windows. ‘Could that be Zinaida’s face?’ I wondered. And indeed it was. I couldn’t resist: I couldn’t part from her without a last goodbye. I waited for my chance, and went over to the lodge.

  In the drawing room I was received by the old princess, careless and slovenly as ever.

  ‘What’s up, young man, why are your people leaving in such a hurry?’ she asked, poking snuff up both nostrils.

  I looked at her, and felt a load lifted from my heart. Philip’s words about a ‘bill of exchange’ had been tormenting me. But she suspected nothing—at least it seemed so at the time. Zinaida appeared from the next room, in a black dress, pale and with her hair down. Without a word she took me by the arm and led me out.

  ‘I heard your voice,’ she said, ‘so I came out at once. And were you going to give us up so lightly, you bad boy?’

  ‘I’ve come to take my leave of you, Princess,’ I replied. ‘Probably for ever. You may have heard that we’re going away.’

  Zinaida looked intently at me.

  ‘Yes, I heard. Thank you for coming. I had been thinking I wouldn’t see you again. Don’t think badly of me. I haven’t always treated you well, but all the same—I’m not the person you think.’

  She turned away and leaned against the window.

  ‘Truly, I’m not what you think. I know you have a poor opinion of me.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes, you … You do.’

  ‘I do?’ I repeated sorrowfully, and my heart trembled once more under the spell of her inexpressible, irresistible enchantment. ‘I? Believe me, Zinaida Alexandrovna: no matter what you did, no matter how you tormented me, I should love you and adore you to the end of my days.’

  She turned quickly round to me, opened her arms wide, took my head in her hands and gave me a warm, passionate kiss. God knows whom that long farewell kiss was meant for, but I greedily savoured its sweetness. I knew it would never be repeated.

  ‘Goodbye … goodbye,’ I said again and again.

  She tore herself away and left the room. I left too. I can’t begin to express how I felt as I went. I should not like ever to experience those feelings again; but I would count myself unfortunate if I had never experienced them.

  We moved to town. It took some time for me to shake off the past, some time for me to start working again. My wound was gradually healing; and as for my father, I bore him no ill will. On the contrary—he seemed to have grown even taller in my eyes …
Let the psychologists explain the contradiction if they can.

  One day I was walking along the boulevard, and to my inexpressible delight I saw Lushin. I loved him for his directness and his lack of hypocrisy; and besides, he was dear to me for the memories he awoke in me. I rushed over to meet him.

  ‘Aha!’ he said, knitting his brows. ‘So it’s you, young man! Let’s have a look at you. You’re still looking a bit yellow, but you’ve lost that nonsense you used to have in your eyes. You look like a man, not a lapdog. That’s good. Well, what are you up to? Working?’

  I sighed. I didn’t want to tell a lie, but I was ashamed to tell the truth.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Lushin. ‘Don’t worry. The main thing is to live a normal life, not let yourself be carried away. What’s the good of that? Wherever the wave carries you, it’s bad; a man has to stand on his own two feet, even if it’s on a rock. Here I am, coughing … What about Belovzorov, have you heard?’

  ‘No, what about him?’

  ‘Vanished without a trace. They say he’s gone off to the Caucasus. Let that be a lesson to you, young man. And it’s all because people can’t break it off in time, can’t get out of the net. Now you seem to have got away unscathed. So watch yourself—don’t get caught a second time. Goodbye.’

  ‘I won’t get caught …’ I thought to myself, ‘I’ll never see her again.’ But I was destined to see Zinaida once more.

  XXI

  My father used to go out riding every day. He had a splendid English chestnut roan horse with a long, narrow neck and long legs. The horse was tireless and bad-tempered, and was called Electric. He would never let anyone ride him but my father. One day my father came to me in a good mood, something I had not seen in him for ages. He was about to ride out, and already had his spurs on. I asked if he would take me with him.

  ‘May as well play leapfrog instead,’ he said. ‘You’ll never keep up with me on your nag.’

  ‘Yes I will. I’ll put on some spurs too.’

  ‘Very well, then.’

  And we set off. I had a shaggy little black horse, tough and quite mettlesome; it was true that he had to gallop flat out when Electric was going at a fast trot, but even so I kept up. I had never seen anyone ride like my father: he had such a fine, casual, easy seat, it seemed as if the very horse that carried him could feel it and was proud to show him off. We rode along all the boulevards, into the Maidens’ Field, jumped a few fences (I was scared to jump at first, but my father despised timid people—so I stopped being afraid), crossed the Moskva River twice, and I was already starting to think that we were on our way home, particularly as he himself had pointed out that my horse was tired, when he suddenly turned at the Crimean Ford and galloped off along the bank. I raced after him. When he reached a great pile of old planks, he leapt briskly down from Electric, told me to dismount as well, handed me his reins and told me to wait for him by the timber. Then he turned down a little lane and disappeared. I walked the horses up and down the riverbank, swearing at Electric who kept tossing his head, shaking himself, snorting and neighing as he walked, and when I stopped he would either scrape his hoof on the ground or whinny and bite my horse on the neck; in short, he behaved like a thoroughly spoilt thoroughbred.

  Time passed and my father did not come back. A nasty damp mist was blowing in from the river; a fine drizzle began to fall, spattering a pattern of tiny dark spots over those stupid grey planks nearby that I was so tired of looking at. I was growing really bored, but my father had still not reappeared. A Finnish watchman turned up from somewhere, looking as grey as the planks, with a gigantic old-fashioned shako like a flowerpot on his head, and armed with a halberd (whatever was a watchman doing on the banks of the Moskva?). He came up to me, and turning his wrinkled old face towards me, asked:

  ‘What are you doing with those horses here, young master? Let me hold them for you.’

  I did not answer. He asked me for a pinch of snuff. Just to shake him off (and besides, I was in a torment of impatience), I walked away a few paces in the direction my father had taken. Then I went on all the way up the lane, turned the corner—and stopped. Forty paces from me along the street was my father, standing with his back to me by the open window of a little wooden house, and leaning in over the windowsill. In the house, half hidden by a curtain, sat a woman in a dark dress, talking to him. It was Zinaida.

  I was thunderstruck. I had honestly never expected this. My first impulse was to run away. ‘My father will look round,’ I thought, ‘and then I’m done for.’ But a stronger emotion, stronger than curiosity, stronger even than jealousy, held me there. I watched, and tried to listen. My father seemed to be insisting on something, and Zinaida was refusing. I can still see her face now—sorrowful, serious, lovely, with an inexpressible imprint of devotion, sadness, love, and something like despair—I can’t find a better word for it. She was talking in monosyllables, not raising her eyes, and just smiling a meek, stubborn smile. That smile alone was enough to bring back my former Zinaida. My father shrugged his shoulders and straightened his hat on his head, which was always a sign of impatience in him … Then I heard the words ‘Vous devez vous séparer de cette …’ Zinaida drew herself up and held out her hand … Suddenly something unbelievable happened before my very eyes: my father raised his riding whip, which he had been using to brush the dust from his coat-tails—and I heard the sharp crack of the whip on her bare forearm. I could barely keep from crying out. Zinaida started, looked wordlessly at my father, slowly lifted her arm to her lips and kissed the red weal that had formed there. My father flung aside his whip, ran hurriedly up the front steps, and burst into the house … Zinaida turned round, stretched out her arms, threw back her head, and left the window.

  My heart sinking with dread, full of amazement and horror, I turned and fled, ran the length of the lane, almost losing my hold on Electric, and returned to the riverbank. I had no idea what was going on. I knew that my cold, self-controlled father could give way to sudden outbursts of fury; and yet I could not make out what it was that I had just seen … And at the same time I felt that however long I lived, I should never forget that gesture, nor Zinaida’s look, nor her smile; I knew that this image of her, this new image that had suddenly taken shape before me, would remain imprinted on my memory for ever. I gazed vacantly at the river, unaware that the tears were pouring down my cheeks. ‘He’s beating her,’ I thought, ‘beating her … beating her …’

  ‘Come on, then! Give me my horse!’ I heard my father’s voice behind me.

  Mechanically I handed him the reins. He swung himself up into the saddle … The horse, chilled with standing about, reared up and sprang ten feet forward … but my father quickly controlled him, dug in his spurs and punched him on the neck … ‘Ah, I’ve got no whip,’ he muttered.

  I remembered the swish and slap of that same whip a short while back, and shuddered.

  ‘Where did you leave it?’ I asked him after a time.

  He did not answer, but galloped off. I felt I had to see his face.

  ‘Did you get bored while I was gone?’ he asked through clenched teeth.

  ‘A little. Where did you drop your whip, then?’

  He gave me a quick look. ‘I didn’t drop it. I threw it.’

  He looked down, lost in thought … And just then I saw, for the first and almost the last time, how much tenderness and pity his stern features could express.

  He galloped away again, and this time I was quite unable to catch him up; I arrived home a quarter of an hour after him.

  ‘That’s love,’ I said to myself once more that night, as I sat at my desk on which textbooks and papers were beginning to pile up. ‘That’s passion … How can one not be outraged, how can one put up with a blow like that, no matter whose hand inflicts it—and if it’s the hand you love! … But it seems you can, if you’re in love … And there was I … imagining …’

  I had grown up a lot during this last month; and my love, with all its joys and suffering, n
ow struck me as so trivial, and childish, and pitiful, when set against that other, unknown thing which I could barely guess at, which frightened me like an unfamiliar face, beautiful and terrible, which you try in vain to make out in the half-darkness …

  That same night I had a strange and dreadful dream. I seemed to be entering a dark, low room … My father was standing there, holding his whip and stamping on the floor; Zinaida was cowering in the corner, with a red weal not on her arm but on her brow … And behind the two of them stood the tall figure of Belovzorov, covered in blood, parting his pallid lips and threatening my father with an angry gesture.

  Two months later I entered the university, and six months after that my father died of a stroke. It happened in Petersburg, where he had moved with my mother and me. A few days before his death, he received a letter from Moscow which greatly agitated him … He went to ask my mother for something, and apparently he was actually in tears—my father! On the morning of his stroke, he began a letter to me in French. ‘My son,’ he wrote, ‘beware of the love of women, beware of that bliss, beware of that poison …’ After his death, my mother sent quite a considerable sum of money to Moscow.

  XXII

  Some four years passed. I had just left university and wasn’t quite sure what to do next, or whose door to knock at. In the meantime I hung around with nothing to do. One fine evening I was at the theatre when I met Maidanov. By now he was married and had entered the service—but I found him unchanged. He still fell into pointless ecstasies and then sudden gloom.

  ‘You know, by the way,’ he said, ‘Madame Dolskaya’s here.’

  ‘Who’s Madame Dolskaya?’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten, have you? That young Princess Zasekina whom we were all in love with, including you. You remember, out in the country, near Neskuchny Gardens.’