Love and Youth Page 8

  ‘She married a Dolsky?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s here in the theatre?’

  ‘No, but she’s in Petersburg. She’s just arrived. She’s about to go abroad.’

  ‘What sort of a man is her husband?’

  ‘A splendid fellow, with quite a fortune. A colleague of mine in Moscow. You understand—after that business … you must have heard all about it,’ (Maidanov gave me a knowing smile), ‘it wasn’t so easy for her to find a husband; there were consequences … but with her wits, anything was possible. Go round and visit her—she’ll be delighted to see you. She’s more beautiful than ever.’

  He gave me Zinaida’s address. She was staying at the Demut Hotel. All my old memories stirred; and I promised myself that I would pay a visit to my ‘old flame’ the very next day. But then various things came up, and a week passed, and another, and when I eventually found my way to the Demut Hotel and asked for Madame Dolskaya, I was told that she had died suddenly in childbirth four days earlier.

  I felt something like a blow to my heart. The thought that I might have seen her, and had not, and now I never would—that bitter thought gripped me with all the force of an unanswerable reproach. ‘Died!’ I repeated, staring dumbly at the concierge. Then I silently left the hotel and walked away, I don’t know where. Everything that had happened now rose up again before me. So this was what that young, passionate, radiant life had come to in the end—this was what she had been racing towards, full of haste and agitation! Such were my thoughts, as I imagined those dear features, those eyes, those curls—in a narrow box, underground in the damp darkness—in this very place, not far from me who was still alive, and perhaps only a few paces away from my father … Such were my thoughts, as I strained my imagination, and yet …

  Indifferent lips had told me of that death,

  Indifferent myself, I heard the tale …

  Those were the words that echoed in my heart. O youth! youth! You care about nothing, you believe that you possess all the treasures of the world; even sorrow gives you pleasure, even grief amuses you, you are bold and daring, and everything melts in you like wax in the sunshine, like snow in springtime … And perhaps the whole secret of your charm lies not in your ability to do whatever you want, but in your ability to believe that you can do it; it lies in the fact that you can cast into the wind forces that could never have served any other purpose; in the fact that each of us seriously regards himself as a prodigal, seriously believes he has the right to say: ‘Oh, what I could have achieved, if only I had not wasted my time!’

  And I myself … what was I hoping for, what was I expecting, what rich future did I foresee, when I had barely a sigh to spare, or a single pang of regret for the phantom of my first love, when it rose for a moment before me?

  What had I achieved, out of all I had hoped for? And now that the shades of evening begin to descend over my life, what is left to me that is any fresher or dearer than my memories of that storm which blew over so soon, one springtime morning?

  But I am wrong to speak so ill of myself. Even then, in the carelessness of youth, I did not remain deaf to the sorrowful voice that called out to me, the solemn sounds that came to me from beyond the grave. I remember that some days after I heard of Zinaida’s death, I myself, obeying some irresistible impulse, was present at the death of a certain poor old woman who lived in the same building as us. Covered in rags, lying on hard wooden planks, with a sack under her head, she died a cruel and painful death. She had spent her whole life in a bitter struggle with daily want; she had never known joy, never tasted the sweetness of honey—how, it seemed, could she not welcome her death, her freedom, her rest? And yet, so long as her aged body still struggled, so long as her breast still heaved in agony under the icy hand that pressed on her, so long as her last strength had not left her, that old woman still continued to cross herself and whisper ‘Lord, forgive me my sins’—and it was only with the last spark of her consciousness that the look of dread and terror at her death finally faded from her eyes. And I remember that it was here, by this poor old woman’s deathbed, that I became afraid for Zinaida, and wanted to pray for her, and for my father—and for myself.

  BEZHIN MEADOW

  It was a glorious July day, one of those days that you only ever get when the weather is set fine. The sky is luminous from earliest morning; the sunrise does not blaze like a burning fire, but pours itself out like a bashful blush in the sky. The sun is not fiery or incandescent as it is at the height of a heatwave, nor smoky-red as it is just before a storm, but bright with a cheerful radiance, rising gently below a long, narrow cloud, and shining brightly before hiding itself in the violet mist. Then the fine upper edge of the extended cloud begins to glint with little serpentine shapes, glittering like beaten silver … And now the dancing beams flash out again—and joyfully, majestically, the magnificent globe of the sun emerges, to rise up as if taking off into the air. Around midday a multitude of high, rounded clouds generally appear, golden-grey with soft white outlines. Like scattered islands in a boundless expanse of flood waters, which flow around them in transparent channels of deep and even blue, these clouds scarcely stir; further off towards the horizon they crowd together so that no blue shows between them, but they themselves have the same azure tinge as the sky itself. They are penetrated through and through with light and warmth. The colour of the horizon, a faint pale lilac, persists unchanged all day, and looks the same on every side; nowhere is there the darkening shadow of a gathering storm, but perhaps to one side or another you may see pale bluish streaks coming down from the sky—showers of almost invisible rain. Towards evening those clouds vanish; the last of them, grey-black and indistinct as smoke, settle as pink billows opposite the setting sun; and over the place where the sun has set, as peacefully as when it rose into the sky, a crimson glow still hangs briefly above the darkening earth. A gentle twinkle, like a cautiously lifted candle, appears in the sky as the evening star comes out. On days like this, all the colours are muted; they are clear, but not bright; everything is marked with a kind of touching modesty. On days like this, the heat can sometimes be intense, sometimes even raising steam from the fields; but the wind disperses and carries off the growing sultriness, while tall white columns of dust devils—a sure sign of fine settled weather—wander along the roads and across the fields. The clear, dry air smells of wormwood, cut rye and buckwheat; even an hour before nightfall, the air does not feel damp. This is the weather the farmer hopes for, when it is time to harvest his wheat.

  It was on just such a day that I once went out to shoot grouse in the Chern district of Tula province. I had put up and shot quite a lot of game, and my bulging game bag was cutting cruelly into my shoulder; but by now the evening glow was fading, and cold shadows were beginning to spread and thicken around me. It was still light, though the sun had set and its rays no longer shone through the evening air. Not until then did I at last make up my mind to turn back for home. Briskly I crossed a long patch of scrubland, climbed a hill, and there, instead of the familiar plain I had expected to see, with an oak wood on the right and a little white church in the distance, I found myself facing an entirely different landscape, one that I had never seen before. A narrow valley stretched out at my feet; directly opposite rose a dense aspen wood, like a steep wall in front of me. I stopped, puzzled, and looked around. ‘Well!’ I thought, ‘I must have gone badly wrong. I’m too far to the right.’ Surprised at my mistake, I hurried back down the hill. In a moment I was engulfed in a disagreeable stagnant mist, as though I had gone down into a cellar. The tall thick grass at the bottom of the valley, wet with dew, looked like a flat white tablecloth; walking through it made me feel uneasy. I quickly scrambled up the far side and made my way towards the left, along the aspen wood. The bats were already fluttering over the sleeping treetops, and their mysterious quivering swoops showed up against the dimming light of the sky. High above me, a little falcon sped straight through the air, belatedly hurrying
back to its nest. ‘Now, as soon as I get to that corner,’ I thought, ‘the road will be there. But I’ve gone a good verst out of my way!’

  Eventually I reached the end of the wood, but there was no sign of a road. Before me lay a broad stretch of low scrub and unmown grass, and far away in the distance beyond I could see a wide expanse of empty prairie. I stopped once more. ‘What’s all this? … Where can I be?’ I wondered. I tried to remember how and where I had walked during the day. ‘Ah! That must be the Parakhin scrubland!’ I finally exclaimed. ‘That’s it! And that, over there, that must be the Sindeyev thicket … How on earth did I get here? Such a long way … Strange! So now I have to bear right again.’

  I walked on to the right, across the scrubland. Night was drawing in, gathering close about me like a storm cloud. Darkness seemed to be rising from the ground on all sides with the evening mists, and even drifting down from overhead. I happened upon a little-used, narrow, overgrown path and followed it, peering intently ahead of me. Everything about me had grown dark and quiet—the only thing to be heard was the occasional call of a quail. A small night bird, speeding silently past me low in the air, almost flew into me, and darted aside in fright. I came to the end of the bushes and crossed a field by the hedge. By now I was finding it hard to distinguish individual features; the field was a vague white expanse around me; beyond it, and advancing steadily towards me, was a great mass of gloomy, billowing darkness. My footsteps sounded muffled in the cold air. The sky that had grown pale now began to turn blue again—but this was the deep blue of night. Little stars appeared and twinkled there.

  What I had taken for a thicket turned out to be a dark, rounded hillock. ‘So where on earth am I?’ I repeated aloud, as I stopped for a third time and looked questioningly at my black-and-tan English dog Dianka, beyond a doubt the most intelligent of all four-footed beasts. But this most intelligent of all four-footed beasts merely wagged her tail, blinked her weary eyes despondently, and offered me no practical advice. I felt guilty about her and pressed determinedly on, as if I had suddenly realized where I had to go. Rounding the hillock, I found myself in a hollow, with furrows ploughed all over it. I was suddenly filled with a strange sensation. The hollow was shaped almost exactly like a deep bowl with sloping sides; several tall white stones stood upright at its base, looking as if they had gathered for a secret council. The whole place was so featureless, silent and dumb, and the sky above it looked so dreary, that my heart quailed. From among the stones came the faint, plaintive squeak of some small animal. I hurried back out of the hollow and up the hillock. Until now I had not given up hope of finding my way home, but now I knew for certain that I was completely lost. I gave up trying to recognize my surroundings, almost invisible in the gloom; instead I struck out straight ahead, guiding myself by the stars and going wherever chance would take me. I walked on for about half an hour, though by now my legs would scarcely carry me. Never in my life, I thought, had I been in such desolate surroundings. There was not a glimmer of light to be seen, nor the faintest sound to be heard. One sloping hillside followed another, boundless fields stretched out beyond other fields, and bushes seemed to rise suddenly out of the ground under my nose. I carried on walking, and was preparing to lie down somewhere to wait for morning, when I suddenly found myself on the edge of a terrifying precipice.

  My foot was just about to step over it, but I pulled it back. Through the almost opaque darkness of night I could make out, far below me, an enormous plain. A broad river curved around it in a semicircle, flowing away into the distance; here and there a faint metallic glitter, reflected from the water’s surface, showed me where it ran. The hill I stood on fell away before me in an almost vertical precipice. Its gigantic outline was black against the blue of the empty air beyond. Directly below me, where the precipice met the plain at its foot, beside the river which here seemed as still and motionless as a dark mirror, I saw the reddish flames and smoke of two little fires burning side by side below the hill. There was a cluster of people milling round them—shifting shadows, with now and then a face glowing in the firelight, a little head with a mop of curly hair …

  At last I realized where I had got to. That plain was well known in our parts as Bezhin Meadow … But I could not possibly return home now, certainly not at night—my weary legs were giving way under me. I made up my mind to go down to those fires, join the people there whom I took to be herdsmen, and wait for daybreak. I got downhill safely, but I had scarcely let go of my last supporting branch when two big shaggy white dogs hurled themselves at me, barking furiously. I heard the shrill voices of children around the fires, and two or three boys jumped up. I answered their shouts of enquiry, they ran up and called off their dogs, which had been very excited at the sight of my Dianka, and I joined them by their fire.

  I had been wrong to take the people sitting round the fires for herdsmen. They were just peasant boys from the neighbouring hamlets, guarding a herd of horses. During the summer months in our part of the country, they drive the horses out at night to graze in the open fields, since by day the flies and gnats would give them no peace. Driving the herd out in the early evening and bringing it home again at dawn is a great treat for the peasant boys. Bare-headed and wearing their old fur jackets, they mount the most spirited nags and gallop along, merrily whooping and shouting, swinging their arms and legs, performing high jumps and roaring with laughter. A pillar of fine yellowish dust rises and blows along the road; the thudding hooves can be heard a long way off as the horses race along, their ears pricked. Right in front is a shaggy chestnut horse, with his tail in the air and thistles in his tangled mane, who keeps changing step as he goes.

  I told the boys that I had lost my way, and sat down with them. They asked me where I was from, then sat in silence a while, before moving away. We talked a little, then I lay down under a bush nibbled bare by the horses, and looked around me. It was a wonderful scene: a ring of reddish light flickered round the fires and seemed to fade away into the darkness beyond; sometimes the flames burned higher, casting sudden flashes of light beyond the red glow; a narrow tongue of flame would lick at the bare willow twigs, only to vanish; then long thin shadows would appear for an instant, and run right up to the flames. It was a battle of light against darkness. Sometimes, when the flames burned lower and the circle of light closed in, a horse’s head would unexpectedly emerge from the surrounding darkness—a bay one with wavy markings, or a white one—and cast us a curious but blank look while hurriedly snatching a mouthful of the long grass beside us, before drawing back and vanishing again. All you would hear was its munching and snorting. From our position in the firelight it was difficult to make out anything in the darkness, so that everything nearby seemed to be hidden by an almost black curtain; but far away towards the horizon one could still make out the long, indistinct smudges of hills and woods. The clear, dark sky hung over us, majestic and inconceivably high, in all its mysterious splendour. My heart felt a sweet sense of oppression as I breathed in that peculiar, fresh and languid fragrance—the fragrance of a Russian summer night. Around me there was scarcely a sound … save the occasional sudden splash of a big fish, echoing in the river nearby, followed by the gentle rustle of the reeds by the bank as the ripples reached them. Only the flames still crackled quietly.

  The boys sat round the fires, and with them those two dogs which had been so intent on gobbling me up. They continued to be uneasy about me for a long time; drowsily blinking and staring into the fire, they sometimes growled with an extraordinary sense of their own dignity—first a growl, then a little whine, as if regretting that they could not indulge their longings.

  There were five boys in all: Fedya, Pavlusha, Ilyusha, Kostya and Vanya (I discovered their names from their talk, and now I want to introduce them to you).

  Fedya was the eldest; you would have taken him for a fourteen-year-old. He was a graceful boy with handsome, fine and rather delicate features, curly fair hair, bright eyes and a permanent smile, half merry
and half abstracted. He looked as if he belonged to a rich family, and had come out to the meadow for fun, not because he had to. He was wearing a brightly coloured print shirt with a yellow border, a new short cloth coat hanging precariously from his narrow little shoulders, and a blue belt with a comb dangling from it. His short boots were obviously his own, not his father’s. The second boy, Pavel or Pavlusha, had tousled black hair, grey eyes, prominent cheekbones, a pale pockmarked face, and a large but well-cut mouth; his head was huge (‘big as a beer-barrel’, as they say), and his body thickset and gawky. He was an unattractive lad, there was no denying it; and yet I took to him, for he had a straightforward, intelligent gaze, and I could hear the force in his voice. His clothing was nothing to boast of—a simple canvas shirt and patched trousers.

  The third boy, Ilyusha, had quite a plain, long face, with a hooked nose, short-sighted eyes and an expression of dumb, fretful anxiety. His tight-lipped mouth and furrowed brows never relaxed—he seemed to be constantly squinting into the firelight. His yellow hair, almost white, stuck out in tufts from under his low felt cap, which he kept pulling down over his ears with both hands. He was wearing new bast shoes and foot cloths and he had a length of rope wound three times round his waist, carefully belting in his neat black coat. Neither he nor Pavlusha looked older than twelve.

  The fourth boy, Kostya, intrigued me because of his brooding, unhappy look. He had a small, thin, freckled face with a pointed chin like a squirrel’s. I could hardly make out his lips, but his large dark eyes with their moist gleam made a strange impression on me, as though they were trying to express something for which a tongue—his own tongue at least—could not find words. His body was small and frail, and his clothes quite shabby.