The Torrents of Spring
in imaginings, and was always seeking seclusion and solitude. I was
particularly fond of the ruined greenhouse. I would climb up on the
high wall, and perch myself, and sit there, such an unhappy, lonely,
and melancholy youth, that I felt sorry for myself—and how consolatory
were those mournful sensations, how I revelled in them!…
One day I was sitting on the wall looking into the distance and
listening to the ringing of the bells…. Suddenly something floated up
to me—not a breath of wind and not a shiver, but as it were a whiff of
fragrance—as it were, a sense of some one’s being near…. I looked down.
Below, on the path, in a light greyish gown, with a pink parasol on her
shoulder, was Zinaïda, hurrying along. She caught sight of me, stopped,
and pushing back the brim of her straw hat, she raised her velvety eyes
to me.
“What are you doing up there at such a height?” she asked me with a
rather queer smile. “Come,” she went on, “you always declare you love
me; jump down into the road to me if you really do love me.”
Zinaïda had hardly uttered those words when I flew down, just as though
some one had given me a violent push from behind. The wall was about
fourteen feet high. I reached the ground on my feet, but the shock was
so great that I could not keep my footing; I fell down, and for an
instant fainted away. When I came to myself again, without opening my
eyes, I felt Zinaïda beside me. “My dear boy,” she was saying, bending
over me, and there was a note of alarmed tenderness in her voice, “how
could you do it, dear; how could you obey?… You know I love you…. Get
up.”
Her bosom was heaving close to me, her hands were caressing my head,
and suddenly—what were my emotions at that moment—her soft, fresh lips
began covering my face with kisses … they touched my lips…. But then
Zinaïda probably guessed by the expression of my face that I had
regained consciousness, though I still kept my eyes closed, and rising
rapidly to her feet, she said: “Come, get up, naughty boy, silly, why
are you lying in the dust?” I got up. “Give me my parasol,” said
Zinaïda, “I threw it down somewhere, and don’t stare at me like that …
what ridiculous nonsense! you’re not hurt, are you? stung by the
nettles, I daresay? Don’t stare at me, I tell you…. But he doesn’t
understand, he doesn’t answer,” she added, as though to herself…. “Go
home, M’sieu’ Voldemar, brush yourself, and don’t dare to follow me, or
I shall be angry, and never again …”
She did not finish her sentence, but walked rapidly away, while I sat
down by the side of the road … my legs would not support me. The
nettles had stung my hands, my back ached, and my head was giddy; but
the feeling of rapture I experienced then has never come a second time
in my life. It turned to a sweet ache in all my limbs and found
expression at last in joyful hops and skips and shouts. Yes, I was
still a child.
XIII
I was so proud and light-hearted all that day, I so vividly retained on
my face the feeling of Zinaïda’s kisses, with such a shudder of delight
I recalled every word she had uttered, I so hugged my unexpected
happiness that I felt positively afraid, positively unwilling to see
her, who had given rise to these new sensations. It seemed to me that
now I could ask nothing more of fate, that now I ought to “go, and draw
a deep last sigh and die.” But, next day, when I went into the lodge, I
felt great embarrassment, which I tried to conceal under a show of
modest confidence, befitting a man who wishes to make it apparent that
he knows how to keep a secret. Zinaïda received me very simply, without
any emotion, she simply shook her finger at me and asked me, whether I
wasn’t black and blue? All my modest confidence and air of mystery
vanished instantaneously and with them my embarrassment. Of course, I
had not expected anything particular, but Zinaïda’s composure was like
a bucket of cold water thrown over me. I realised that in her eyes I
was a child, and was extremely miserable! Zinaïda walked up and down
the room, giving me a quick smile, whenever she caught my eye, but her
thoughts were far away, I saw that clearly…. “Shall I begin about what
happened yesterday myself,” I pondered; “ask her, where she was
hurrying off so fast, so as to find out once for all” … but with a
gesture of despair, I merely went and sat down in a corner.
Byelovzorov came in; I felt relieved to see him.
“I’ve not been able to find you a quiet horse,” he said in a sulky
voice; “Freitag warrants one, but I don’t feel any confidence in it, I
am afraid.”
“What are you afraid of?” said Zinaïda; “allow me to inquire?”
“What am I afraid of? Why, you don’t know how to ride. Lord save us,
what might happen! What whim is this has come over you all of a
sudden?”
“Come, that’s my business, Sir Wild Beast. In that case I will ask
Piotr Vassilievitch.” … (My father’s name was Piotr Vassilievitch. I
was surprised at her mentioning his name so lightly and freely, as
though she were confident of his readiness to do her a service.)
“Oh, indeed,” retorted Byelovzorov, “you mean to go out riding with him
then?”
“With him or with some one else is nothing to do with you. Only not
with you, anyway.”
“Not with me,” repeated Byelovzorov. “As you wish. Well, I shall find
you a horse.”
“Yes, only mind now, don’t send some old cow. I warn you I want to
gallop.”
“Gallop away by all means … with whom is it, with Malevsky, you are
going to ride?”
“And why not with him, Mr. Pugnacity? Come, be quiet,” she added, “and
don’t glare. I’ll take you too. You know that to my mind now
Malevsky’s—ugh!” She shook her head.
“You say that to console me,” growled Byelovzorov.
Zinaïda half closed her eyes. “Does that console you? O … O … O … Mr.
Pugnacity!” she said at last, as though she could find no other word.
“And you, M’sieu’ Voldemar, would you come with us?”
“I don’t care to … in a large party,” I muttered, not raising my eyes.
“You prefer a _tête-à-tête_?… Well, freedom to the free, and heaven to
the saints,” she commented with a sigh. “Go along, Byelovzorov, and
bestir yourself. I must have a horse for to-morrow.”
“Oh, and where’s the money to come from?” put in the old princess.
Zinaïda scowled.
“I won’t ask you for it; Byelovzorov will trust me.”
“He’ll trust you, will he?” … grumbled the old princess, and all of a
sudden she screeched at the top of her voice, “Duniashka!”
“Maman, I have given you a bell to ring,” observed Zinaïda.
“Duniashka!” repeated the old lady.
Byelovzorov took leave; I went away with him. Zinaïda did not try to
detain me.
XIV
The next day I got up early, cut myself a stick, and set off beyond the
town-gates. I thought I would walk off my sorrow. It was a lovely day,
bright and not too hot, a fresh sportive breeze roved over the earth
with temperate rustle and frolic, setting all things a-flutter and
harassing nothing. I wandered a long while over hills and through
woods; I had not felt happy, I had left home with the intention of
giving myself up to melancholy, but youth, the exquisite weather, the
fresh air, the pleasure of rapid motion, the sweetness of repose, lying
on the thick grass in a solitary nook, gained the upper hand; the
memory of those never-to-be-forgotten words, those kisses, forced
itself once more upon my soul. It was sweet to me to think that Zinaïda
could not, anyway, fail to do justice to my courage, my heroism….
“Others may seem better to her than I,” I mused, “let them! But others
only say what they would do, while I have done it. And what more would
I not do for her?” My fancy set to work. I began picturing to myself
how I would save her from the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood
I would tear her by force from prison, and expire at her feet. I
remembered a picture hanging in our drawing-room—Malek-Adel bearing
away Matilda—but at that point my attention was absorbed by the
appearance of a speckled woodpecker who climbed busily up the slender
stem of a birch-tree and peeped out uneasily from behind it, first to
the right, then to the left, like a musician behind the bass-viol.
Then I sang “Not the white snows,” and passed from that to a song well
known at that period: “I await thee, when the wanton zephyr,” then I
began reading aloud Yermak’s address to the stars from Homyakov’s
tragedy. I made an attempt to compose something myself in a sentimental
vein, and invented the line which was to conclude each verse: “O
Zinaïda, Zinaïda!” but could get no further with it. Meanwhile it was
getting on towards dinner-time. I went down into the valley; a narrow
sandy path winding through it led to the town. I walked along this
path…. The dull thud of horses’ hoofs resounded behind me. I looked
round instinctively, stood still and took off my cap. I saw my father
and Zinaïda. They were riding side by side. My father was saying
something to her, bending right over to her, his hand propped on the
horses’ neck, he was smiling. Zinaïda listened to him in silence, her
eyes severely cast down, and her lips tightly pressed together. At
first I saw them only; but a few instants later, Byelovzorov came into
sight round a bend in the glade, he was wearing a hussar’s uniform with
a pelisse, and riding a foaming black horse. The gallant horse tossed
its head, snorted and pranced from side to side, his rider was at once
holding him in and spurring him on. I stood aside. My father gathered
up the reins, moved away from Zinaïda, she slowly raised her eyes to
him, and both galloped off … Byelovzorov flew after them, his sabre
clattering behind him. “He’s as red as a crab,” I reflected, “while she
… why’s she so pale? out riding the whole morning, and pale?”
I redoubled my pace, and got home just at dinner-time. My father was
already sitting by my mother’s chair, dressed for dinner, washed and
fresh; he was reading an article from the _Journal des Débats_ in his
smooth musical voice; but my mother heard him without attention, and
when she saw me, asked where I had been to all day long, and added that
she didn’t like this gadding about God knows where, and God knows in
what company. “But I have been walking alone,” I was on the point of
replying, but I looked at my father, and for some reason or other held
my peace.
XV
For the next five or six days I hardly saw Zinaïda; she said she was
ill, which did not, however, prevent the usual visitors from calling at
the lodge to pay—as they expressed it, their duty—all, that is, except
Meidanov, who promptly grew dejected and sulky when he had not an
opportunity of being enthusiastic. Byelovzorov sat sullen and red-faced
in a corner, buttoned up to the throat; on the refined face of Malevsky
there flickered continually an evil smile; he had really fallen into
disfavour with Zinaïda, and waited with special assiduity on the old
princess, and even went with her in a hired coach to call on the
Governor-General. This expedition turned out unsuccessful, however, and
even led to an unpleasant experience for Malevsky; he was reminded of
some scandal to do with certain officers of the engineers, and was
forced in his explanations to plead his youth and inexperience at the
time. Lushin came twice a day, but did not stay long; I was rather
afraid of him after our last unreserved conversation, and at the same
time felt a genuine attraction to him. He went a walk with me one day
in the Neskutchny gardens, was very good-natured and nice, told me the
names and properties of various plants and flowers, and suddenly, _à
propos_ of nothing at all, cried, hitting himself on his forehead, “And
I, poor fool, thought her a flirt! it’s clear self-sacrifice is sweet
for some people!”
“What do you mean by that?” I inquired.