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.
‘I don’t mean to tell you anything,’ Lushin replied abruptly.
Zinaïda avoided me; my presence — I could not help noticing it — affected her disagreeably. She involuntarily turned away from me … involuntarily; that was what was so bitter, that was what crushed me! But there was no help for it, and I tried not to cross her path, and only to watch her from a distance, in which I was not always successful. As before, something incomprehensible was happening to her; her face was different, she was different altogether. I was specially struck by the change that had taken place in her one warm still evening. I was sitting on a low garden bench under a spreading elderbush; I was fond of that nook; I could see from there the window of Zinaïda’s room. I sat there; over my head a little bird was busily hopping about in the darkness of the leaves; a grey cat, stretching herself at full length, crept warily about the garden, and the first beetles were heavily droning in the air, which was still clear, though it was not light. I sat and gazed at the window, and waited to see if it would open; it did open, and Zinaïda appeared at it. She had on a white dress, and she herself, her face, shoulders, and arms, were pale to whiteness. She stayed a long while without moving, and looked out straight before her from under her knitted brows. I had never known such a look on her. Then she clasped her hands tightly, raised them to her lips, to her forehead, and suddenly pulling her fingers apart, she pushed back her hair behind her ears, tossed it, and with a sort of determination nodded her head, and slammed - to the window.
Three days later she met me in the garden. I was turning away, but she stopped me of herself.
‘Give me your arm,’ she said to me with her old affectionateness, ‘it’s a long while since we have had a talk together.’
I stole a look at her; her eyes were full of a soft light, and her face seemed as it were smiling through a mist.
‘Are you still not well?’ I asked her.
‘No, that’s all over now,’ she answered, and she picked a small red rose. ‘I am a little tired, but that too will pass off.’
‘And will you be as you used to be again?’ I asked.
Zinaïda put the rose up to her face, and I fancied the reflection of its bright petals had fallen on her cheeks. ‘Why, am I changed?’ she questioned me.
‘Yes, you are changed,’ I answered in a low voice.
‘I have been cold to you, I know,’ began Zinaïda, ‘but you mustn’t pay attention to that … I couldn’t help it…. Come, why talk about it!’
‘You don’t want me to love you, that’s what it is!’ I cried gloomily, in an involuntary outburst.
‘No, love me, but not as you did.’
‘How then?’
‘Let us be friends — come now!’ Zinaïda gave me the rose to smell. ‘Listen, you know I’m much older than you — I might be your aunt, really; well, not your aunt, but an older sister. And you …’
‘You think me a child,’ I interrupted.
‘Well, yes, a child, but a dear, good clever one, whom I love very much. Do you know what? From this day forth I confer on you the rank of page to me; and don’t you forget that pages have to keep close to their ladies
. Here is the token of your new dignity,’ she added, sticking the rose in the buttonhole of my jacket, ‘the token of my favour.’
‘I once received other favours from you,’ I muttered.
‘Ah!’ commented Zinaïda, and she gave me a sidelong look, ‘What a memory he has! Well? I’m quite ready now …’ And stooping to me, she imprinted on my forehead a pure, tranquil kiss.
I only looked at her, while she turned away, and saying, ‘Follow me, my page,’ went into the lodge. I followed her — all in amazement. ‘Can this gentle, reasonable girl,’ I thought, ‘be the Zinaïda I used to know?’ I fancied her very walk was quieter, her whole figure statelier and more graceful …
And, mercy! with what fresh force love burned within me!
XVI
After dinner the usual party assembled again at the lodge, and the young princess came out to them. All were there in full force, just as on that first evening which I never forgot; even Nirmatsky had limped to see her; Meidanov came this time earliest of all, he brought some new verses. The games of forfeits began again, but without the strange pranks, the practical jokes and noise — the gipsy element had vanished. Zinaïda gave a different tone to the proceedings. I sat beside her by virtue of my office as page. Among other things, she proposed that any one who had to pay a forfeit should tell his dream; but this was not successful. The dreams were either uninteresting (Byelovzorov had dreamed that he fed his mare on carp, and that she had a wooden head), or unnatural and invented. Meidanov regaled us with a regular romance; there were sepulchres in it, and angels with lyres, and talking flowers and music wafted from afar. Zinaïda did not let him finish. ‘If we are to have compositions,’ she said, ‘let every one tell something made up, and no pretence about it.’ The first who had to speak was again Byelovzorov.
The young hussar was confused. ‘I can’t make up anything!’ he cried.
‘What nonsense!’ said Zinaïda. ‘Well, imagine, for instance, you are married, and tell us how you would treat your wife. Would you lock her up?’
‘Yes, I should lock her up.’
‘And would you stay with her yourself?’
‘Yes, I should certainly stay with her myself.’
‘Very good. Well, but if she got sick of that, and she deceived you?’
‘I should kill her.’
‘And if she ran away?’
‘I should catch her up and kill her all the same.’
‘Oh. And suppose now I were your wife, what would you do then?’
Byelovzorov was silent a minute. ‘I should kill myself….’
Zinaïda laughed. ‘I see yours is not a long story.’
The next forfeit was Zinaïda’s. She looked at the ceiling and considered. ‘Well, listen, she began at last, ‘what I have thought of…. Picture to yourselves a magnificent palace, a summer night, and a marvellous ball. This ball is given by a young queen. Everywhere gold and marble, crystal, silk, lights, diamonds, flowers, fragrant scents, every caprice of luxury.’
‘You love luxury?’ Lushin interposed. ‘Luxury is beautiful,’ she retorted; ‘I love everything beautiful.’
‘More than what is noble?’ he asked.
‘That’s something clever, I don’t understand it. Don’t interrupt me. So the ball is magnificent. There are crowds of guests, all of them are young, handsome, and brave, all are frantically in love with the queen.’
‘Are there no women among the guests?’ queried Malevsky.
‘No — or wait a minute — yes, there are some.’
‘Are they all ugly?’
‘No, charming. But the men are all in love with the queen. She is tall and graceful; she has a little gold diadem on her black hair.’
I looked at Zinaïda, and at that instant she seemed to me so much above all of us, there was such bright intelligence, and such power about her unruffled brows, that I thought: ‘You are that queen!’
‘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 dwe
lling 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 maid - servants, 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.
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 152