Authors: Ivan Turgenev
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.
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.
The next day I got up early, cut myself a stick, and set off beyond the towngates. 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.
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 on 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, apropos 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.”