The Torrents of Spring. First love. Mumu

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 Debats 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 Zinaida; 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 Zinaida, 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, a 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.

Zinaida 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 Zinaida'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 Zinaida 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.

Zinaida 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 Zinaida, '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!' Zinaida 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 Zinaida, 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 Zinaida 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. Zinaida 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. Zinaida 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 Zinaida. '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?'