First Love

‘Ah, young man, young man,’ the doctor went on with an intonation that suggested that something highly insulting to me was contained in these two words, ‘what’s the use of your prevaricating, when, thank God, what’s in your heart is in your face, so far? But there, what’s the use of talking? I shouldn’t come here myself, if … (the doctor compressed his lips) … if I weren’t such a queer fellow. Only this is what surprises me; how it is, you, with your intelligence, don’t see what is going on around you?’

‘And what is going on?’ I put in, all on the alert.

The doctor looked at me with a sort of ironical compassion.

‘Nice of me!’ he said as though to himself, ‘as if he need know anything of it. In fact, I tell you again,’ he added, raising his voice, ‘the atmosphere here is not fit for you. You like being here, but what of that! it’s nice and sweet-smelling in a greenhouse – but there’s no living in it. Yes! do as I tell you, and go back to your Keidanov.’

The old princess came in, and began complaining to the doctor of her toothache. Then Zinaïda appeared.

‘Come,’ said the old princess, ‘you must scold her, doctor. She’s drinking iced water all day long; is that good for her, pray, with her delicate chest?’

‘Why do you do that?’ asked Lushin.

‘Why, what effect could it have?’

‘What effect? You might get a chill and die.’

‘Truly? Do you mean it? Very well – so much the better.’

‘A fine idea!’ muttered the doctor. The old princess had gone out.

‘Yes, a fine idea,’ repeated Zinaïda. ‘Is life such a festive affair? Just look about you… . Is it nice, eh? Or do you imagine I don’t understand it, and don’t feel it? It gives me pleasure – drinking iced water; and can you seriously assure me that such a life is worth too much to be risked for an instant’s pleasure – happiness I won’t even talk about.’

‘Oh, very well,’ remarked Lushin, ‘caprice and irresponsibility… . Those two words sum you up; your whole nature’s contained in those two words.’

Zinaïda laughed nervously.

‘You’re late for the post, my dear doctor. You don’t keep a good look-out; you’re behind the times. Put on your spectacles. I’m in no capricious humour now. To make fools of you, to make a fool of myself … much fun there is in that! – and as for irresponsibility … M’sieu Voldemar,’ Zinaïda added suddenly, stamping, ‘don’t make such a melancholy face. I can’t endure people to pity me.’ She went quickly out of the room.

‘It’s bad for you, very bad for you, this atmosphere, young man,’ Lushin said to me once more.

XI

On the evening of the same day the usual guests were assembled at the Zasyekins’. I was among them.

The conversation turned on Meidanov’s poem. Zinaïda expressed genuine admiration of it. ‘But do you know what?’ she said to him. ‘If I were a poet, I would choose quite different subjects. Perhaps it’s all nonsense, but strange ideas sometimes come into my head, especially when I’m not asleep in the early morning, when the sky begins to turn rosy and grey both at once. I would, for instance … You won’t laugh at me?’

‘No, no!’ we all cried, with one voice.

‘I would describe,’ she went on, folding her arms across her bosom and looking away, ‘a whole company of young girls at night in a great boat, on a silent river. The moon is shining, and they are all in white, and wearing garlands of white flowers, and singing, you know, something in the nature of a hymn.’

‘I see – I see; go on,’ Meidanov commented with dreamy significance.

‘All of a sudden, loud clamour, laughter, torches, tambourines on the bank… . It’s a troop of Bacchantes dancing with songs and cries. It’s your business to make a picture of it, Mr. Poet;… only I should like the torches to be red and to smoke a great deal, and the Bacchantes’ eyes to gleam under their wreaths, and the wreaths to be dusky. Don’t forget the tiger-skins, too, and goblets and gold – lots of gold… .’

‘Where ought the gold to be?’ asked Meidanov, tossing back his sleek hair and distending his nostrils.

‘Where? on their shoulders and arms and legs – everywhere. They say in ancient times women wore gold rings on their ankles. The Bacchantes call the girls in the boat to them. The girls have ceased singing their hymn – they cannot go on with it, but they do not stir, the river carries them to the bank. And suddenly one of them slowly rises… . This you must describe nicely: how she slowly gets up in the moonlight, and how her companions are afraid… . She steps over the edge of the boat, the Bacchantes surround her, whirl her away into night and darkness… . Here put in smoke in clouds and everything in confusion. There is nothing but the sound of their shrill cry, and her wreath left lying on the bank.’

Zinaïda ceased. (‘Oh! she is in love!’ I thought again.)

‘And is that all?’ asked Meidanov.

‘That’s all.’

‘That can’t be the subject of a whole poem,’ he observed pompously, ‘but I will make use of your idea for a lyrical fragment.’

‘In the romantic style?’ queried Malevsky.

‘Of course, in the romantic style – Byronic.’