First Love

‘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 dwelling 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… .