Novels, Tales, Journeys

“But of course,” the young man replied hotly, flinging his book on the table. “I’m a man of society and do not want to be scorned by society aristocrats. I am not concerned either with their genealogies or with their morals.”

“Who are you calling aristocrats?”

“Those to whom Countess Fuflygina offers her hand.”

“And who is this Countess Fuflygina?”

“An insolent fool.”

“And the scorn of people you despise can upset you so much?!” said the lady, after some silence. “Confess, there’s some other reason here.”

“So: again suspicions! again jealousy! By God, this is insufferable.”

With those words he stood up and took his hat.

“You’re leaving already?” the lady said anxiously. “Don’t you want to dine here?”

“No, I gave my word.”

“Dine with me,” she went on in a gentle and timid voice. “I’ve ordered champagne.”

“What for? Am I some Moscow card player? Can’t I do without champagne?”

“But the last time you found my wine bad, you were angry that women are poor judges in that. I can’t please you.”

“I’m not asking you to please me.”

She made no reply. The young man immediately regretted the rudeness of these last words. He went to her, took her hand, and said tenderly:

“Zinaida, forgive me: I’m not myself today; I’m angry with everybody and for everything. At such moments I ought to stay home…Forgive me; don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry, Valerian; but it pains me to see that for some time now you’ve been quite changed. You come to see me as if out of duty, not by your heart’s prompting. You’re bored with me. You keep silent, don’t know how to occupy yourself, fumble with books, find fault with me, so as to quarrel with me and leave…I’m not reproaching you: our hearts are not in our power, but I…”

Valerian was no longer listening. He was pulling at the glove he had long since put on and kept glancing impatiently outside. She fell silent with an air of restrained vexation. He pressed her hand, said a few meaningless words, and ran out of the room, the way a frisky schoolboy runs out of class. Zinaida went to the window; she watched the carriage brought for him, watched him get into it and drive off. She stood for a long time in the same place, leaning her hot brow against the icy windowpane. Finally she said aloud, “No, he doesn’t love me!”—rang for the maid, told her to light the lamp, and sat down at her little writing desk.

CHAPTER TWO

Vous écrivez vos lettres de 4 pages plus vite que je ne puis les lire.^*2

* * * soon became convinced of his wife’s infidelity. He found this extremely upsetting. He did not know what course to take: to pretend he had noticed nothing seemed stupid to him; to laugh at such a commonplace misfortune—contemptible; to get downright angry—too sensational; to complain with an air of deeply offended feeling—too ridiculous. Fortunately, his wife came to his aid.

Having fallen in love with Volodsky, she felt an aversion for her husband proper only to women and which only they can understand. One day she went into his study, shut the door behind her, and announced that she loved Volodsky, that she did not want to deceive her husband and dishonor him in secret, and that she had resolved to divorce him. * * * was alarmed by such openness and precipitousness. She gave him no time to recover, moved that same day from the English Embankment to Kolomna, and in a short note made it all known to Volodsky, who was not expecting anything of the sort…

He was in despair. He had never thought of binding himself with such ties. He disliked boredom, feared any obligation, and above all valued his egotistical independence. But that was all over. Zinaida was left on his hands. He pretended to be grateful and prepared himself for the bother of a liaison, as for the performance of a duty or the boring obligation of checking his butler’s monthly accounts…

*1 “Your heart is a sponge soaked in bile and vinegar.” Unpublished correspondence.

*2 “You write your four-page letters more quickly than I can read them.”

Notes of a Young Man

On May 4, 1825, I was promoted to officer, on the 6th I received orders to go to the regiment in the small town of Vasilkov, on the 9th I left Petersburg.

Was it not just recently that I was a cadet; just recently that they woke me up at six in the morning; just recently that I pored over my German lesson amid the eternal noise of the corps? Now I’m an ensign, have 475 roubles in my wallet, do what I like, and gallop on post horses to the small town of Vasilkov, where I’ll sleep till eight and never speak a single word of German.

In my ears still echo the noise and shouts of frolicking cadets and the monotonous hum of assiduous students repeating vocables—le bluet, le bluet, cornflower, amarante, amaranth, amarante, amarante…Now the rumble of the cart and the jingle of the bell alone break the surrounding silence…I still cannot get used to this quiet.