‘What for?’ I asked timidly.
Zinaida made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders.
I remained kneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness.
Every word she had uttered simply cut me to the heart.
At that instant I felt I would gladly have given my
life, if only she should not grieve. I gazed at
her—and though I could not understand why
she was wretched, I vividly pictured to myself, how
in a fit of insupportable anguish, she had suddenly
come out into the garden, and sunk to the earth, as
though mown down by a scythe. It was all bright
and green about her; the wind was whispering in the
leaves of the trees, and swinging now and then a long
branch of a raspberry bush over Zinaida’s head.
There was a sound of the cooing of doves, and the
bees hummed, flying low over the scanty grass, Overhead
the sun was radiantly blue—while I was so
sorrowful....
‘Read me some poetry,’ said Zinaida in
an undertone, and she propped herself on her elbow;
’I like your reading poetry. You read it
in sing-song, but that’s no matter, that comes
of being young. Read me “On the Hills of
Georgia.” Only sit down first.’
I sat down and read ‘On the Hills of Georgia.’
‘"That the heart cannot choose but love,"’
repeated Zinaida. ’That’s where poetry’s
so fine; it tells us what is not, and what’s
not only better than what is, but much more like the
truth, “cannot choose but love,”—it
might want not to, but it can’t help it.’
She was silent again, then all at once she started
and got up. ’Come along. Meidanov’s
indoors with mamma, he brought me his poem, but I deserted
him. His feelings are hurt too now ... I
can’t help it! you’ll understand it all
some day ... only don’t be angry with me!’
Zinaida hurriedly pressed my hand and ran on ahead.
We went back into the lodge. Meidanov set to
reading us his ‘Manslayer,’ which had just
appeared in print, but I did not hear him. He
screamed and drawled his four-foot iambic lines, the
alternating rhythms jingled like little bells, noisy
and meaningless, while I still watched Zinaida and
tried to take in the import of her last words.
’Perchance some unknown rival
Has surprised and mastered thee?’
Meidanov bawled suddenly through his nose—and
my eyes and Zinaida’s met. She looked down
and faintly blushed. I saw her blush, and grew
cold with terror. I had been jealous before, but
only at that instant the idea of her being in love
flashed upon my mind. ’Good God! she is
in love!’
My real torments began from that instant. I racked
my brains, changed my mind, and changed it back again,
and kept an unremitting, though, as far as possible,
secret watch on Zinaida. A change had come over
her, that was obvious. She began going walks alone—and
long walks. Sometimes she would not see visitors;
she would sit for hours together in her room.
This had never been a habit of hers till now.
I suddenly became—or fancied I had become—extraordinarily
penetrating.
