Chapter 9 Nine

My "intense love" started that day.I remember feeling like someone entering an office for the first time must have felt: I was no longer a young child; I was in love.I have said that from that day my violent love began; and I should add that from that day my pain also began.When I was not with Zinaïda, I felt very miserable: I couldn't think, I couldn't do anything, I was thinking about her all day long... I'm depressed...but I don't feel light when she's around.I am jealous, I am aware of my insignificance, I am foolishly sullen, foolishly courteous; an insurmountable force still lures me to love her—every time I step over the threshold of her room I couldn't help trembling with joy when I was there, Zinaïda guessed at once that I was in love with her, and I didn't want to hide it; she made fun of my love, teased me, pampered me, tortured me.It is delightful to be the sole source of another's greatest pleasure and deepest pain, and the source of absolute obedience.But I was like soft wax in Zinaïda's hands.But I wasn't the only one who fell in love with her: all the men who visited her house were smitten with her—she chained them all to her feet.Now she arouses their hopes, now makes them anxious, and dominates them as she pleases (she calls this letting people bump into each other), and she takes pleasure in it;The cunning and frankness, affectation and innocence, quietness and liveliness blended together in a peculiarly charming way in her whole lively and beautiful figure.In everything she did and said.There is a subtle, soft beauty in every movement of hers, and her unique, provocative power is everywhere displayed.Her face is changeable, and its expression changes with it: it is almost simultaneously mocking, pensive, and enthusiastic.Feelings of all kinds flitted now and then lightly over her eyes and lips, like clouds on a sunny and windy day.

Every dumper of hers is all she needs.She sometimes called Belovzorov "my beast" and sometimes simply "mine"—he would do anything for her; he had no confidence in his intelligence or other qualities. , so he blindly proposed to her and hinted to her that others were just empty talk.Mainodoff could relate to her poetic chords: this rather indifferent man, like almost all writers, tried to convince her, and perhaps himself, that he loved her so much that he would never run out. He sang to her in verses, and read them to her with an expression that seemed partly affected, partly sincerely delighted.She sympathized with him, but sometimes teased him a little; she didn't believe him, and when she had heard enough of his inner confessions, she made him read Pushkin's poems, which, she said, was to purify the air.Lushin, the sneering, vulgar-talking doctor, knew her better than anyone else and loved her better than anyone else, though he often abused her behind his back and to his face.She respected him, but did not condone him—and sometimes made him feel that he was in her hands, with a special, gloating glee. "I'm a flirt, I have no conscience, I'm a natural actress," she said once to him in my presence, "Oh, well! Then give me your hand, and I'll turn my head You will feel ashamed in front of this young man when the needle goes into your hand, and you will feel pain, you good sir, but I still want you to smile."

Lushin blushed, turned away, bit his lip, but finally gave her his hand.She pricked his hand, and he did laugh...she laughed too, and stuck the pin deep, looking into his eyes, which looked around in vain... What I know least of all is the relationship between Zinaida and Count Maleevsky.He was personable, handsome, quick-witted, and intelligent, but even to me, a sixteen-year-old boy, it seemed to me that there was something suspicious and false about him.I too was surprised that Zinaïda did not notice this.Perhaps she was also aware of this falsehood, but she didn't feel disgusted.False upbringing, strange acquaintances and habits, the constant presence of the mother, the poverty of the home, the disorganization of the home—all this developed in this young girl from the beginning of her complete freedom, her awareness of her superiority over those around her, into a kind of Casual and undemanding habits with contempt.Whenever anything happened--or Wanifaj came to report that the sugar was out, or some bad word was spread outside, or the guests quarreled--she just tossed her curls and said: Never mind!She didn't care about all this.

But whenever Malevsky came up to her, swayed slyly like a fox, leaned gracefully on the back of her chair, and whispered into her ear with a triumphant and flattering smile, And she folded her hands on her chest.When I look at him intently, with a smile on my face, and shaking my head, the blood in my whole body often boils. "Why are you receiving Mr. Maleevsky?" I asked her once. "He has such a fine mustache," she answered. "Of course you don't understand that." "Do you think I love him," she said to me another time. "No; I will not fall in love with a man I despise. What I need is a man who will bring me to my knees..., I hope I don't meet such a man, thank God! Don't let me be held in the hands of others , must not!"

"Then you will never be in love?" "But you? Don't I love you?" she said, touching my nose with the tip of her glove. Yes, Zinaïda often made fun of me.I've seen her every day for three weeks—never played any tricks with me!I don't regret her seldom coming to our house, because when she comes to our house she becomes a lady and a duke's daughter, so I am very restrained when I see her.Besides, I was afraid of showing off to my mother; she disliked Zinaïda and was always looking at us with hostility.I wasn't so afraid of my father: he didn't seem to pay any attention to me, and he rarely talked to her, but somehow they talked smartly and with great meaning.I don't do my homework anymore, I don't read any more, I don't even go for walks and rides around the neighborhood.Like a beetle with its feet bound, I used to wander around that little annex that I loved: I seemed to want to stay there forever... But it was impossible, and my mother often complained about me, Qi Naida herself sometimes kicked me out.

So I shut myself up in my own house, or went to the end of the garden, climbed to the top of a tall stone warm house that was abandoned but still intact, and stretched my legs on the wall facing the street. .I sat for hours on end, looking, looking, but saw nothing.Beside me, a group of white butterflies flitted lazily on the dusty nettles; a lively sparrow landed on a half-destroyed red brick not far away, chirping angrily and incessantly. The crows, who still had doubts about me, perched high on the bare treetop of a birch tree, croaking occasionally.The sun and the wind flickered and played quietly among the sparse branches of the birch trees; sometimes the calm and sad bells of the Don Monastery ① came—but I sat, watched, and listened, and my whole body was filled with an unbearable feeling. The feeling of a name, which contains everything: sadness, joy, premonitions of the future, wishes, and fears of life.But I didn't understand that at the time, and I couldn't give a name to all the turmoil in my heart—or just one name—Zinaïda—to call everything better.

But Zinaïda was always playing tricks on me, like a cat with a mouse.One moment she flirts with me, and I am fascinated; the next moment she pushes me away suddenly, but I dare not approach her, or even glance at her. For several days, I remember, she was very indifferent to me; and I was very timid, and ran to their wing, trying to stay with the old Duchess, even though the old Duchess was swearing and shouting about something. : Her promissory note lawsuits are not going well, and she has explained it to the police sub-chief twice. Once in the garden, passing the familiar fence, I met Zinaïda: she sat on the grass, propped up on her arms, and did not move.I wanted to walk away quietly, but she suddenly raised her head and gave me a commanding gesture.I stopped where I was: I didn't understand her at first.She made another gesture of greeting me.Immediately I leaped over the fence, and ran up to her excitedly; but she stopped me with her eyes, and pointed me to a path two paces from her.I was so embarrassed that I didn't know what to do, so I knelt at the edge of the path.Her face was so pale, her expression was so pained and sad, and every line of her face looked so tired, my heart tightened because of this, and I couldn't help muttering:

"What's the matter with you?" Zinaida stretched out a hand, pulled up a blade of grass, bit it and threw it away, a little farther away. "Do you love me very much?" she asked me at last. "Really?" I didn't answer anything, but why should I answer? "Really," she said again, still looking at me as before. "Yes. Same eyes," she added, lost in thought, and covered her face with her hands. "Everything bores me," she said in a low voice. "I can't bear to go to the ends of the earth. I can't handle it. . . What is my future? Well, I'm miserable. . . . God, how miserable!"

"Why?" I asked timidly. Zinaida did not answer me, but shrugged her shoulders.I was still kneeling there, looking at her with a very sad expression, and every word she said was engraved in my heart.I felt now that I would have given my life, if only she would be no longer sad.I looked at her--though I still could not understand why she was in pain, I could still vividly imagine her walking into the garden in a sudden, uncontrollable sorrow, and then fell down as if cut by a scythe. on the ground.It was bright and green all around; the wind was rustling among the leaves, occasionally shaking the long branch of the raspberry plant above Zinaida's head, pigeons were cooing somewhere, and bees were buzzing. The sound of buzzing, flying low over the sparse grass, above us is a pleasing blue sky, but I am so sad...

"Read me some poetry," whispered Zinaïda, propping herself up on one elbow. "I like to hear you read. It sounds like singing, but that's all right, because you're young. Please read "On the Georgian Hills" to me, but sit down first." I sat down and read "On the Hills of Georgia." "It is impossible not to love," said Zinaïda, repeating the line. "This is the beauty of poetry: poetry can tell us things that don't exist, and it is not only more beautiful than the existing ones, but even more true to reality...It is impossible not to love—I want to love it, but it is impossible!" She was silent again, her whole body trembled suddenly, and she stood up.

"Let's go. Maidanov is sitting with my mother; he brought me a long poem of his own, and I left him there. He's also very sad now... What can I do?" ! You'll find out one day...but don't be mad at me!" Zinaida shook my hand hastily, and ran on.We went back to the wing.Maidanov recited to us his newly published collection of poems, but I didn't listen to him recite.Shouting and yelling, I was reciting my iambic in rhyme—the rhyme was changing loudly and meaninglessly like a little bell, while I kept looking at Zinaïda, Want to understand the meaning of her last words. Maybe, there is a mysterious rival in love Conquered you unexpectedly? —— Suddenly Maidanov read aloud in a nasal voice—my eyes met Zinaida's.She closed her eyes, and her cheeks were flushed.I saw her blushing, startled and frightened, and cold all over.I was already very jealous of her, but it was only at this moment that the thought that she was in love flashed across my mind: "My God! She has a crush!"