THE party of sportsmen spent the night in a peasant's hut on some
newly mown hay. The moon peeped in at the window; from the street came
the mournful wheezing of a concertina; from the hay came a sickly sweet,
faintly troubling scent. The sportsmen talked about dogs, about women,
about first love, and about snipe. After all the ladies of their
acquaintance had been picked to pieces, and hundreds of stories had been
told, the stoutest of the sportsmen, who looked in the darkness like a
haycock, and who talked in the mellow bass of a staff officer, gave a
loud yawn and said:
"It is nothing much to be loved; the ladies are created for the
purpose of loving us men. But, tell me, has any one of you fellows been
hated—passionately, furiously hated? Has any one of you watched the
ecstasies of hatred? Eh?"
No answer followed.
"Has no one, gentlemen?" asked the staff officer's bass voice. "But
I, now, have been hated, hated by a pretty girl, and have been able to
study the symptoms of first hatred directed against myself. It was the
first, because it was something exactly the converse of first love. What
I am going to tell, however, happened when I knew nothing about love or
hate. I was eight at the time, but that made no difference; in this
case it was not
he but
she that mattered. Well, I beg your
attention. One fine summer evening, just before sunset, I was sitting
in the nursery, doing my lesson with my governess, Zinotchka, a very
charming and poetical creature who had left boarding school not long
before. Zinotchka looked absent-mindedly towards the window and said:
"'Yes. We breathe in oxygen; now tell me, Petya, what do we breathe out?'
"'Carbonic acid gas,' I answered, looking towards the same window.
"'Right,' assented Zinotchka. 'Plants, on the contrary, breathe in
carbonic acid gas, and breathe out oxygen. Carbonic acid gas is
contained in seltzer water, and in the fumes from the samovar. . . . It
is a very noxious gas. Near Naples there is the so-called Cave of Dogs,
which contains carbonic acid gas; a dog dropped into it is suffocated
and dies.'
"This luckless Cave of Dogs near Naples is a chemical marvel beyond
which no governess ventures to go. Zinotchka always hotly maintained the
usefulness of natural science, but I doubt if she knew any chemistry
beyond this Cave.
"Well, she told me to repeat it. I repeated it. She asked me what was
meant by the horizon. I answered. And meantime, while we were
ruminating over the horizon and the Cave, in the yard below, my father
was just getting ready to go shooting. The dogs yapped, the trace horses
shifted from one leg to another impatiently and coquetted with the
coachman, the footman packed the waggonette with parcels and all sorts
of things. Beside the waggonette stood a brake in which my mother and
sisters were sitting to drive to a name-day party at the Ivanetskys'. No
one was left in the house but Zinotchka, me, and my eldest brother, a
student, who had toothache. You can imagine my envy and my boredom.
"'Well, what do we breathe in?' asked Zinotchka, looking at the window.
"'Oxygen. . .'
"'Yes. And the horizon is the name given to the place where it seems to us as though the earth meets the sky.'
"Then the waggonette drove off, and after it the brake. . . . I saw
Zinotchka take a note out of her pocket, crumple it up convulsively and
press it to her temple, then she flushed crimson and looked at her
watch.
"'So, remember,' she said, 'that near Naples is the so-called Cave of
Dogs. . . .' She glanced at her watch again and went on: 'where the sky
seems to us to meet the earth. . . .'
"The poor girl in violent agitation walked about the room, and once
more glanced at her watch. There was another half-hour before the end of
our lesson.
"'Now arithmetic,' she said, breathing hard and turning over the
pages of the sum-book with a trembling hand. 'Come, you work out problem
325 and I . . . will be back directly.'
"She went out. I heard her scurry down the stairs, and then I saw her
dart across the yard in her blue dress and vanish through the garden
gate. The rapidity of her movements, the flush on her cheeks and her
excitement, aroused my curiosity. Where had she run, and what for? Being
intelligent beyond my years I soon put two and two together, and
understood it all: she had run into the garden, taking advantage of the
absence of my stern parents, to steal in among the raspberry bushes, or
to pick herself some cherries. If that were so, dash it all, I would go
and have some cherries too. I threw aside the sum-book and ran into the
garden. I ran to the cherry orchard, but she was not there. Passing by
the raspberries, the gooseberries, and the watchman's shanty, she
crossed the kitchen garden and reached the pond, pale, and starting at
every sound. I stole after her, and what I saw, my friends, was this. At
the edge of the pond, between the thick stumps of two old willows,
stood my elder brother, Sasha; one could not see from his face that he
had toothache. He looked towards Zinotchka as she approached him, and
his whole figure was lighted up by an expression of happiness as though
by sunshine. And Zinotchka, as though she were being driven into the
Cave of Dogs, and were being forced to breathe carbonic acid gas, walked
towards him, scarcely able to move one leg before the other, breathing
hard, with her head thrown back. . . . To judge from appearances she was
going to a rendezous for the first time in her life. But at last she
reached him. . . . For half a minute they gazed at each other in
silence, as though they could not believe their eyes. Thereupon some
force seemed to shove Zinotchka; she laid her hands on Sasha's shoulders
and let her head droop upon his waistcoat. Sasha laughed, muttered
something incoherent, and with the clumsiness of a man head over ears in
love, laid both hands on Zinotchka's face. And the weather, gentlemen,
was exquisite. . . . The hill behind which the sun was setting, the two
willows, the green bank, the sky--all together with Sasha and Zinotchka
were reflected in the pond . . . perfect stillness . . . you can imagine
it. Millions of butterflies with long whiskers gleamed golden above the
reeds; beyond the garden they were driving the cattle. In fact, it was a
perfect picture.
"Of all I had seen the only thing I understood was that Sasha was kissing Zinotchka. That was improper. If
maman
heard of it they would both catch it. Feeling for some reason ashamed I
went back to the nursery, not waiting for the end of the rendezvous.
There I sat over the sum-book, pondered and reflected. A triumphant
smile strayed upon my countenance. On one side it was agreeable to be
the possessor of another person's secret; on the other it was also very
agreeable that such authorities as Sasha and Zinotchka might at any
moment be convicted by me of ignorance of the social proprieties. Now
they were in my power, and their peace was entirely dependent on my
magnanimity. I'd let them know.
"When I went to bed, Zinotchka came into the nursery as usual to find
out whether I had dropped asleep without undressing and whether I had
said my prayers. I looked at her pretty, happy face and grinned. I was
bursting with my secret and itching to let it out. I had to drop a hint
and enjoy the effect.
"'I know,' I said, grinning. 'Gy—y.'
"'What do you know?'
"'Gy—y! I saw you near the willows kissing Sasha. I followed you and saw it all.'
"Zinotchka started, flushed all over, and overwhelmed by 'my hint'
she sank down on the chair, on which stood a glass of water and a
candlestick.
"'I saw you . . . kissing . . .' I repeated, sniggering and enjoying her confusion. 'Aha! I'll tell mamma!'
"Cowardly Zinotchka gazed at me intently, and convincing herself that
I really did know all about it, clutched my hand in despair and
muttered in a trembling whisper:
"'Petya, it is low. . . . I beg of you, for God's sake. . . . Be a
man . . . don't tell anyone. . . . Decent people don't spy . . . . It's
low. . . . I entreat you.'
"The poor girl was terribly afraid of my mother, a stern and virtuous
lady—that was one thing; and the second was that my grinning
countenance could not but outrage her first love so pure and poetical,
and you can imagine the state of her heart. Thanks to me, she did not
sleep a wink all night, and in the morning she appeared at breakfast
with blue rings round her eyes. When I met Sasha after breakfast I could
not refrain from grinning and boasting:
"'I know! I saw you yesterday kissing Mademoiselle Zina!'
"Sasha looked at me and said:
"'You are a fool.'
"He was not so cowardly as Zinotchka, and so my effect did not come
off. That provoked me to further efforts. If Sasha was not frightened it
was evident that he did not believe that I had seen and knew all about
it; wait a bit, I would show him.
"At our lessons before dinner Zinotchka did not look at me, and her
voice faltered. Instead of trying to scare me she tried to propitiate me
in every way, giving me full marks, and not complaining to my father of
my naughtiness. Being intelligent beyond my years I exploited her
secret: I did not learn my lessons, walked into the schoolroom on my
head, and said all sorts of rude things. In fact, if I had remained in
that vein till to-day I should have become a famous blackmailer. Well, a
week passed. Another person's secret irritated and fretted me like a
splinter in my soul. I longed at all costs to blurt it out and gloat
over the effect. And one day at dinner, when we had a lot of visitors, I
gave a stupid snigger, looked fiendishly at Zinotchka and said:
"'I know. Gy—y! I saw! . . .'
"'What do you know?' asked my mother.
"I looked still more fiendishly at Zinotchka and Sasha. You ought to
have seen how the girl flushed up, and how furious Sasha's eyes were! I
bit my tongue and did not go on. Zinotchka gradually turned pale,
clenched her teeth, and ate no more dinner. At our evening lessons that
day I noticed a striking change in Zinotchka's face. It looked sterner,
colder, as it were, more like marble, while her eyes gazed strangely
straight into my face, and I give you my word of honour I have never
seen such terrible, annihilating eyes, even in hounds when they overtake
the wolf. I understood their expression perfectly, when in the middle
of a lesson she suddenly clenched her teeth and hissed through them:
"'I hate you! Oh, you vile, loathsome creature, if you knew how I
hate you, how I detest your cropped head, your vulgar, prominent ears!'
"But at once she took fright and said:
"'I am not speaking to you, I am repeating a part out of a play. . . .'
"Then, my friends, at night I saw her come to my bedside and gaze a
long time into my face. She hated me passionately, and could not exist
away from me. The contemplation of my hated pug of a face had become a
necessity to her. I remember a lovely summer evening . . . with the
scent of hay, perfect stillness, and so on. The moon was shining. I was
walking up and down the avenue, thinking of cherry jam. Suddenly
Zinotchka, looking pale and lovely, came up to me, she caught hold of my
hand, and breathlessly began expressing herself:
"'Oh, how I hate you! I wish no one harm as I do you! Let me tell you that! I want you to understand that!'
"You understand, moonlight, her pale face, breathless with passion,
the stillness . . . little pig as I was I actually enjoyed it. I
listened to her, looked at her eyes. . . . At first I liked it, and
enjoyed the novelty. Then I was suddenly seized with terror, I gave a
scream, and ran into the house at breakneck speed.
"I made up my mind that the best thing to do was to complain to
maman.
And I did complain, mentioning incidentally how Sasha had kissed
Zinotchka. I was stupid, and did not know what would follow, or I should
have kept the secret to myself. . . . After hearing my story
maman flushed with indignation and said:
"'It is not your business to speak about that, you are still very young. . . . But, what an example for children.'
"My
maman was not only virtuous but diplomatic. To avoid a
scandal she did not get rid of Zinotchka at once, but set to work
gradually, systematically, to pave the way for her departure, as one
does with well-bred but intolerable people. I remember that when
Zinotchka did leave us the last glance she cast at the house was
directed at the window at which I was sitting, and I assure you, I
remember that glance to this day.
"Zinotchka soon afterwards became my brother's wife. She is the
Zinaida Nikolaevna whom you know. The next time I met her I was already
an ensign. In spite of all her efforts she could not recognize the hated
Petya in the ensign with his moustache, but still she did not treat me
quite like a relation. . . . And even now, in spite of my good-humoured
baldness, meek corpulence, and unassuming air, she still looks askance
at me, and feels put out when I go to see my brother. Hatred it seems
can no more be forgotten than love. . . .
"Tchoo! I hear the cock crowing! Good-night. Milord! Lie down!"
