Part 52

“No, love me, but not as you did.”

“How then?”

“Let us be friends—come now!” Zinaïda gave me the rose to smell. “Listen, you know I’m much older than you—I might be your aunt, really; well, not your aunt, but an older sister. And you …”

“You think me a child,” I interrupted.

“Well, yes, a child, but a dear, good clever one, whom I love very much. Do you know what? From this day forth I confer on you the rank of page to me; and don’t you forget that pages have to keep close to their ladies. Here is the token of your new dignity,” she added, sticking the rose in the buttonhole of my jacket, “the token of my favour.”

“I once received other favours from you,” I muttered.

“Ah!” commented Zinaïda, and she gave me a sidelong look, “What a memory he has! Well? I’m quite ready now …” And stooping to me, she imprinted on my forehead a pure, tranquil kiss.

I only looked at her, while she turned away, and saying, “Follow me, my page,” went into the lodge. I followed her—all in amazement. “Can this gentle, reasonable girl,” I thought, “be the Zinaïda I used to know?” I fancied her very walk was quieter, her whole figure statelier and more graceful …

And, mercy! with what fresh force love burned within me!

XVI

After dinner the usual party assembled again at the lodge, and the young princess came out to them. All were there in full force, just as on that first evening which I never forgot; even Nirmatsky had limped to see her; Meidanov came this time earliest of all, he brought some new verses. The games of forfeits began again, but without the strange pranks, the practical jokes and noise—the gipsy element had vanished. Zinaïda gave a different tone to the proceedings. I sat beside her by virtue of my office as page. Among other things, she proposed that any one who had to pay a forfeit should tell his dream; but this was not successful. The dreams were either uninteresting (Byelovzorov had dreamed that he fed his mare on carp, and that she had a wooden head), or unnatural and invented. Meidanov regaled us with a regular romance; there were sepulchres in it, and angels with lyres, and talking flowers and music wafted from afar. Zinaïda did not let him finish. “If we are to have compositions,” she said, “let every one tell something made up, and no pretence about it.” The first who had to speak was again Byelovzorov.

The young hussar was confused. “I can’t make up anything!” he cried.

“What nonsense!” said Zinaïda. “Well, imagine, for instance, you are married, and tell us how you would treat your wife. Would you lock her up?”

“Yes, I should lock her up.”

“And would you stay with her yourself?”

“Yes, I should certainly stay with her myself.”

“Very good. Well, but if she got sick of that, and she deceived you?”

“I should kill her.”

“And if she ran away?”

“I should catch her up and kill her all the same.”

“Oh. And suppose now I were your wife, what would you do then?”

Byelovzorov was silent a minute. “I should kill myself….”

Zinaïda laughed. “I see yours is not a long story.”

The next forfeit was Zinaïda’s. She looked at the ceiling and considered. “Well, listen, she began at last, “what I have thought of…. Picture to yourselves a magnificent palace, a summer night, and a marvellous ball. This ball is given by a young queen. Everywhere gold and marble, crystal, silk, lights, diamonds, flowers, fragrant scents, every caprice of luxury.”

“You love luxury?” Lushin interposed.

“Luxury is beautiful,” she retorted; “I love everything beautiful.”

“More than what is noble?” he asked.

“That’s something clever, I don’t understand it. Don’t interrupt me. So the ball is magnificent. There are crowds of guests, all of them are young, handsome, and brave, all are frantically in love with the queen.”