On the following morning, when I went down-stairs to tea, my mother
scolded me,--although less than I had anticipated,--and made me narrate
how I had spent the preceding evening. I answered her in few words,
omitting many particulars and endeavouring to impart to my narrative the
most innocent of aspects.
“Nevertheless, they are not people _comme il faut_,”--remarked my
mother;--“and I do not wish thee to run after them, instead of preparing
thyself for the examination, and occupying thyself.”
As I knew that my mother’s anxiety was confined to these few words, I
did not consider it necessary to make her any reply; but after tea my
father linked his arm in mine, and betaking himself to the garden with
me, made me tell him everything I had done and seen at the Zasyékins’.
My father possessed a strange influence over me, and our relations were
strange. He paid hardly any attention to my education, but he never
wounded me; he respected my liberty--he was even, if I may so express
it, courteous to me ... only, he did not allow me to get close to him.
I loved him, I admired him; he seemed to me a model man; and great
heavens! how passionately attached to him I should have been, had I not
constantly felt his hand warding me off! On the other hand, when he
wished, he understood how to evoke in me, instantaneously, with one
word, one movement, unbounded confidence in him. My soul opened, I
chatted with him as with an intelligent friend, as with an indulgent
preceptor ... then, with equal suddenness, he abandoned me, and again
his hand repulsed me, caressingly and softly, but repulsed nevertheless.
Sometimes a fit of mirth came over him, and then he was ready to frolic
and play with me like a boy (he was fond of every sort of energetic
bodily exercise); once--only once--did he caress me with so much
tenderness that I came near bursting into tears.... But his mirth and
tenderness also vanished without leaving a trace, and what had taken
place between us gave me no hopes for the future; it was just as though
I had seen it all in a dream. I used to stand and scrutinise his clever,
handsome, brilliant face ... and my heart would begin to quiver, and my
whole being would yearn toward him, ... and he would seem to feel what
was going on within me, and would pat me on the cheek in passing--and
either go away, or begin to occupy himself with something, or suddenly
freeze all over,--as he alone knew how to freeze,--and I would
immediately shrivel up and grow frigid also. His rare fits of affection
for me were never called forth by my speechless but intelligible
entreaties; they always came upon him without warning. When meditating,
in after years, upon my father’s character, I came to the conclusion
that he did not care for me or for family life; he loved something
different, and enjoyed that other thing to the full. “Seize what thou
canst thyself, and do not give thyself into any one’s power; the whole
art of life consists in belonging to one’s self,”--he said to me once.
On another occasion I, in my capacity of a young democrat, launched out
in his presence into arguments about liberty (he was what I called
“kind” that day; at such times one could say whatever one liked to
him).--“Liberty,”--he repeated,--“but dost thou know what can give a man
liberty?”
“What?”
“Will, his own will, and the power which it gives is better than
liberty. Learn to will, and thou wilt be free, and wilt command.”
My father wished, first of all and most of all, to enjoy life--and he
did enjoy life.... Perhaps he had a presentiment that he was not fated
long to take advantage of the “art” of living: he died at the age of
forty-two.
I described to my father in detail my visit to the Zasyékins. He
listened to me half-attentively, half-abstractedly, as he sat on the
bench and drew figures on the sand with the tip of his riding-whip. Now
and then he laughed, glanced at me in a brilliant, amused sort of way,
and spurred me on by brief questions and exclamations. At first I could
not bring myself even to utter Zinaída’s name, but I could not hold out,
and began to laud her. My father still continued to laugh. Then he
became thoughtful, dropped his eyes and rose to his feet.
I recalled the fact that, as he came out of the house, he had given
orders that his horse should be saddled. He was a capital rider, and
knew much better how to tame the wildest horses than did Mr. Rarey.
“Shall I ride with thee, papa?”--I asked him.
“No,”--he replied, and his face assumed its habitual
indifferently-caressing expression.--“Go alone, if thou wishest; but
tell the coachman that I shall not go.”
He turned his back on me and walked swiftly away. I followed him with my
eyes, until he disappeared beyond the gate. I saw his hat moving along
the fence; he went into the Zasyékins’ house.
He remained with them no more than an hour, but immediately thereafter
went off to town and did not return home until evening.
After dinner I went to the Zasyékins’ myself. I found no one in the
drawing-room but the old Princess. When she saw me, she scratched her
head under her cap with the end of her knitting-needle, and suddenly
asked me: would I copy a petition for her?
“With pleasure,”--I replied, and sat down on the edge of a chair.
“Only look out, and see that you make the letters as large as
possible,”--said the Princess, handing me a sheet of paper scrawled over
in a slovenly manner:--“and couldn’t you do it to-day, my dear fellow?”
“I will copy it this very day, madam.”
The door of the adjoining room opened a mere crack and Zinaída’s face
showed itself in the aperture,--pale, thoughtful, with hair thrown
carelessly back. She stared at me with her large, cold eyes, and softly
shut the door.
“Zína,--hey there, Zína!”--said the old woman. Zinaída did not answer. I
carried away the old woman’s petition, and sat over it the whole
evening.