Nadya Zelenina had just returned with her mother from the theatre,
where they had been to see a performance of “Eugene Oniegin.” Entering
her room, she quickly threw off her dress, loosened her hair, and sat
down hurriedly in her petticoat and a white blouse to write a letter in
the style of Tatiana.
“I love you,”--she wrote--“but you don’t love me; no, you don’t!”
The moment she had written this, she smiled.
She was only sixteen years old, and so far she had not been in love.
She knew that Gorny, the officer, and Gronsdiev, the student, loved
her; but now, after the theatre, she wanted to doubt their love. To be
unloved and unhappy--how interesting. There is something beautiful,
affecting, romantic in the fact that one loves deeply while the other
is indifferent. Oniegin is interesting because he does not love at all,
and Tatiana is delightful because she is very much in love; but if
they loved each other equally and were happy, they would seem boring,
instead.
“Don’t go on protesting that you love me,” Nadya wrote on, thinking
of Gorny, the officer, “I can’t believe you. You’re very clever,
educated, serious; you have a great talent, and perhaps, a splendid
future waiting, but I am an uninteresting poor-spirited girl, and you
yourself know quite well that I shall only be a drag upon your life.
It’s true I carried you off your feet, and you thought you had met your
ideal in me, but that was a mistake. Already you are asking yourself in
despair, ‘Why did I meet this girl?’ Only your kindness prevents you
from confessing it.”
Nadya pitied herself. She wept and went on.
“If it were not so difficult for me to leave mother and brother I would
put on a nun’s gown and go where my eyes direct me. You would then be
free to love another. If I were to die!”
Through her tears she could not make out what she had written. Brief
rainbows trembled on the table, on the floor and the ceiling, as though
Nadya were looking through a prism. Impossible to write. She sank back
in her chair and began to think of Gorny.
Oh, how fascinating, how interesting men are! Nadya remembered the
beautiful expression of Gorny’s face, appealing, guilty, and tender,
when someone discussed music with him,--the efforts he made to prevent
the passion from sounding in his voice. Passion must be concealed in
a society where cold reserve and indifference are the signs of good
breeding. And he does try to conceal it, but he does not succeed,
and everybody knows quite well that he has a passion for music.
Never-ending discussions about music, blundering pronouncements by men
who do not understand--keep him in incessant tension. He is scared,
timid, silent. He plays superbly, as an ardent pianist. If he were not
an officer, he would be a famous musician.
The tears dried in her eyes. Nadya remembered how Gorny told her of his
love at a symphony concert, and again downstairs by the cloak-room.
“I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of the student
Gronsdiev,” she continued to write. “He is a very clever man, and you
are sure to love him. Yesterday he was sitting with us till two o’clock
in the morning. We were all so happy. I was sorry that you hadn’t come
to us. He said a lot of remarkable things.”
Nadya laid her hands on the table and lowered her head. Her hair
covered the letter. She remembered that Gronsdiev also loved her,
and that he had the same right to her letter as Gorny. Perhaps she
had better write to Gronsdiev? For no cause, a happiness began to
quicken in her breast. At first it was a little one, rolling about in
her breast like a rubber ball. Then it grew broader and bigger, and
broke forth like a wave. Nadya had already forgotten about Gorny and
Gronsdiev. Her thoughts became confused. The happiness grew more and
more. From her breast it ran into her arms and legs, and it seemed
that a light fresh breeze blew over her head, stirring her hair. Her
shoulders trembled with quiet laughter. The table and the lampglass
trembled. Tears from her eyes splashed the letter. She was powerless to
stop her laughter; and to convince herself that she had a reason for
it, she hastened to remember something funny.
“What a funny poodle!” she cried, feeling that she was choking with
laughter. “What a funny poodle!”
She remembered how Gronsdiev was playing with Maxim the poodle after
tea yesterday; how he told a story afterwards of a very clever poodle
who was chasing a crow in the yard. The crow gave him a look and said:
“Oh, you swindler!”
The poodle did not know he had to do with a learned crow. He was
terribly confused, and ran away dumfounded. Afterwards he began to bark.
“No, I’d better love Gronsdiev,” Nadya decided and tore up the letter.
She began to think of the student, of his love, of her own love, with
the result that the thoughts in her head swam apart and she thought
about everything, about her mother, the street, the pencil, the
piano. She was happy thinking, and found that everything was good,
magnificent. Her happiness told her that this was not all, that a
little later it would be still better. Soon it will be spring, summer.
They will go with mother to Gorbiki in the country. Gorny will come for
his holidays. He will walk in the orchard with her, and make love to
her. Gronsdiev will come too. He will play croquet with her and bowls.
He will tell funny, wonderful stories. She passionately longed for the
orchard, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders
trembled with laughter and she seemed to awake to a smell of wormwood
in the room; and a branch was tapping at the window.
She went to her bed and sat down. She did not know what to do with her
great happiness. It overwhelmed her. She stared at the crucifix which
hung at the head of her bed and saying:
“Dear God, dear God, dear God.”