First love, and other stories. Иван Тургенев

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СКАЧАТЬ to call upon her. I found my mother in an unpleasant frame of mind: my father was not at home, and she had no one with whom to take counsel. It was impossible not to reply to a “knoble woman,” and to a Princess into the bargain; but how to reply perplexed my mother. It seemed to her ill-judged to write a note in French, and my mother was not strong in Russian orthography herself—and was aware of the fact—and did not wish to compromise herself. She was delighted at my arrival, and immediately ordered me to go to the Princess and explain to her verbally that my mother was always ready, to the extent of her ability, to be of service to Her Radiance,[3] and begged that she would call upon her about one o’clock.

      This unexpectedly swift fulfilment of my secret wishes both delighted and frightened me; but I did not betray the emotion which held possession of me, and preliminarily betook myself to my room for the purpose of donning a new neckcloth and coat; at home I went about in a round-jacket and turn-over collars, although I detested them greatly.

IV

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      In the cramped and dirty anteroom of the wing, which I entered with an involuntary trembling of my whole body, I was received by a grey-haired old serving-man with a face the hue of dark copper, pig-like, surly little eyes, and such deep wrinkles on his forehead as I had never seen before in my life. He was carrying on a platter the gnawed spinal bone of a herring, and, pushing to with his foot the door which led into the adjoining room, he said abruptly:—“What do you want?”

      “Is Princess Zasyékin at home?”—I inquired.

      “Vonifáty!”—screamed a quavering female voice on the other side of the door.

      The servant silently turned his back on me, thereby displaying the badly-worn rear of his livery with its solitary, rusted, armouried button, and went away, leaving the platter on the floor.

      “Hast thou been to the police-station?”—went on that same feminine voice. The servant muttered something in reply.—“Hey? … Some one has come?”—was the next thing audible. … “The young gentleman from next door?—Well, ask him in.”

      “Please come into the drawing-room, sir,”—said the servant, making his appearance again before me, and picking up the platter from the floor. I adjusted my attire and entered the “drawing-room.”

      I found myself in a tiny and not altogether clean room, with shabby furniture which seemed to have been hastily set in place. At the window, in an easy-chair with a broken arm, sat a woman of fifty, with uncovered hair[4] and plain-featured, clad in an old green gown, and with a variegated worsted kerchief round her neck. Her small black eyes fairly bored into me.

      I went up to her and made my bow.

      “I have the honour of speaking to Princess Zasyékin?”

      “I am Princess Zasyékin: and you are the son of Mr. B—?”

      “Yes, madam. I have come to you with a message from my mother.”

      “Pray be seated. Vonifáty! where are my keys? Hast thou seen them?”

      I communicated to Madame Zasyékin my mother’s answer to her note. She listened to me, tapping the window-pane with her thick, red fingers, and when I had finished she riveted her eyes on me once more.

      “Very good; I shall certainly go,”—said she at last.—“But how young you are still! How old are you, allow me to ask?”

      “Sixteen,”—I replied with involuntary hesitation.

      The Princess pulled out of her pocket some dirty, written documents, raised them up to her very nose and began to sort them over.

      “ ’Tis a good age,”—she suddenly articulated, turning and fidgeting in her chair.—“And please do not stand on ceremony. We are plain folks.”

      “Too plain,”—I thought, with involuntary disgust taking in with a glance the whole of her homely figure.

      At that moment, the other door of the drawing-room was swiftly thrown wide open, and on the threshold appeared the young girl whom I had seen in the garden the evening before. She raised her hand and a smile flitted across her face.

      “And here is my daughter,”—said the Princess, pointing at her with her elbow.—“Zínotchka, the son of our neighbour, Mr. B—. What is your name, permit me to inquire?”

      “Vladímir,”—I replied, rising and lisping with agitation.

      “And your patronymic?”

      “Petróvitch.”

      “Yes! I once had an acquaintance, a chief of police, whose name was Vladímir Petróvitch also. Vonifáty! don’t hunt for the keys; the keys are in my pocket.”

      The young girl continued to gaze at me with the same smile as before, slightly puckering up her eyes and bending her head a little on one side.

      “I have already seen M’sieu Voldemar,”—she began. (The silvery tone of her voice coursed through me like a sweet chill.)—“Will you permit me to call you so?”

      “Pray do, madam,”—I lisped.

      “Where was that?”—asked the Princess.

      The young Princess did not answer her mother.

      “Are you busy now?”—she said, without taking her eyes off me.

      “Not in the least, madam.”

      “Then will you help me to wind some wool? Come hither, to me.”

      She nodded her head at me and left the drawing-room. I followed her.

      In the room which we entered the furniture was a little better and was arranged with great taste.—But at that moment I was almost unable to notice anything; I moved as though in a dream and felt a sort of intense sensation of well-being verging on stupidity throughout my frame.

      The young Princess sat down, produced a knot of red wool, and pointing me to a chair opposite her, she carefully unbound the skein and placed it on my hands. She did all this in silence, with a sort of diverting deliberation, and with the same brilliant and crafty smile on her slightly parted lips. She began to wind the wool upon a card doubled together, and suddenly illumined me with such a clear, swift glance, that I involuntarily dropped my eyes. When her eyes, which were generally half closed, opened to their full extent her face underwent a complete change; it was as though light had inundated it.

      “What did you think of me yesterday, M’sieu Voldemar?”—she asked, after a brief pause.—“You certainly must have condemned me?”

      “I … Princess … I thought nothing … how can I. …” I replied, in confusion.

      “Listen,”—she returned.—“You do not know me yet; I want people always to speak the truth to me. You are sixteen, I heard, and I am twenty-one; you see that I am a great deal older than you, and therefore you must always speak the truth to me … and obey me,”—she added.—“Look СКАЧАТЬ