I was then nearly eleven years old. In July, I was sent to stay at a village near Moscow, with my relative, T—v, at whose place about fifty, or perhaps more, guests had gathered at that time… I don’t remember, I didn’t count. It was noisy and cheerful. It seemed like a celebration that had begun with the intention of never ending. It seemed our host had made a vow to squander his enormous fortune as quickly as possible, and he did recently succeed in justifying that prediction, that is, squandering everything, completely, cleanly, down to the last chip. New guests kept arriving momentarily; Moscow was a stone’s throw away, in plain sight, so those who left only made room for others, and the festivity went on as usual. Amusements replaced one another, and the entertainments seemed endless. Sometimes it was horseback riding in the surrounding area, in large parties, sometimes walks in the pine forest or along the river; picnics, dinners in the field; suppers on the large terrace of the house, decorated with three rows of precious flowers, whose aromas filled the fresh night air, under brilliant lighting, which made our ladies, who were almost all pretty to begin with, seem even more charming with their faces animated by the day’s impressions, with their sparkling eyes, with their lively cross-talk, flowing into laughter as clear as a bell; dancing, music, singing; if the sky clouded over, they invented tableaux vivants, charades, proverbs; a home theatre was arranged. Orators, storytellers, and wits appeared.
Several figures stood out sharply in the foreground. Of course, malice and gossip took their turn, as the world cannot exist without them, and millions of people would die of boredom like flies. But since I was eleven years old, I didn’t notice those people then, distracted by entirely different things, and if I did notice anything, it wasn’t everything. Later, I had to recall some things. Only the glittering side of the picture could catch my childish eyes, and that universal animation, the brilliance, the noise—all of this, which I had never seen or heard before, so struck me that I was completely bewildered for the first few days, and my little head was spinning.
But I keep talking about being eleven years old, and, of course, I was a child, nothing more than a child. Many of these beautiful women, caressing me, didn’t yet bother to check on my age. But—a strange thing!—some feeling incomprehensible to myself had already taken hold of me; something hitherto unfamiliar and unknown to it was already rustling in my heart; but why did it sometimes burn and beat as if frightened, and why was my face often unexpectedly flushed with a blush? At times I felt somehow ashamed and even offended by my various childish privileges. At other times, it seemed as if astonishment overcame me, and I would go somewhere where no one could see me, as if to catch my breath and recall something, something that, until now, I thought I remembered very well and had now suddenly forgotten, but without which, however, I could not appear and absolutely could not be.
Finally, it seemed to me that I was hiding something from everyone, but I would not tell anyone about it for anything, because I, a little man, was ashamed to tears. Soon, amidst the whirlwind that surrounded me, I felt a kind of solitude. There were other children here, but they were all either much younger or much older than me; but, in any case, they didn’t matter to me. Of course, nothing would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional position. In the eyes of all these beautiful ladies, I was still the same little, indefinite creature that they sometimes liked to fondle and with whom they could play as with a small doll. One of them in particular, a charming blonde, with luxurious, very thick hair, such as I have never seen since and probably never will, seemed to have vowed not to leave me in peace. I was embarrassed, but she was amused by the laughter that echoed around us, which she constantly provoked with her sharp, madcap antics involving me, which evidently gave her enormous pleasure. In boarding schools, among her friends, they would surely have called her a tomboy. She was wonderfully beautiful, and there was something in her beauty that leaped out at the eye at first glance. And, of course, she was not like those little timid blondes, white as fluff, and gentle as white mice or a pastor’s daughters. She was not tall and a little full, but with tender, fine lines to her face, charmingly drawn. There was something that flashed like lightning in that face, and she herself was like fire, lively, quick, light. Sparks seemed to pour from her large, open eyes; they sparkled like diamonds, and I would never exchange such blue, scintillating eyes for any black ones, even if they were blacker than the blackest Andalusian gaze, and my blonde, truly, was worth that famous brunette whom a certain known and fine poet sang of, and who, in such excellent verses, swore by all of Castile that he was ready to break his own bones if they would only allow him to touch the mantilla of his beauty with the tip of his finger. Add to that that my beauty was the most cheerful of all beauties in the world, the most volatile giggler, as lively as a child, despite having been married for five years already. Laughter never left her lips, fresh as a morning rose that had just managed to open its scarlet, fragrant bud with the first ray of sun, on which the cold, large drops of dew had not yet dried.
I remember that on the second day of my arrival, a home theatre was arranged. The hall was, as they say, packed solid; there wasn’t a single free seat; and since I happened to be late for some reason, I was forced to enjoy the performance standing up. But the cheerful play increasingly drew me forward, and I imperceptibly worked my way to the very front rows, where I finally stood, leaning on the back of a chair occupied by a lady. This was my blonde; but we were not yet acquainted. And so, somehow inadvertently, I became engrossed in looking at her wonderfully rounded, seductive shoulders, full, white as milk froth, although I truly would have looked just the same at the marvelous feminine shoulders or at a cap with fiery ribbons that concealed the gray hair of a respectable lady in the first row. Next to the blonde sat an over-ripe maiden, one of those who, as I happened to notice later, constantly huddle somewhere as close as possible to young and pretty women, choosing those who do not like to chase away the young people. But that is not the point; only this maiden noticed my observation, leaned over to her neighbor and, tittering, whispered something in her ear. The neighbor suddenly turned around, and I remember her fiery eyes flashed at me in the semi-darkness so that I, unprepared for the encounter, flinched as if I had been burned. The beauty smiled.
“Do you like what they’re playing?” she asked, looking at my eyes slyly and mockingly.
“Yes,” I answered, still looking at her with a kind of amazement, which apparently pleased her in turn.
“But why are you standing? You’ll get tired; isn’t there a place for you?”
“That’s exactly it, there isn’t,” I replied, this time more concerned with my predicament than the beauty’s sparkling eyes, and genuinely glad that a kind heart had finally been found to whom I could reveal my sorrow. “I’ve looked, but all the chairs are taken,” I added, as if complaining to her that all the chairs were taken.
“Come here,” she spoke up quickly, as prompt in all decisions as in any madcap idea that might flutter into her giddy head, “come here, to me, and sit on my lap.”
“On your lap?..” I repeated, taken aback.
I have already said that my privileges seriously began to offend and embarrass me. This lady, as if to mock me, went much further than others. Furthermore, I, who was always a timid and shy boy anyway, was now starting to be especially afraid of women and was therefore terribly embarrassed.
“Yes, on my lap! Why don’t you want to sit on my lap?” she insisted, beginning to laugh harder and harder, so that she finally just started roaring with laughter about goodness knows what, perhaps her own invention or delighted that I was so embarrassed. But that’s exactly what she wanted.
I flushed and looked around in confusion, searching for a place to hide; but she had already preempted me, somehow managing to catch my hand, specifically so that I wouldn’t leave, and, pulling it toward her, she suddenly, completely unexpectedly, to my utmost surprise, squeezed it very painfully in her mischievous, hot fingers and began to twist my fingers, but so painfully that I exerted every effort not to cry out, and in doing so, I made very funny faces. In addition, I was in the most awful astonishment, bewilderment, even horror, at learning that there were such funny and malicious ladies who talked to little boys about such trifles and even pinched so painfully, goodness knows why and in front of everyone. Probably my unhappy face reflected all my bewilderment, because the imp laughed in my face like a madwoman, and yet continued to pinch and twist my poor fingers harder and harder. She was beside herself with delight that she had managed to play a trick, embarrass the poor boy, and utterly mystify him. My situation was desperate. Firstly, I was burning with shame, because almost everyone around us had turned toward us, some in bewilderment, others with laughter, immediately realizing that the beauty had played some prank. In addition, I desperately wanted to scream, because she was twisting my fingers with a kind of ferocity, precisely because I wasn’t screaming: and I, like a Spartan, decided to endure the pain, afraid of causing a commotion with a scream, after which I don’t know what would have become of me. In a fit of utter despair, I finally began to struggle and tried with all my might to pull my own hand back, but my tyrant was much stronger than me. Finally, I couldn’t bear it, and I shrieked—that was all she was waiting for! Instantly, she dropped me and turned away, as if nothing had happened, as if it wasn’t she who had played the prank, but someone else, exactly like some schoolboy who, as soon as the teacher turns his back, has already managed to play a trick somewhere nearby, pinch some tiny, weak boy, give him a flick, a kick, nudge his elbow, and instantly turn back, straighten up, bury his head in a book, start drilling his lesson, and thus leave the enraged teacher, who swooped down like a hawk on the noise, with a very long and unexpected face.
But, fortunately for me, the general attention was captured at that moment by the skillful acting of our host, who was playing the main role in the piece being performed, some Scribe comedy. Everyone applauded; I, amidst the noise, slipped out of the row and ran to the very end of the hall, into the opposite corner, from where, hiding behind a column, I watched the treacherous beauty with horror. She was still laughing, covering her lips with her handkerchief. And for a long time she kept turning around, searching for me in all the corners—probably very sorry that our madcap skirmish had ended so quickly, and thinking of how to play another trick.
This is how our acquaintance began, and from that evening on, she never left my side. She pursued me without measure or conscience, becoming my persecutor, my tyrant. The whole comedy of her pranks with me consisted of her declaring herself madly in love with me and teasing me in front of everyone. Naturally, for me, a complete savage, all this was upsetting and annoying to the point of tears, so that I was several times in such a serious and critical state that I was ready to fight my treacherous admirer. My naive confusion, my desperate anguish, seemed to give her wings to pursue me to the end. She knew no pity, and I didn’t know where to hide from her. The laughter that echoed around us and which she certainly knew how to provoke only spurred her on to new mischief. But people finally began to find her jokes a little too much. And indeed, as I have to recall now, she was already taking too many liberties with a child like me.
But such was her character: she was, in every sense of the word, a spoiled darling. I heard later that she had been spoiled most of all by her own husband, a very plump, very short, and very red-faced man, very rich and very business-like, at least in appearance: fidgety, fussy, he couldn’t stay in one place for two hours. Every day he traveled from us to Moscow, sometimes twice, and always, as he assured us, on business. It would be difficult to find a funnier and more good-natured face than this comical and yet always respectable countenance. Not only did he love his wife to the point of weakness, to the point of pity—he simply worshipped her like an idol.
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