In the evening we ate oysters, drank wine, and went out in a gondola.
I remember our black gondola swayed softly in the same place while the water faintly gurgled under it.
Here and there the reflection of the stars and the lights on the bank quivered and trembled.
Not far from us in a gondola, hung with coloured lanterns which were reflected in the water, there were people singing.
The sounds of guitars, of violins, of mandolins, of men's and women's voices, were audible in the dark. Zinaida Fyodorovna, pale, with a grave, almost stern face, was sitting beside me, compressing her lips and clenching her hands.
She was thinking about something; she did not stir an eyelash, nor hear me.
Her face, her attitude, and her fixed, expressionless gaze, and her incredibly miserable, dreadful, and icy-cold memories, and around her the gondolas, the lights, the music, the song with its vigorous passionate cry of
"Jam-mo!
Jam-mo!"--what contrasts in life!
When she sat like that, with tightly clasped hands, stony, mournful, I used to feel as though we were both characters in some novel in the old-fashioned style called
"The Ill-fated,"
"The Abandoned," or something of the sort.
Both of us: she--the ill-fated, the abandoned; and I--the faithful, devoted friend, the dreamer, and, if you like it, a superfluous man, a failure capable of nothing but coughing and dreaming, and perhaps sacrificing myself. But who and what needed my sacrifices now?
And what had I to sacrifice, indeed?
When we came in in the evening we always drank tea in her room and talked.
We did not shrink from touching on old, unhealed wounds-- on the contrary, for some reason I felt a positive pleasure in telling her about my life at Orlov's, or referring openly to relations which I knew and which could not have been concealed from me.
"At moments I hated you," I said to her. "When he was capricious, condescending, told you lies, I marvelled how it was you did not see, did not understand, when it was all so clear!
You kissed his hands, you knelt to him, you flattered him. . ."
"When I . . . kissed his hands and knelt to him, I loved him . . ." she said, blushing crimson.
"Can it have been so difficult to see through him?
A fine sphinx!
A sphinx indeed--a kammer-junker!
I reproach you for nothing, God forbid," I went on, feeling I was coarse, that I had not the tact, the delicacy which are so essential when you have to do with a fellow-creature's soul; in early days before I knew her I had not noticed this defect in myself. "But how could you fail to see what he was," I went on, speaking more softly and more diffidently, however.
"You mean to say you despise my past, and you are right," she said, deeply stirred. "You belong to a special class of men who cannot be judged by ordinary standards; your moral requirements are exceptionally rigorous, and I understand you can't forgive things. I understand you, and if sometimes I say the opposite, it doesn't mean that I look at things differently from you; I speak the same old nonsense simply because I haven't had time yet to wear out my old clothes and prejudices.
I, too, hate and despise my past, and Orlov and my love. . . .
What was that love?
It's positively absurd now," she said, going to the window and looking down at the canal. "All this love only clouds the conscience and confuses the mind.
The meaning of life is to be found only in one thing--fighting.
To get one's heel on the vile head of the serpent and to crush it!
That's the meaning of life.
In that alone or in nothing."
I told her long stories of my past, and described my really astounding adventures.
But of the change that had taken place in me I did not say one word.
She always listened to me with great attention, and at interesting places she rubbed her hands as though vexed that it had not yet been her lot to experience such adventures, such joys and terrors. Then she would suddenly fall to musing and retreat into herself, and I could see from her face that she was not attending to me.
I closed the windows that looked out on the canal and asked whether we should not have the fire lighted.
"No, never mind.
I am not cold," she said, smiling listlessly. "I only feel weak.
Do you know, I fancy I have grown much wiser lately.
I have extraordinary, original ideas now.
When I think of my past, of my life then . . . people in general, in fact, it is all summed up for me in the image of my stepmother.
Coarse, insolent, soulless, false, depraved, and a morphia maniac too.
My father, who was feeble and weak-willed, married my mother for her money and drove her into consumption; but his second wife, my stepmother, he loved passionately, insanely. . . .
What I had to put up with!
But what is the use of talking!
And so, as I say, it is all summed up in her image. . . .
And it vexes me that my stepmother is dead.
I should like to meet her now!"
"Why?"
"I don't know," she answered with a laugh and a graceful movement of her head.
"Good-night.