“You love me very much?” she asked at last. “Yes.”
I made no answer—indeed, what need was there to answer?
“Yes,” she repeated, looking at me as before. “That’s so. The same eyes,”—she went on; sank into thought, and hid her face in her hands. “Everything’s grown so loathsome to me,” she whispered, “I would have gone to the other end of the world first—I can’t bear it, I can’t get over it…. And what is there before me!… Ah, I am wretched…. My God, how wretched I am!”
“What for?” I asked timidly.
Zinaïda made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders. I remained kneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness. Every word she had uttered simply cut me to the heart. At that instant I felt I would gladly have given my life, if only she should not grieve. I gazed at her—and though I could not understand why she was wretched, I vividly pictured to myself, how in a fit of insupportable anguish, she had suddenly come out into the garden, and sunk to the earth, as though mown down by a scythe. It was all bright and green about her; the wind was whispering in the leaves of the trees, and swinging now and then a long branch of a raspberry bush over Zinaïda’s head. There was a sound of the cooing of doves, and the bees hummed, flying low over the scanty grass. Overhead the sun was radiantly blue—while I was so sorrowful….
“Read me some poetry,” said Zinaïda in an undertone, and she propped herself on her elbow; “I like your reading poetry. You read it in sing-song, but that’s no matter, that comes of being young. Read me ‘On the Hills of Georgia.’ Only sit down first.”
I sat down and read “On the Hills of Georgia.”
“‘That the heart cannot choose but love,’” repeated Zinaïda. “That’s where poetry’s so fine; it tells us what is not, and what’s not only better than what is, but much more like the truth, ‘cannot choose but love,’—it might want not to, but it can’t help it.” She was silent again, then all at once she started and got up. “Come along. Meidanov’s indoors with mamma, he brought me his poem, but I deserted him. His feelings are hurt too now … I can’t help it! you’ll understand it all some day … only don’t be angry with me!”
Zinaïda hurriedly pressed my hand and ran on ahead. We went back into the lodge. Meidanov set to reading us his “Manslayer,” which had just appeared in print, but I did not hear him. He screamed and drawled his four-foot iambic lines, the alternating rhythms jingled like little bells, noisy and meaningless, while I still watched Zinaïda and tried to take in the import of her last words.
“Perchance some unknown rival
Has surprised and mastered thee?”