First loves -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Russian fiction -- Translations into English
My “passion” dated from that day. I felt at that time, I recollect,
something like what a man must feel on entering the service: I had
ceased now to be simply a young boy; I was in love. I have said that my
passion dated from that day; I might have added that my sufferings too
dated from the same day. Away from Zinaïda I pined; nothing was to my
mind; everything went wrong with me; I spent whole days thinking
intensely about her … I pined when away,… but in her presence I was no
better off. I was jealous; I was conscious of my insignificance; I was
stupidly sulky or stupidly abject, and, all the same, an invincible
force drew me to her, and I could not help a shudder of delight
whenever I stepped through the doorway of her room. Zinaïda guessed at
once that I was in love with her, and indeed I never even thought of
concealing it. She amused herself with my passion, made a fool of me,
petted and tormented me. There is a sweetness in being the sole source,
the autocratic and irresponsible cause of the greatest joy and
profoundest pain to another, and I was like wax in Zinaïda’s hands;
though, indeed, I was not the only one in love with her. All the men
who visited the house were crazy over her, and she kept them all in
leading-strings at her feet. It amused her to arouse their hopes and
then their fears, to turn them round her finger (she used to call it
knocking their heads together), while they never dreamed of offering
resistance and eagerly submitted to her. About her whole being, so full
of life and beauty, there was a peculiarly bewitching mixture of
slyness and carelessness, of artificiality and simplicity, of composure
and frolicsomeness; about everything she did or said, about every
action of hers, there clung a delicate, fine charm, in which an
individual power was manifest at work. And her face was ever changing,
working too; it expressed, almost at the same time, irony, dreaminess,
and passion. Various emotions, delicate and quick-changing as the
shadows of clouds on a sunny day of wind, chased one another
continually over her lips and eyes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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