After our evening's outing we always had tea in her room and talked. We were not afraid of touching old wounds which were still unhealed: far from it, for it actually gave me pleasure, somehow, to tell her ofmy life with Orlov, or make frank allusions to those relations of which I was aware and which could not have been hidden from me.
'There were times when I hated you,' I said. 'When Orlov was behaving like a spoilt child, when he was condescending or lying to you, I was struck by your failure to see and grasp what was going on under your nose. You kissed his hands, you went down on your knees, you flattered him '
She blushed. 'When I kissed his hands and knelt do^ I loved him.'
'Was he so very hard to see through? Was he really such a sphinx? A sphinx-cum-bureaucrat—oh really!
'God forbid that I should reproach you with anything,' I went on, feeling a little clumsy and lacking in the urbanity and finesse so essential when dealing with another's inner life, though I had never been aware of suffering from that defect before meeting her.
'But why couldn't you see through him?' I repeated, now more quietly and diffidently.
'You despise my past, you mean, and you are quite right,' she said, greatly upset. 'You are one of those special people who can't bejudged conventionally, your moral imperatives are extremely stringent and you are incapable of forgiveness, I can see that. I understand you, and ifl sometimes contradict you it doesn't mean I don't see eye to eye with you. I am only talking this antiquated rubbish because I haven't yet had time to wear out my old dresses and prejudices. Myself, I hate and despise my past, I despise Orlov and my love. A fine sort of love that was !
'It all seems so comic now, actually,' she said, going to the window and looking do^ at the canal. 'These love affairs only dull one's conscience and confuse one. Our struggle is the only thing with any meaning in life. Bring do^ your heel 'On the vile serpent's head and crush it. That is where you'll find your purpose, it's either there or there isn't any such thing.'
I told her long stories from my past, describing my exploits—and astounding they had indeed been. But not one syllable did I breathe about the change which had occurred inside me. She always listened with close attention, rubbing her hands at the interesting parts as if irked that such adventures, fears and delights hadnot yet come her way, but then she would suddenly grow pensive, retreating into herself, and I could tell from her expression that she was heeding me no longer.
I would close the windows on to the canal and ask whether we should have the fire lit.
'Oh, never mind that, I'm not cold,' she would say with a wan smile. 'I just feel weak aU over. I think my wits have gro^ sharper of late, you know. I now have most unusual and original ideas. When I think about my past, say, about my old life—yes, and about people in general —the whole thing merges into a single picture and I see my stepmother. That rude, impudent, heartless, false slut of a woman! And she was a drug addict too! My father was a weak, spineless character who married my mother for her money and drove her into a decline, but his sccond wife, my stepmother ... he loved her passionately, he was crazy about her. I had a lot to put up with, I can tell you. Anyway, why go on about it? So, as I say, eve^^ng somehow merges into this one image. And I feel annoyed that my stepmother's dead, I would dearly love to meet her now!'
'Why?'
'Oh, I don't know,' she answered with a laugh and a pretty toss of her head. 'Good night. Hurry up and get better. As soon as you do we shall start working for the cause, it's high time we did.'
I had said good night and had my hand on the door handle when she asked: 'What do you think? Does Polya still live there?'
'Probably.'
I went to my room. We lived like this for a whole month. Then, one dull day we were both standing by my window at noon, silently watching the storm—louds rolling in from the sea and the canal which had turned dark blue. We were expecting a downpour at any moment, and when a narrow, dense belt of rain shrouded the open sea like a muslin veil we both suddenly felt bored. We left for Florence the same day.
XVI
It was auturhn, we were in Nice. One morning when I went into her room she was. sitting in an a^-chair: legs crossed, hunchcd, gaunt, face in hands, weeping torrents of bitter tears, with her long, unkempt hair trailing over her knees. The impression ofthe superb, magnificent sea which I had just been looking at and wanted to tell her about ... it suddenly vanished and my heart ached.
'What's the matter?' I asked.
She took one hand from hcr face and motioned for me to go out.
'Now, what is the matter?' I repeated, and for the first time since we had first met I kissed her hand.
'It's nothing really,' she said quickly. 'Oh, it's nothing, nothing. Go away. Can't you see I'm not dressed ?'
I went out in appalling distress. The serenity and peace of mind which I had so long enjoyed . . . now they were poisoned by compassion. I desperately longed to fall at her feet, to beg her not to bottle up her tears, but to share her grief with me, while the sea's steady rumble growled in my ears like the voice of doom and I foresaw new tears, new griefs, new losses. What, oh what was she crying about, I wondered, remembering her face and martyred look. She was pregnant, I remembered. She tried to hide her condition both from others and from herself. At home she wore a loose blouse or a bodice with voluminous folds in front, and when she went out she laced herself in so tightly that she twice fainted during our outings. She never mentioned her pregnancy to me, and when I once intimated that she might see a doctor she blushed deeply and said not a word.
When I went to her room later she was already dressed and had done her hair.
'Now, that's enough of that,' I said, seeing her once more on the brink of tears. 'Let's go downwn on the beach and have a talk.'
'I can't talk. I'm sorry, but I'm in the mood to be alone. And when you want to come into my room again, Vladimir, you might be good enough to knock first.'
That 'be good enough' sounded rather peculiar and unfeminine. I went out. My da^ed St. Petersburg mood came back, and my dreams all curled up and shrivelled like leaves in a heatwave. I felt that I was alone again, that there was no intimacy between us. I meant no more to her than yonder cobweb meant to the palm-tree on which it had chanced to cling until the wind should whip it olf and whisk it away. I strolled about the sq^e where the band was playing and went into the Casino. Here I looked at the overdressed, heavily perfumed women, and each of them glanced at me.
'You're an unattached male,' they seemed to say. 'Good!'
Then I went on the terrace and spent a long time looking at the sea. There was not one sail on the horizon. On the coast to my left were hills, gardens, towers and houses with sunlight playing on them in the mauve haze, but it was all so alien, so impassive—it was all such a clutter, somehow.
XVII
She still came and drank her coffee with me in the mornings, but we no longer had our meals together. She didn't feel hungry, she said, and she lived entirely on coffee, tea and oddments like oranges and caramels.