I gazed, and could not tear myself away. This silent lightning, this controlled light, seemed to answer to the mute and secret fires which were blazing within me. Morning began to dawn. The sky was stained crimson. As the sun rose, the lightning became fainter and less frequent; the flashes came more and more seldom, and finally ceased, drowned in the clear and unambiguous light of the rising day. And the flashes within me died down too. I felt weary and at peace, but the image of Zinaida still hovered triumphant over my soul, though even this image seemed more tranquil. Like a swan rising from the grasses of the marsh, it stood out from the unlovely shapes which surrounded it, and I, as I fell asleep, in parting for the last time clung to it, in trusting adoration.

Oh, gentle feelings, soft sounds, the goodness and the gradual stilling of a soul that has been moved; the melting happiness of the first tender, touching joys of love – where are you? Where are you?

8

Next morning, when I came down to breakfast, my mother scolded me – not as much as I expected – and made me describe how I had spent the previous evening. I replied briefly, leaving out many details, and tried to make everything seem completely innocent.

‘All the same, they are not at all comme il faut,’ remarked my mother, ‘and I wish you would not waste your time in such company, instead of doing some work for your examination.’

Knowing as I did that my mother’s concern with my studies would be confined to these few words, I did not think it necessary to answer her; but after breakfast, my father put his arm through mine and, taking me into the garden, made me give him a full account of all I had seen at the Zasyekins’.

My father had a curious influence on me, and our relations were curious too. He took scarcely any interest in my education, but never hurt my feelings; he respected my freedom; he displayed – if one can put it that way – a certain courtesy towards me; only he never let me come at all close to him. I loved him, I was full of admiration for him; he seemed to me the ideal man – and God knows how passionately attached to him I should have been if I had not felt constantly the presence of his restraining hand. Yet he could, whenever he wished, with a single word, a single gesture, instantly make me feel complete trust in him. My soul would open; I chattered to him as to a wise friend, an indulgent mentor…and then, just as suddenly, he would abandon me, his hand would again push me aside – kindly and gently – but, nevertheless, aside.

Sometimes a mood of gaiety would come over him, and at such moments he was ready to play and romp with me, full of high spirits like a boy. He loved all violent physical exercise.

Once, and only once, he caressed me with such tenderness that I nearly cried…then his gaiety and tenderness vanished without a trace. But when this happened it never gave me any hope for the future – I seemed to have seen it all in a dream. At times I would watch his clear, handsome, clever face…my heart would tremble, my entire being would yearn towards him…then, as if he sensed what was going on within me he would casually pat my cheek – and would either leave me, or start doing something, or else would suddenly freeze as only he knew how. Instantly I would shrink into myself, and grow cold. His rare fits of affability towards me were never in answer to my own unspoken but obvious entreaties. They always came unexpectedly. When, later, I used to think about my father’s character, I came to the conclusion that he cared nothing for me nor for family life; it was something very different he loved, which wholly satisfied his desire for pleasure. ‘Take what you can yourself, and don’t let others get you into their hands; to belong to oneself, that is the whole thing in life,’ he said to me once. On another occasion, being at that time a youthful democrat, I embarked on a discussion of liberty in his presence (on that day he was what I used to call ‘kind’; then one could talk about anything to him).

‘Liberty,’ he repeated. ‘Do you know what really makes a man free?’

‘What?’

‘Will, your own will, and it gives power which is better than liberty. Know how to want, and you’ll be free, and you’ll be master too.’

Before and above everything, my father wanted to live…and did live. Perhaps he had a premonition that he would not have long in which to make use of the ‘thing in life’; he died at forty-two.

I gave my father a detailed account of my visit to the Zasyekins. Sitting on a bench he listened to me, half-attentively, half-absently – drawing in the sand with his riding-crop. From time to time he would laugh lightly, glance at me in an odd, bright, gay manner, and egg me on with short questions and rejoinders. At first I scarcely dared to pronounce Zinaida’s name, but could not contain myself, and began to sing her praises. My father merely continued to smile; presently he became thoughtful, stretched himself, and rose.

I remembered that as he was leaving the house he had ordered his horse to be saddled. He was a superb rider and could break in the wildest horse long before Monsieur Rarey.

‘Shall I come with you, Papa?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he replied, and his face assumed its usual expression of benevolent indifference.