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At last I got up, walked on tiptoe to my bed, and without undressing, laid my head carefully on the pillow, as though I were afraid by an abrupt movement to disturb what filled my soul...

I lay down, but did not even close my eyes.

Soon I noticed that faint glimmers of light of some sort were thrown continually into the room...

I sat up and looked at the window.

The window-frame could be clearly distinguished from the mysteriously and dimly-lighted panes.

It is a storm, I thought; and a storm it really was, but it was raging so very far away that the thunder could not be heard; only blurred, long, as it were branching, gleams of lightning flashed continually over the sky; it was not flashing, though, so much as quivering and twitching like the wing of a dying bird.

I got up, went to the window, and stood there till morning...

The lightning never ceased for an instant; it was what is called among the peasants a sparrow night.

I gazed at the dumb sandy plain, at the dark mass of the Neskutchny gardens, at the yellowish façades of the distant buildings, which seemed to quiver too at each faint flash...

I gazed, and could not turn away; these silent lightning flashes, these gleams seemed in response to the secret silent fires which were aglow within me.

Morning began to dawn; the sky was flushed in patches of crimson.

As the sun came nearer, the lightning grew gradually paler, and ceased; the quivering gleams were fewer and fewer, and vanished at last, drowned in the sobering positive light of the coming day...

And my lightning flashes vanished too.

I felt great weariness and peace ... but Zinaida's image still floated triumphant over my soul.

But it too, this image, seemed more tranquil: like a swan rising out of the reeds of a bog, it stood out from the other unbeautiful figures surrounding it, and as I fell asleep, I flung myself before it in farewell, trusting adoration...

Oh, sweet emotions, gentle harmony, goodness and peace of the softened heart, melting bliss of the first raptures of love, where are they, where are they?

The next morning, when I came down to tea, my mother scolded me – less severely, however, than I had expected – and made me tell her how I had spent the previous evening. I answered her in few words, omitting many details, and trying to give the most innocent air to everything.

'Anyway, they're people who're not comme il faut,' my mother commented, 'and you've no business to be hanging about there, instead of preparing yourself for the examination, and doing your work.'

As I was well aware that my mother's anxiety about my studies was confined to these few words, I did not feel it necessary to make any rejoinder; but after morning tea was over, my father took me by the arm, and turning into the garden with me, forced me to tell him all I had seen at the Zasyekins'.

A curious influence my father had over me, and curious were the relations existing between us.

He took hardly any interest in my education, but he never hurt my feelings; he respected my freedom, he treated me – if I may so express it – with courtesy,... only he never let me be really close to him.

I loved him, I admired him, he was my ideal of a man – and Heavens! how passionately devoted I should have been to him, if I had not been continually conscious of his holding me off! But when he liked, he could almost instantaneously, by a single word, a single gesture, call forth an unbounded confidence in him.

My soul expanded, I chattered away to him, as to a wise friend, a kindly teacher ... then he as suddenly got rid of me, and again he was keeping me off, gently and affectionately, but still he kept me off.

Sometimes he was in high spirits, and then he was ready to romp and frolic with me, like a boy (he was fond of vigorous physical exercise of every sort); once – it never happened a second time! – he caressed me with such tenderness that I almost shed tears...

Chapter VIII

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