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Updated: June 21, 2025
'Well, to my mind, Hugo beats Byron, the young count observed negligently; 'he's more interesting. 'Hugo is a writer of the first class, replied Meidanov; 'and my friend, Tonkosheev, in his Spanish romance, El Trovador ... 'Ah! is that the book with the question-marks turned upside down? Zinaida interrupted. 'Yes. That's the custom with the Spanish. I was about to observe that Tonkosheev ...
You, Byelovzorov, would have challenged him to a duel; you, Meidanov, would have written an epigram on him ... No, though, you can't write epigrams, you would have made up a long poem on him in the style of Barbier, and would have inserted your production in the Telegraph. You, Nirmatsky, would have borrowed ... no, you would have lent him money at high interest; you, doctor,... she stopped.
Meidanov responded to the poetic fibres of her nature; a man of rather cold temperament, like almost all writers, he forced himself to convince her, and perhaps himself, that he adored her, sang her praises in endless verses, and read them to her with a peculiar enthusiasm, at once affected and sincere.
'Meidanov, said the princess to a tall young man with a thin face, little dim-sighted eyes, and exceedingly long black hair, 'you as a poet ought to be magnanimous, and give up your number to M'sieu Voldemar so that he may have two chances instead of one. But Meidanov shook his head in refusal, and tossed his hair.
All were there in full force, just as on that first evening which I never forgot; even Nirmatsky had limped to see her; Meidanov came this time earliest of all, he brought some new verses. The games of forfeits began again, but without the strange pranks, the practical jokes and noise the gipsy element had vanished. Zinaida gave a different tone to the proceedings.
There is nothing but the sound of their shrill cry, and her wreath left lying on the bank. Zinaida ceased. 'And is that all? asked Meidanov. 'That's all. 'That can't be the subject of a whole poem, he observed pompously, 'but I will make use of your idea for a lyrical fragment. 'In the romantic style? queried Malevsky. 'Of course, in the romantic style Byronic.
'What are those clouds like? questioned Zinaida; and without waiting for our answer, she said, 'I think they are like the purple sails on the golden ship of Cleopatra, when she sailed to meet Antony. Do you remember, Meidanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?
He screamed and drawled his four-foot iambic lines, the alternating rhythms jingled like little bells, noisy and meaningless, while I still watched Zinaida and tried to take in the import of her last words. 'Perchance some unknown rival Has surprised and mastered thee? Meidanov bawled suddenly through his nose and my eyes and Zinaida's met. She looked down and faintly blushed.
'What sort of fellow is her husband? I asked. 'A splendid fellow, with property. He's a colleague of mine in Moscow. Go and see her; she'll be delighted to see you. She's prettier than ever. Meidanov gave me Zinaida's address. She was staying at the Hotel Demut.
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