First Love
A sixteen-year-old's passionate first summer, his captivating older neighbour, and the terrible secret that binds them to his own father
Page 1
In a comfortable study in St. Petersburg, the fire was burning low. Three men sat in deep armchairs. They had been telling stories of their first loves. Two of the men, the host and another guest, had already told their tales. But the third man, Vladimir Petrovich, had been quiet. He was older now, with grey at his temples, but his eyes were still thoughtful. The host turned to him. "And you, Vladimir? Surely you have a story for us." Vladimir looked into the fire, a sad smile touching his lips. "I do," he said. "It is not a happy story. But it is one I have never forgotten." His friend urged him, "Then you must tell it." Vladimir nodded slowly. "I cannot tell it well aloud. But if you like, I will write it all down for you."
Page 2
My story begins when I was sixteen, at our family's country dacha for the summer. One afternoon in our quiet garden, I heard laughter from the neighbours' side of the fence. Peeking through the boards, I saw her for the first time: Zinaida, the princess's daughter. She was twenty-one, tall and graceful, surrounded by a group of young men. She was their queen. "Catch it, Belovzorov!" she called out, tossing a flower high. "No, not like that! You are as graceful as a bear!" Then she spotted me. "Woldemar! Why are you hiding in the bushes? Come and join us!" She laughed, and as I watched, hidden and blushing, I felt a shock, a kind of sweet ache in my chest. I was in love.
Page 3
Soon, I was formally introduced. Their house was a mess of shabby furniture and unpacked trunks, but Zinaida filled it with life. I became one of her regular visitors, another satellite orbiting her sun. Her court of admirers was always there: a doctor, a poet, a soldier, all older than me. They played games and competed for her attention. She treated us all with a playful affection that kept everyone off-balance. "And you, Woldemar," she said one evening, her eyes laughing at me, "you are so serious! What will you do for me?" "Whatever you command," I stammered, blushing. "Then you must write me a poem!" she declared, immediately turning her attention to someone else and leaving me breathless in the middle of the crowded room.
Page 4
One evening, we were all playing a game of forfeits near a ruined old greenhouse. Zinaida was in a wild, commanding mood. When it was my turn, she looked at me with a challenging smile. "To prove your devotion," she said, pointing to the high, crumbling stone wall of the ruin, "jump from there." It was a twelve-foot drop onto hard ground. The other men protested. "Princess, he will break his neck!" cried the doctor. She just shrugged, her eyes fixed on me. "We shall see if he dares." I didn't hesitate. I scrambled to the top and, without a second thought, leaped. I landed hard, stunned. When I looked up, Zinaida was there, her face pale, her eyes full of a strange, tender concern. She helped me up, and for a moment, I felt I was her one true knight.
Page 5
My happiness was always fragile. Zinaida was a storm of changing moods. Some days she was kind; on others, she was cold and distant. I became sick with jealousy. I was certain she was in love, but not with me, and not with any of the others. There was a secret she was keeping. Who was it for? The question tormented me. I would walk for hours on the dark paths in the woods behind our houses, my mind racing. "Who is it?" I whispered to the silent trees, my fists clenched at my sides. "It cannot be Lushin. It is not Belovzorov. Who does she love?" The pain was so sharp it was almost a pleasure, a terrible mystery that had taken over my whole life.
Page 6
One night, I could not sleep. On an impulse, I crept out to the stables and went for a ride under the moon. As I trotted down the dark country road, another rider passed me. He did not see me in the shadows. With a jolt, I recognised him. It was my father. He was supposed to be in town. A cold suspicion crept into my heart. "My father?" I thought, pulling my horse back deeper into the shadows. "Where can he be going at this hour?" He rode with such purpose. "It must be important, to ride out so late." Knowing only that I had to know, I slowed my horse to a walk and began to follow him at a distance.
Page 7
My father stopped in a clearing near Zinaida's garden. I hid in a thicket of bushes, my heart pounding. A figure in a dark cloak slipped out to meet him. It was Zinaida. She spoke with a desperate passion, her hands clasped. "You cannot leave like this!" she pleaded. My father's voice was low and harsh. "It is decided. There is nothing more to say." "But I cannot bear it!" she cried. He stood looking down at her, then raised his riding crop. A moment later, a red mark appeared on Zinaida's bare arm. She did not cry out. Instead, she slowly lifted her arm and kissed the mark he had made. In that instant, my world shattered. The boy I had been died in that clearing.
Page 8
We returned to our house in Moscow. A wall of ice now stood between me and my father. We barely spoke. I would watch him across the vast expanse of our dining table, this stranger who was my father and her lover. My mother, sensing the strain, grew more anxious. "Did you enjoy your walk today, Vladimir?" she asked one night, her voice trembling. "Yes, Mama," I replied, staring at my plate. My father looked up from his meal. "Mariya, do not fuss over the boy," he said, his voice cold. The silence returned, heavier than before. The peace of our family was broken forever.
Page 9
The next year, I began my studies in St. Petersburg. One afternoon, I was walking down a busy street when I saw my father in the crowd. He was walking slowly, his shoulders stooped. He looked twenty years older. Our eyes met. He stopped. He took a hesitant step toward me, as if he wanted to speak at last. I stood frozen, waiting. I thought, "He is going to speak to me now. I will wait and I will hear him out." But then he seemed to change his mind. He gave a small, sad shake of his head, turned away, and was swallowed by the crowd. It was the last time I ever saw him alive. A few weeks later, he had a stroke and died.
Page 10
In his study, Vladimir Petrovich put down his pen. He had finished his story. His friends were long gone, the house silent. He remembered hearing the end of it all, years later. Zinaida had married, but she had not lived long, dying in Paris during the birth of her first child. He looked at the pages he had written, the story of that one short summer, a catastrophe of impossible feelings. And yet… he would not have traded it. "What would I have been if I had not loved?" he thought. "Youth has to end," he wrote on the final page. "But the memory of its foolish, impossible, and beautiful pain... that is the most precious thing we own."
About this story
- Audience: general readers
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