Visions of Isabelle Read Free Page A

wraps it down about his face. She holds on tight as he begins to buck, so that his yells and pleas are muffled by heavy wool.
    She laughs as he struggles, and when he raises his body she presses her knees against his flanks as if she is taming a runaway horse. For a moment they fight, and then, when he begins to weaken, she lets him go. He comes out from the covers gasping, red-faced. She looks at him quizzically, and when he regains his breath, the two of them begin to laugh.
    "You surprise me, Nastasia Filippovna."
    "You were trying to surprise me, dear Prince Myshkin." (In recent weeks they have read together from The Idiot in their rooms, lying across each other's beds.)
    "What were you admiring so assiduously in your mirror?"
    "Myself, of course."
    "Of course. But what part of yourself? Superficial exterior or subterranean soul?"
    "Both."
    "Any conclusions?" "
    "Many.
    "For example?"
    "For example–let me see." She sinks her chin into her palm. The two of them are sitting cross-legged on the rumpled bed. "I saw the face of a woman irresistibly attractive to men–a face that will haunt the dreams of a whole parade of youths unfortunate enough to cross her path. I suspect, Augustin, that I shall be a breaker of many hearts."
    "What conceit!"
    "I don't think so. You asked me to tell you what I saw and I told you–objectively, too." She pouts a little, but he knows she is not displeased.
    "There is something else in your face, Nastasia Filippovna, but I wonder if I should tell you what it is."
    "Please, please, Augustin. I must know. I simply have to know."
    "I wonder–"
    "No, Augustin. That's not fair. You have to tell me."
    "Well, all right. But don't be cross if you don't like it."
    "What is it?"
    "Something–two-faced."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "There is something doubled–"
    "I don't understand."
    "Something in you that shows two aspects–just a minute, damnit, let me explain." She is practically on top of him, panting into his face. "I would say something soft and something hard, something warm and something cold, something–" And as he says this, he peers at her closely, studies each feature, then tightens his lips as he searches for the right words. "Some side of you that will be hurt and another side that will hurt."
    "Go on! Go on!"
    "It's hard. Let me see. Something of Mama and something of Vava. A part of you that's a girl and another part that's a boy. A romantic and a revolutionary. A peasant and a scholar. A person who is simple and a person who is complex."
    "A sister and a brother?"
    "Yes. A nice nuisance. A bothersome cat."
    "Well, I like all of it except the last two." Her fingers explore the sides of her face, stroke her cheeks as if she is sculpting them from clay. "Yes, Augustin, I think you have grasped something of my nature. And you are the only one who does."
    Their faces move together, their lips meet. Their mouths press, glow, tingle. For a moment they feel they may succumb to forbidden desire. Augustin presses in closer. Isabelle shuts her eyes, feels her head grow warm as her lips begin to part. Augustin draws away. There are droplets of sweat beneath his nose.
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    A few minutes later, dressed in a boy's shirt and pantaloons, Isabelle goes to the garden. She finds Vladimir on hands and knees, weeding among the cacti, and Vava, leaning on his rake, speaking with bravado of his future gardening plans.
    "We shall put the Arizona rhizomes in a row over there," he says with a wild flourish of his arm.
    "This plot will cost me thousands, but I'll get it all back by spring. In Paris they're paying a fortune for anything that smells good. It's the same all over the world. People stink, women find themselves turning foul, and something must be done. Even in Argentina–imagine, Argentina!–there are fools who will pay anything, five, ten, twenty pounds an ounce for a new smell. It's madness, like paying a fortune for a hat or a dress. The idiots give