  I AM a student of yesterday; my diploma of doctor of philosophy is not dry yet,—that is true. I have neither wealth nor position. My whole fortune consists of a rather poor little house and a few hundred rubles' income. I can understand, therefore, why Tola's parents refused me her hand; but they did more,—they insulted me. But why? What have I done? I brought them, as if on the palm of my hand, a very honest heart, and I said: "Give her to me. I will be the best of sons, and till death I shall not cease to repay you; her I will worship; her I will love and protect." It is true that I said this stupidly, in a strange voice, while stammering and panting. You knew, however, that I was dragging my soul out, that through me was expressed a feeling the equal of which you could not meet in this world every day; and if you had chosen to refuse me, why not refuse like kind people, with some slight compassion in your hearts, but you insulted me. You who claim to be Christians, and claim to be idealists, how were you to know what I might do on leaving your house after such a refusal? Who told you that I would not put a bullet into my head,—first, because I could not live without her, and second, because I could not understand the contradiction between your pretended principles and the real practice of your life, that phariseeism, Those icy faces! that contemptuous indignation! Two days ago I could not imagine that those people could be such. "We thought you a man of honor; but you have deceived us, you have abused our confidence—" These are the words with which they slashed me across the face, as with a whip. A moment before they had congratulated me on my diploma as heartily as if I had been their son; and only when, pale from emotion, I told them what had been the greatest spur in my efforts, their cordiality and smiles were extinguished, their faces grew rigid, frost breathed from them—and it turned out that I had "abused their confidence." They so crushed, dazed, trampled me that after a while I thought myself that I had done something disgraceful, that I had really deceived them. But how? What is the position? Who is the deceiver, who the deceived, who plays the contemptible rÔle? Either I have gone mad altogether, or there is nothing mean in this, that a man loves honestly and desires to give his soul, blood, and toil to another. If your indignation was genuine, who is the fool in this case? Ah, Panna Tola! and I was deceived in thee also,—I who counted on thee with such confidence. "We are sure," said they, "that our daughter has never authorized you in any way to take this step." Of course I did not contradict. And then that "daughter" appeared with all the unspeakable Dost thou not understand? Listen, Panna Tola: thou didst not say, "I love;" I admit that. I have not thy bond and signature, but even if I had I would not present them. I will say this much, however: there is justice and there is a tribunal,—all one where they are, whether somewhere beyond the clouds, or in the human conscience; before this tribunal thou must say: I have deceived this man; I have denied him; I have brought him humiliation and misfortune. I know not which failed thee, heart or courage; but I know that thou hast deceived me horribly. I love thee still. I do not wish to malign thee; but when it is a question of ruining or saving, there is need of courage. Love and honesty must be greater than fear, or the timbers of an edifice raised with great toil will fall on some one's head. They have fallen on mine. I built my whole future on blind faith in thy love; and the result proved that I built on sand, for courage failed thee at the critical moment, since having to choose between the evil humor of thy parents and my misfortune, thou didst choose my misfortune. If in this wreck thou hadst been what I thought thee, life would be easier for me now; I should have consolation and hope. Dost thou know that everything which I did for some years I did because of thee and for thy sake? I worked like an ox; I did not rest at night; I gained certain medals and diplomas. Through thee I lived; through thee I breathed; of thee I thought. And now there is a desert before me, in which grief is howling, like a dog. Nothing remains to me. I am curious to know if thou wilt think even once of this. But beyond doubt thy sober-minded parents will explain to their daughter that I am a student, and that this is my stupid exaltation. As to being a student, if I were one yet, I might answer, like Shakespeare's Shylock, Have we not hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you wrong us, shall we not revenge? It is not permissible to wrong any man, no matter who he be. My exaltation, stupid or not, gives no man the right to injure me. It is well that this present society of ours, which is like a great soulless edifice composed of stupidity, lies, and hypocrisy, is cracking and falling, since no one can live in it. I have some leisure now; I am a doctor of philosophy. I will dwell as a philosopher on various human relations, which have recoiled on me recently with such effect. For you people of judgment, so called, it is enough if you find a vain word, an empty name for a thing. Let some other man break his neck on the thing itself. Well, never mind. Exaltation! What profit is there for me in the word, if that to which you apply it wrings my entrails? What aid to me is your dictionary? Meanwhile you deny the right of existence to everything which your blunted nerves cannot feel. When the teeth have dropped from your superannuated jaws, you cease to believe in toothache. But rheumatism is serious; rheumatism hurts, while love is only exaltation. When I think of this, two men rise up in me,—one the student of yesterday, who in the name of the present would hammer human dulness with the back of an axe, the other a person deeply injured, who wishes to curse and to sob. It is impossible to live thus. We have had enough of this idealism in words, and utilitarianism in acts. The time is coming when men must fit their deeds to high principles, or have courage to proclaim principles If a man wishes to be a merchant, let him know at least how to reckon; but you, though positive, do not know even this. That position of yours and that judgment of yours conduct you to illusions. You do not know how to reckon—do you hear? I do not say this in excitement; there is no exaggeration in my words. Love exists and is real, hence we must recognize it as an actual value. Were a mathematician of genius to appear, he would show you this value in money, and then you would seize your heads and cry, "Oh, what wealth!" Love is just as positive and tangible, just as absolute in life as is money. The reckoning is simple: life has as much value as the happiness contained in it. Love is an enormous capital, an inexhaustible source of happiness, as great as youth and health. But such simple truths as this cannot find room in your heads. I repeat that you know not how to reckon. A million is worth a million and not a copper more; but you think that it is worth as much besides as all the other good in life. Because of this error you are wandering in a world completely artificial, and you deceive yourselves as to values. You are romantic, but your romanticism is paltry, since it is pecuniary, and besides it is harmful, since it breaks and spoils Tola would have had a pleasant life with me; she would have been happy. That being true, what more do you wish? Do not answer that she would have refused me. If you had not killed in her, by your teaching, all freedom, will, sincerity, and courage, I should not be sitting alone now, with a head bursting from pain. No one has looked into Tola's eyes as I have; no one knows better what she felt and what she would have been had you not poisoned the soul in her. But now I have lost Tola, and with her much else, by which one lives as by bread, and without which one dies. Oh, you, my parents, and thou, my lost wife! at times I admit that you are unconscious of what you have done, or you would come to me now. It cannot be that you have no compassion for me.... What use in reproaches? Right is on my side. All that I have written is strict truth, but that truth will not bring Tola back to me. And here is the gulf; for I cannot comprehend how justice and truth can be useless. All that I have on my side is useless to me, absolutely useless. Still the world must be constructed just as men's minds are; how comes the break, then? If constructed differently, we must continue forever in our vicious circle; I can write no more. After a long time I turn to my pen again. Let reality speak for itself. I narrate simply that which took place. The explanation came only after a long series of events; therefore I give them in the order of their happening before I could understand the causes myself. On the morning after that day of disaster Tola's father came to me. When I saw him, I grew rigid. There was a moment when all thoughts flew from my head, as a flock of birds fly from a tree. I think that one must feel something similar at the moment of death. But his face was mild, and right on the threshold he began to speak, stretching his hands toward me,— "Well, we have spent a bad night, have we not? I understand that; I was young myself once." I made no answer; I understood nothing; I did not believe that I saw him before my face. Meanwhile he shook my hands, forced me to sit down, and, seating himself in front of me, continued,— "Recover yourself; be calm; let us talk like honest people. My dear sir, do you think that you are the only person who lay awake? We have not slept either. As soon as we recovered a little after you left us, we felt badly enough to be beyond help. We did indeed! When something is sprung on a man suddenly, he loses his head and then passes the measure. We were grieved, and, to tell the truth, ashamed. The child rushed off to her chamber; and the old people, like old people, fell to throwing the blame on each other. Thou art at fault, woman! thou art at fault, man! said we to each other. Such is human nature. But later came reflection and regret. He is young, honorable, capable; he loves our child with his whole heart, it seems; why in God's name were we so stubborn? One thing will explain our feelings. Should you ever be a father, you will understand this, that in parents' eyes nothing is enough for their child. Still it occurred to us that that which seemed little to us might satisfy Tola, so we made up our minds that it was better to inquire what the girl had in her heart, and we called her to counsel. The third counsellor Here he was moved himself, and for a time we sat in silence. Everything that I heard seemed to me a dream, a fairy tale, a miracle; my suffering began to change into hope. Tola's father mastered his emotion, and continued,— "Indeed, thou hast piled mountains on us, but we are people of good will, though quick-tempered; and, in proof of this, I will say that if thou prefer Tola to thy feeling of offence—come—" And he opened his arms to me. I fell into them, half conscious, half bewildered, happy. I felt that my throat was contracting, that I was fit only to burst into sobbing. I wanted absolutely to say something, but could not. I had in my soul one scream of delight, astonishment, and gratitude. All this had fallen on me at once, like a thunderbolt; neither my head nor my heart could take it in, and I felt pain almost from that excess of change, that excess of thoughts and feelings. Tola's father removed my hands gently from his shoulders, and, kissing me on the forehead, said,— "That is well now, well! I expected this of thee after thy attachment to her. Forget what has happened, and compose thyself." Seeing, however, that I could not regain self-control, or master my emotion, he began to scold me good-naturedly,— "Be a man; control thyself! Thou art trembling as in a fever! Well, but that little boy has struck in deeply under thy rib." "Oi, deeply!" whispered I, with an effort. The father smiled and said,— "Is it possible? but he seemed like still water." Evidently my immense love for Tola pleased his parental pride, for he was glad, and smiling he repeated continually,— "That's a tick! that's a tick!" I felt then that if we remained a quarter of an hour longer in the room something in my head would give way. Under ordinary conditions I can command myself, but this time the transition was too great. I needed to breathe fresh air, to see the movement on the streets; above all, I needed to see Tola, and convince myself that she was really existing, that all this was not a dream, and that they were giving her to me really. I asked Tola's father then to go to his house with me; he consented with gladness. "I wished to propose that myself," said he; "for surely some little nose there is flattening itself against a window-pane, and eyes are looking into the street. Thou art not in a condition now to discuss serious matters; we will do that hereafter." A few moments later we were on the street. At first I looked at people, houses, carriages, as a man who has come out for the first time after a long illness, and feels dizziness of the head. Gradually, however, movement and fresh air restored me. Above all thoughts one was dominant: "Tola loves thee; in a moment thou wilt see her!" I felt a throbbing in my temples as mighty as hammer strokes, and really a good hoop was needed round my head to contain it. An hour before I had thought that I should never see Tola again in life, or should see her sometime in some place the wife of another. And now I was going to her to tell her that she would be mine; and I was going because she had Others grew blind in love; I had no need to grow blind, for deeds were pleading for Tola. She had wrought this miracle. I had done her injustice. I had done her parents injustice as well. Had they been such as I had thought them, they would not have let themselves be persuaded. They would not have reached that simplicity, not merely human, but angelic, with which her father came to me and said: "We were mistaken; take her!" Neither society ceremonial nor vanity had the power to restrain him from this. I remembered his words: "Indeed, thou didst pile mountains on us, but we are people of good will, though quick-tempered." That simplicity crushed me the more, the greater the mountains which I had piled on them yesterday. Not a word beyond these, no lofty phrases, a playful smile,—that was all. When I thought of this I could not restrain myself longer; I seized his hand, and raised it with reverence to my lips. He smiled again with that kindly clear smile, and said,— "My wife and I have said this long time that our son-in-law must love us." And it happened as they wished, for before I was their son-in-law I loved them as if I had been their own son. As I was walking very fast, Tola's father began to jest; he puffed, and pretended to be suffering, said that he could not keep pace with me, complained of the heat. "How have I deserved this?" "Forgive us yesterday's refusal," said she. "We had not thought of this, that Tola could find no greater attachment in the whole world." "She could not! She could not!" cried I, with ardor. "And since the happiness of our child is for us beyond everything, we give her to you, and I can only say: God grant you both happiness!" She pressed my temples then; after that she turned toward the door and called,— "Tola!" And my love came in, pale, with reddened eyes, with bits of hair dropping on her forehead, confused, moved just as I was. How it was that nothing in her escaped my attention, I know not. I only know this, I saw tears gathering under her eyelids, her quivering lips, delight breaking through the tears, and a smile under the confusion. She stood for a moment with arms hanging, as if at a loss what to do; then her father, whom, as was evident, humor never deserted, said, shrugging his shoulders,— "Ha! a hard case to cure! he has grown stubborn, and will not have thee." She looked at me quickly, threw herself on her father's neck, and called, as if in an outburst,— "I do not believe it; I do not believe it!" If I had followed my heart's first impulse, I should have fallen at her feet. I did not do that simply through lack of courage, and because I had lost my head. I had just presence of mind enough to repeat in any soul, "Do not roar out, thou ass!" The honest father came again to our rescue; freeing himself from Tola's embrace, he said, as if angry with her,— "If thou dost not believe me, then go to him." And he pushed her toward me. Heaven opened before me at that moment. I seized her hands. I kissed them with delight, and I know not myself how long it was before I could take my lips from them. More than once I had imagined myself kissing her hands, but it is not for imagination to measure itself with reality! My love, so far, had been like a plant shut up in darkness. Now it was carried suddenly into bright air to luxuriate in warmth and in sunlight, hence the measure of my happiness was filled. I drank openly from the source of good and delight. To love and imprison that love in thyself, to love and feel that thou art entering on thy right to love and take possession,—are things entirely different. I not only had not had, but I could not have had, any comprehension of this. The parents blessed us, and went out on purpose to leave us alone, so that we might tell each other all that we felt. But at first, instead of speaking, I only looked at her with ravishment, and her face changed beneath my gaze. Blushes covered her cheeks; the corners of her mouth quivered with a smile full of timidity and embarrassment; her eyes were mist-covered; her head sank, as it were, between her shoulders; at moments At last, we sat down side by side at the window, each holding the other's hand. Till that day she had been for me, not of flesh and blood, as it were, but an abstraction, a beloved spirit, a precious name, an admired charm rather than a person; when her arm touched mine, however, and I felt the warmth of her face, I could not resist a certain astonishment that she was so real. A beloved woman seems known but not felt till one is near her. Now I looked with as much wonder at her face, her mouth, her eyes, her bright hair, and her still brighter eyelashes, as if I had never seen her till that moment. I was carried away by her. Never had a face so satisfied all my dreams of woman's beauty; no one had ever attracted me so irresistibly as she. And when I thought that all those treasures would be mine, that they belonged to me already, and were my highest good, the whole world whirled around with me. At last I spoke. I told her feverishly how I had loved her from almost the very first moment, a year and a half before, in Velichka, where I met her by chance in a large society, to me unknown, and where she had grown faint at the bottom of the salt mine; and I ran to the well for water. The next day I paid a visit to her parents; from that visit I came away in love completely. All this, as I supposed, was perfectly known to her; but she listened with the greatest delight, blushing, and sometimes even asking questions in a low voice. I spoke a long time, and toward the end less stupidly than I had expected. I told how afterward she had been my only strength; how deeply and dreadfully unhappy I was yesterday when I said to myself that all was lost, and that I had lost faith in her also. "I was just as unhappy," said she. "And it is true that at first I could not stammer out a word, but later I tried to correct everything." After a while we were both silent. In me there was a struggle between timidity and a wish to kiss her feet; at last, in the most monstrously awkward way possible, and worthy of the last of idiots, I asked her if she loved me even a little. She strove for a time to give me an answer, but, unable to bring herself to it, she rose and left the room. She returned quickly with an album in her hand; she sat again at my side and showed me a drawing, my own portrait. "I sketched this," said she, "from memory." "Is it possible?" "But there is something more," added she, putting her finger on the paper. Then only did I note that at the side near the edge of the paper, were the letters j. v. a., in a very small hand. "This is read in French," whispered Tola. "In French?" And in my boundless simplicity, I could not think what they meant till she began,— "Je vous—?" And hiding her face in her hands, she bent so low that I saw the short hair on her neck, and her neck itself. Then I guessed at last and said with throbbing heart,— "Now I may, I may—" She raised her face, smiling and radiant,— "And you must," added she, blinking, and, as it were, commanding me for the future. At that moment they called us to lunch. At that lunch, I might have eaten knives and forks without knowing it. A man grows accustomed to nothing so easily as to happiness. All that had passed was simply a series of miracles, but two days later it seemed to me perfectly natural that Tola was my betrothed. I thought that it ought to be so, that she was mine; and for this reason solely, that no other man loved her as I did. Finally, the news of my betrothal went about through the city, and I began to receive congratulations from my comrades. Tola and I drove out beyond the suburbs with her parents, on which occasion many persons saw us together. I remember that drive perfectly. Tola, in a sack trimmed with otter-skin, and a cap trimmed with the same fur, looked like a vision, for her transparent complexion seemed more delicate with the dark bronze color of the trimmings. All turned to look after us, and so admired was she that some of my acquaintances stood as if fixed to the pavement. Beyond the barriers, when we had passed rows of cottages, each lower than the other, we reached the open country at last. In the fields, between rows of trees, lay clear water, and on this, light in long streaks was shining. The meadows were flooded; the groves had no leaves; but we felt the presence of spring. Then came the moment of darkness, during which there is great calm in the world; such a calm took possession also of us. After the violent impressions of preceding days, I felt a great and sweet calmness. I had before me the dear face of Tola, rosy from the movement of air, but also soothed in that peace and thoughtful. We were both silent, and only looked at each other from moment to moment and smiled. For the first time in life I understood the meaning of undimmed, perfect happiness. As I was very young and had lived through little, I had, in fact, no And this had happened because it was permitted me to love, and she, that dear one sitting opposite, had been given to me. What is more, for that very reason the four persons in that carriage were not merely what is called happy; they were better than ever they had been before. All the pettinesses of society, the paltry ambitions, the pitiful views of existence; all that which debases life and makes it repulsive, flat, and deceitful,—we had shaken away, together with the former sorrow and bitterness. Tola's parents had barely opened their house to this blessed guest when we began to live more broadly and loftily than ever before. Hence I could not understand why people so often reject that which in life is the one, the supreme good. Still oftener do they squander it. I know those petty wise-saws which circulate like counterfeit money: that love withers, grows old, passes away, vanishes, and that finally habit alone is the bond between man and woman. Now I will show that this truth relates solely to stupid or pitiful people. There are chosen souls, who know how to avoid that condition; I have met such in the world, hence I myself have the wish and the will to become one of them. If this flame to-day makes me so happy, my first duty, and the most direct task of selfishness, is that it should not quench, that it should not even decrease in the future. Therefore I will defy that All at once an irresistible desire mastered me to begin that life at the earliest. I knew that society customs did not permit betrothed persons to marry before the end of certain weeks, or months, but I remembered that I had to deal with exceptional people. I was convinced that Tola would aid me, and I determined to involve her in the affair. On our return home, when they left us alone, I confessed my thoughts to her. She listened with immense delight. I saw that not only the plan itself, but even discussion concerning it, had for her the charm of a lover's conspiracy, and simply carried her away. At moments she had the look of a child to whom people promise some wonderful amusement which is soon to appear, and she could not restrain herself from dancing through the room. We did not mention the matter that evening, however; but at tea I told of my hopes for the future, and the paths which were opening before me. Tola's parents listened as though those hopes had been realized. Could I have supposed those people of dove-like simplicity to be acting through politeness, I should have called that politeness the very wisest, for seeing their faith and confidence I said to myself, Though I were to lay down my head I will not deceive you. I took leave at a late hour. Tola hastened after me to the entrance, and repeated, in a whisper,— "Let it be so; let it be so. Why delay? I am not fond of delay! let it be so. Good-night. I fear only mamma, mamma will be thinking of the wedding outfit." I did not understand very clearly why she should make a wedding outfit, since young ladies, as young ladies, must Next morning I visited the cabinet-maker. He understood in a flash what I needed. He showed me various pieces of furniture. At sight of these I saw tangibly my future life with Tola, just as if I had known it all, but my heart began to palpitate. The cabinet-maker advised me to paint the walls, as paper would need a long time to dry. The active man promised to undertake that task for a proper reward. From his place I went to two intimate comrades to invite them as best men; of my own family I had not a living soul. Their congratulations and embraces were mingled with other impressions in my head, and roused there a genuine chaos. I found Tola in the drawing-room. I had barely kissed her hands when she came to my ear on tiptoe and whispered one sentence, "They have permitted!" The last shadow on my happiness vanished. Tola was as radiant with delight as a burning candle is with fire. We walked hand in hand through the room and conversed. She told me how everything had happened. "At first mamma said that that was impossible, and then she said: 'Thou dost not even understand how very unbecoming it is for a young lady to hasten her wedding.' Then I answered that we were both hastening it. Mamma raised her eyes to the ceiling, and shrugged her shoulders. Papa laughed, embraced me, kissed me on the forehead, and even on the hand. 'Thou hast always a weakness for her,' said mamma; 'but one must consider society a little.' "'Society! society!' said papa. 'Society will not give them happiness; they must find happiness for themselves; and as we have done everything just the opposite of society, let it be the same to the end. It is Lent now; but immediately after Easter they can marry, and the wedding outfit may be finished afterward.' "Mamma yielded, for papa always insists on his point. (I suppose you will be like him too.) Then I embraced mamma; I did not let her speak a word. Only later could she say, 'All is done in mad fashion.' But I carried my point at last. Are you satisfied?" I had been so much in love, or so timid, that I had never gone so far as to take her in my arms. Then for the first time I wanted to embrace her; but she put me away gently, saying,— "It is so nice to walk arm in arm, like good children." And so we walked on. I told her that I had thought of our house, and had given orders to paint the walls, not in oil, for that was very costly, but in some color which dries quickly, and is exactly like oil. Tola repeated, After a while she returned with her father, who called me a water-burner and a Tartar; but at the same time he promised that the ceremony should take place on Tuesday after the holidays. During the first days our love was all emotion and had ceaseless tears in its eyes; but afterward it bloomed out in gladness, like a flower in spring, and we laughed then whole days. Because of the lateness of the holidays, spring was in the world. The trees were in bud. Before Holy Week Tola and I, with her parents, made visits. People looked at us curiously everywhere; at times this was annoying. Some older ladies put glasses on their eyes at sight of me; but I had to pass the ordeal. Tola, joyous and fresh as a bird, rewarded me a hundredfold for those irksome visits. I looked myself to the painting of the rooms. Because of the weather everything dried in a twinkle. The bedroom I had painted in rose-color. My love increased daily. I was sure now that even were Tola to change, were she even to grow ugly, I should We amused ourselves often like children; at times we teased each other. When, for example, I came in the morning and found her alone, I looked through the room, as if not observing her; I looked for her, and asked, "Is there no one here who is loved?" She searched in the corners, shook her bright head, and answered, "No! it seems not."— "But that young lady?"— "Oh, perhaps she is a little!" Then after a while she added in a whisper, "And perhaps greatly." At that time a new feeling involved itself in my love. Not only did I love Tola, but I liked her beyond everything. I was dying for her companionship. I could pass whole hours with her talking about anything. At times we talked deeply and seriously touching our future, though in general I avoided all discussions and theories on the theme of what marriage should be; for I thought why must I enclose in prearranged formulas that which should develop spontaneously from love itself. There is no need to lay before flowers theories of how they should bloom. Good Friday passed silently, gloomily. On the streets there was mist, and a light rain was falling. We and Tola's parents went to the cemetery; we put each what we chose on the plates of beggars. Tola, dressed in black, serene, calm, and dignified, appeared beautiful as never before. At moments, in the gloom of the church, or in the light of the candles, her face was perfectly angelic. That day she caught a slight cold; and I raced through I passed Easter at the house of Tola's parents. Not having any one of my own family, I understood for the first time what it is to have persons dear to one, and to be dear to some one else. The next Sunday there was perfect spring. Before Easter I had brought some sort of order into our house. The garden had begun to grow green, and the old cherry-trees were in blossom. Just before the holidays, too, came from the press my doctoral essay about the Neoplatonists. Tola undertook to read it. Poor thing! she blinked, broke her little head, but read from a feeling of duty. And now memories of the wedding—no, rather, pictures of it—crowd into my head, confused, in disorder, filled with single impressions, somewhat feverish. I see the whole place full of flowers; on the stairs, and in the rooms. There is a hurrying in the house, the arrival of guests, a multitude of strange or little known faces. Tola in the drawing-room, arrayed in a white robe, with a veil, was as beautiful as a vision, but somehow different from what she was usually; she appeared more dignified, as it were, less near. The feeling of a certain haste and movement remained with me. Everything that happened after entering the church seems indefinite: the church, the altar, the candles on the altar, at the sides brilliant toilets of ladies, curious eyes, whispers. Tola and I kneeling before the altar took each the other's hand, as if in greeting; and after a time our voices were heard, sounding like strange voices, "I take thee to myself," etc. I hear till this moment the organ and the Of the road there will always remain in my mind the memory of her head resting on my shoulder, and her white veil with the odor of violets. Next morning I waited for her at tea in the dining-room; meanwhile she, after dressing, went by another door to the garden, for I saw her through the window against the background of the cherry-tree. I ran to her immediately; she turned, pushed her head toward the tree, as if wishing to hide from me. I thought that she was jesting; so creeping up quietly, I caught her by the waist, and said,— "Good-morning. But who is hiding from her husband? What art thou doing here?" Then I saw that she was blushing, that she was avoiding my eyes and turning away from me really. "What is the matter with thee, Tola?" asked I. "See," answered she, confused, "the wind is shaking the blossoms from the cherry-trees." "Let it take them," said I, "if only thou wilt stay with me." And I bent her head toward mine; but she whispered with closed eyes, "Do not look at me; go away—" But at the same time her lips pushed toward me almost passionately, and I met them with delight. The breeze began really to cast white blossoms on our heads. I woke and saw the naked walls of my room. I had had typhus,—and a very bad typhus; I had lain two weeks unconscious in fever. But even a fever is sometimes the mercy of God. When I regained consciousness I learned that Panna Antonina's parents had taken her to Venice. But I, lonely as before, finish my confession, which is strange, perhaps. I was so immensely happy in my visions that I wrote them down at once, so that life's irony might not be lost. I conclude the above reminiscences without sorrow, and with my former faith, that among all sources of happiness, that from which I drank during the fever is the clearest and best. A life which love has not visited, even in a dream, is worse than mine. |
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