At that time I was five-and-twenty, began N. N.,—it was in days long past, as you perceive. I had only just gained my freedom and gone abroad, not to ‘finish my education,’ as the phrase was in those days; I simply wanted to have a look at God’s world. I was young, and in good health and spirits, and had plenty of money. Troubles had not yet had time to gather about me. I existed without thought, did as I liked, lived like the lilies of the field, in fact. It never occurred to me in those days that man is not a plant, and cannot go on living like one for long. Youth will eat gilt gingerbread and fancy it’s daily bread too; but the time comes when you’re in want of dry bread even. There’s no need to go into that, though.

I travelled without any sort of aim, without a plan; I stopped wherever I liked the place, and went on again directly I felt a desire to see new faces—faces, nothing else. I was interested in people exclusively; I hated famous monuments and museums of curiosities, the very sight of a guide produced in me a sense of weariness and anger; I was almost driven crazy in the Dresden ‘GrÜne-GewÖlbe.’ Nature affected me extremely, but I did not care for the so-called beauties of nature, extraordinary mountains, precipices, and waterfalls; I did not like nature to obtrude, to force itself upon me. But faces, living human faces—people’s talk, and gesture, and laughter—that was what was absolutely necessary to me. In a crowd I always had a special feeling of ease and comfort. I enjoyed going where others went, shouting when others shouted, and at the same time I liked to look at the others shouting. It amused me to watch people … though I didn’t even watch them—I simply stared at them with a sort of delighted, ever-eager curiosity. But I am diverging again.

And so twenty years ago I was staying in the little German town Z., on the left bank of the Rhine. I was seeking solitude; I had just been stabbed to the heart by a young widow, with whom I had made acquaintance at a watering-place. She was very pretty and clever, and flirted with every one—with me, too, poor sinner. At first she had positively encouraged me, but later on she cruelly wounded my feelings, sacrificing me for a red-faced Bavarian lieutenant. It must be owned, the wound to my heart was not a very deep one; but I thought it my duty to give myself up for a time to gloom and solitude—youth will find amusement in anything!—and so I settled at Z.

I liked the little town for its situation on the slope of two high hills, its ruined walls and towers, its ancient lime-trees, its steep bridge over the little clear stream that falls into the Rhine, and, most of all, for its excellent wine. In the evening, directly after sunset (it was June), very pretty flaxen-haired German girls used to walk about its narrow streets and articulate ‘Guten Abend’ in agreeable voices on meeting a stranger,—some of them did not go home even when the moon had risen behind the pointed roofs of the old houses, and the tiny stones that paved the street could be distinctly seen in its still beams. I liked wandering about the town at that time; the moon seemed to keep a steady watch on it from the clear sky; and the town was aware of this steady gaze, and stood quiet and attentive, bathed in the moonlight, that peaceful light which is yet softly exciting to the soul. The cock on the tall Gothic bell-tower gleamed a pale gold, the same gold sheen glimmered in waves over the black surface of the stream; slender candles (the German is a thrifty soul!) twinkled modestly in the narrow windows under the slate roofs; branches of vine thrust out their twining tendrils mysteriously from behind stone walls; something flitted into the shade by the old-fashioned well in the three-cornered market place; the drowsy whistle of the night watchman broke suddenly on the silence, a good-natured dog gave a subdued growl, while the air simply caressed the face, and the lime-trees smelt so sweet that unconsciously the lungs drew in deeper and deeper breaths of it, and the name ‘Gretchen’ hung, half exclamation, half question, on the lips.

The little town of Z. lies a mile and a half from the Rhine. I used often to walk to look at the majestic river, and would spend long hours on a stone-seat under a huge solitary ash-tree, musing, not without some mental effort, on the faithless widow. A little statue of a Madonna, with an almost childish face and a red heart, pierced with swords, on her bosom, peeped mournfully out of the branches of the ash-tree. On the opposite bank of the river was the little town L., somewhat larger than that in which I had taken up my quarters. One evening I was sitting on my favourite seat, gazing at the sky, the river, and the vineyards. In front of me flaxen-headed boys were scrambling up the sides of a boat that had been pulled ashore, and turned with its tarred bottom upwards. Sailing-boats moved slowly by with slightly dimpling sails; the greenish waters glided by, swelling and faintly rumbling. All of a sudden sounds of music drifted across to me; I listened. A waltz was being played in the town of L. The double bass boomed spasmodically, the sound of the fiddle floated across indistinctly now and then, the flute was tootling briskly.

‘What’s that?’ I inquired of an old man who came up to me, in a plush waistcoat, blue stockings, and shoes with buckles.

‘That,’ he replied, after first shifting his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, ‘is the students come over from B. to a commersh.’

‘I’ll have a look at this commersh,’ I thought. ‘I’ve never been over to L. either.’ I sought out a ferryman, and went over to the other side.

II

Every one, perhaps, may not know what such a commersh is. It is a solemn festival of a special sort, at which students meet together who are of one district or brotherhood (Landsmannschaft). Almost all who take part in the commersh wear the time-honoured costume of German students: Hungarian jackets, big boots, and little caps, with bands round them of certain colours. The students generally assemble to a dinner, presided over by their senior member, and they keep up the festivities till morning—drinking, singing songs, ‘Landesvater,’ ‘Gaudeamus,’ etc., smoking, and reviling the Philistines. Sometimes they hire an orchestra.

Just such a commersh was going on in L., in front of a little inn, with the sign of the Sun, in the garden looking on to the street. Flags were flying over the inn and over the garden; the students were sitting at tables under the pollard lime-trees; a huge bull-dog was lying under one of the tables; on one side, in an ivy-covered arbour, were the musicians, playing away zealously, and continually invigorating themselves with beer. A good many people had collected in the street, before the low garden wall; the worthy citizens of L. could not let slip a chance of staring at visitors. I too mingled in the crowd of spectators. I enjoyed watching the students’ faces; their embraces, exclamations, the innocent affectations of youth, the fiery glances, the laughter without cause—the sweetest laughter in the world—all this joyous effervescence of young, fresh life, this eager pushing forward—anywhere, so long as it’s forward—the simple-hearted freedom moved me and stirred me.

‘Couldn’t I join them?’ I was wondering.…

‘Acia, have you had enough of it?’ I heard a man’s voice say suddenly, in Russian, just behind me.

‘Let’s stay a little longer,’ answered another voice, a woman’s, in the same language.

I turned quickly round.… My eyes fell on a handsome young man in a peaked cap and a loose short jacket. He had on his arm a young girl, not very tall, wearing a straw hat, which concealed all the upper part of her face.

‘You are Russians,’ fell involuntarily from my lips.

The young man smiled and answered—

‘Yes, we are Russians.’

‘I never expected … in such an out of the way place,’ I was beginning—

‘Nor did we,’ he interrupted me. ‘Well, so much the better. Let me introduce myself. My name’s Gagin, and this is my——’ he hesitated for an instant, ‘my sister. What is your name, may I ask?’

I told him my name, and we got into conversation. I found out that Gagin was travelling, like me, for his amusement; that he had arrived a week before at L., and was staying on there. To tell the truth, I was not eager to make friends with Russians abroad. I used to recognise them a long way off by their walk, the cut of their clothes, and, most of all, by the expression of their faces which was self-complacent and supercilious, often imperious, but would all of a sudden change, and give place to an expression of shyness and cautiousness.… The whole man would suddenly be on his guard, his eyes would shift uneasily.… ‘Mercy upon us! Haven’t I said something silly; aren’t they laughing at me?’ those restless eyes seem to ask.… An instant later and haughtiness has regained its sway over the physiognomy, varied at times by a look of dull blankness. Yes, I avoided Russians; but I liked Gagin at once. There are faces in the world of that happy sort; every one is glad to look at them, as though they warmed or soothed one in some way. Gagin had just such a face—sweet and kind, with large soft eyes and soft curly hair. He spoke in such a way that even if you did not see his face, you could tell by the mere sound of his voice that he was smiling!

The girl, whom he had called his sister, struck me at the first glance as very charming. There was something individual, characteristic in the lines of her dark, round face, with its small, fine nose, almost childish cheeks, and clear black eyes. She was gracefully built, but hardly seemed to have reached her full development yet. She was not in the least like her brother.

‘Will you come home with us?’ Gagin said to me; ‘I think we’ve stared enough at the Germans. Our fellows, to be sure, would have broken the windows, and smashed up the chairs, but these chaps are very sedate. What do you say, Acia, shall we go home?’

The girl nodded her head in assent.

‘We live outside the town,’ Gagin continued, ‘in a vineyard, in a lonely little house, high up. It’s delightful there, you’ll see. Our landlady promised to make us some junket. It will soon be dark now, and you had much better cross the Rhine by moonlight.’

We set off. Through the low gates of the town (it was enclosed on all sides by an ancient wall of cobble-stones, even the barbicans had not all fallen into ruins at that time), we came out into the open country, and after walking a hundred paces beside a stone wall, we came to a standstill before a little narrow gate. Gagin opened it, and led us along a steep path up the mountain-side. On the slopes on both sides was the vineyard; the sun had just set, and a delicate rosy flush lay on the green vines, on the tall poles, on the dry earth, which was dotted with big and little stones, and on the white wall of the little cottage, with sloping black beams, and four bright little windows, which stood at the very top of the mountain we had climbed up.

‘Here is our house!’ cried Gagin, directly we began to approach the cottage, ‘and here’s the landlady bringing in the junket. Guten Abend, Madame!… We’ll come in to supper directly; but first,’ he added, ‘look round … isn’t it a view?’

The view certainly was marvellous. The Rhine lay at our feet, all silvery between its green banks; in one place it glowed with the purple and gold of the sunset. The little town, nestling close to the river-bank, displayed all its streets and houses; sloping hills and meadows ran in wide stretches in all directions. Below it was fine, but above was finer still; I was specially impressed by the depth and purity of the sky, the radiant transparency of the atmosphere. The fresh, light air seemed softly quivering and undulating, as though it too were more free and at ease on the heights.

‘You have chosen delightful lodgings,’ I observed.

‘It was Acia found it,’ answered Gagin; ‘come, Acia,’ he went on, ‘see after the supper. Let everything be brought out here. We will have supper in the open air. We can hear the music better here. Have you ever noticed,’ he added, turning to me, ‘a waltz is often poor stuff close by—vulgar, coarse music—but in the distance, it’s exquisite! it fairly stirs every romantic chord within one.’

Acia (her real name was Anna, but Gagin called her Acia, and you must let me do the same), went into the house, and soon came back with the landlady. They were carrying together a big tray, with a bowl of junket, plates, spoons, sugar, fruit, and bread. We sat down and began supper. Acia took off her hat; her black hair cropped short and combed, like a boy’s, fell in thick curls on her neck and ears. At first she was shy of me; but Gagin said to her—

‘Come, Acia, come out of your shell! he won’t bite.’

She smiled, and a little while after she began talking to me of her own accord. I had never seen such a restless creature. She did not sit still for a single instant; she got up, ran off into the house, and ran back again, hummed in an undertone, often laughed, and in a very strange way; she seemed to laugh, not at what she heard, but at the different ideas that crossed her mind. Her big eyes looked out boldly, brightly, directly, but sometimes her eyelids faintly drooped, and then their expression instantaneously became deep and tender.

We chatted away for a couple of hours. The daylight had long died away, and the evening glow, at first fiery, then clear and red, then pale and dim, had slowly melted away and passed into night, but our conversation still went on, as quiet and peaceful as the air around us. Gagin ordered a bottle of Rhine wine; we drank it between us, slowly and deliberately. The music floated across to us as before, its strains seemed sweeter and tenderer; lights were burning in the town and on the river. Acia suddenly let her head fall, so that her curls dropped into her eyes, ceased speaking, and sighed. Then she said she was sleepy, and went indoors. I saw, though, that she stood a long while at the unopened window without lighting a candle. At last the moon rose and began shining upon the Rhine; everything turned to light and darkness, everything was transformed, even the wine in our cut-glass tumblers gleamed with a mysterious light. The wind drooped, as it were, folded its wings and sank to rest; the fragrant warmth of night rose in whiffs from the earth.

‘It’s time I was going!’ I cried, ‘or else perhaps, there’ll be no getting a ferryman.’

‘Yes, it’s time to start,’ Gagin assented.

We went down the path. Suddenly we heard the rolling of the stones behind us; it was Acia coming after us.

‘Aren’t you asleep?’ asked her brother; but, without answering a word, she ran by us. The last, smouldering lamps, lighted by the students in the garden of the inn, threw a light on the leaves of the trees from below, giving them a fantastic and festive look. We found Acia at the river’s edge; she was talking to a ferryman. I jumped into the boat, and said good-bye to my new friends. Gagin promised to pay me a visit next day; I pressed his hand, and held out my hand to Acia; but she only looked at me and shook her head. The boat pushed off and floated on the rapid river. The ferryman, a sturdy old man, buried his oars in the dark water, and pulled with great effort.

‘You are in the streak of moonlight, you have broken it up,’ Acia shouted to me.

I dropped my eyes; the waters eddied round the boat, blacker than ever.

‘Good-bye!’ I heard her voice.

‘Till to-morrow,’ Gagin said after her.

The boat reached the other side. I got out and looked about me. No one could be seen now on the opposite bank. The streak of moonlight stretched once more like a bridge of gold right across the river. Like a farewell, the air of the old-fashioned Lanner waltz drifted across. Gagin was right; I felt every chord in my heart vibrating in response to its seductive melody. I started homewards across the darkening fields, drinking in slowly the fragrant air, and reached my room, deeply stirred by the voluptuous languor of vague, endless anticipation. I felt happy.… But why was I happy? I desired nothing, I thought of nothing.… I was happy.

Almost laughing from excess of sweet, light-hearted emotions, I dived into my bed, and was just closing my eyes, when all at once it struck me that I had not once all the evening remembered my cruel charmer.… ‘What’s the meaning of it?’ I wondered to myself; ‘is it possible I’m not in love?’ But though I asked myself this question, I fell asleep, I think, at once, like a baby in its cradle.

III

Next morning (I was awake, but had not yet begun to get up), I heard the tap of a stick on my window, and a voice I knew at once for Gagin’s hummed—

I made haste to open the door to him.

‘Good-morning,’ said Gagin, coming in; ‘I’m disturbing you rather early, but only see what a morning it is. Fresh, dewy, larks singing.…’

With his curly, shining hair, his open neck and rosy cheeks, he was fresh as the morning himself.

I dressed; we went out into the garden, sat down on a bench, ordered coffee, and proceeded to talk. Gagin told me his plans for the future; he possessed a moderate fortune, was not dependent on any one, and wanted to devote himself to painting. He only regretted that he had not had more sense sooner, but had wasted so much time doing nothing. I too referred to my projects, and incidentally confided to him the secret of my unhappy love. He listened to me amiably, but, so far as I could observe, I did not arouse in him any very strong sympathy with my passion. Sighing once or twice after me, for civility’s sake, Gagin suggested that I should go home with him and look at his sketches. I agreed at once.

We did not find Acia. She had, the landlady told us, gone to the ‘ruin.’ A mile and a half from L. were the remains of a feudal castle. Gagin showed me all his canvases. In his sketches there was a good deal of life and truth, a certain breadth and freedom; but not one of them was finished, and the drawing struck me as careless and incorrect. I gave candid expression to my opinion.

‘Yes, yes,’ he assented, with a sigh; ‘you’re right; it’s all very poor and crude; what’s to be done? I haven’t had the training I ought to have had; besides, one’s cursed Slavonic slackness gets the better of one. While one dreams of work, one soars away in eagle flight; one fancies one’s going to shake the earth out of its place—but when it comes to doing anything, one’s weak and weary directly.’

I began trying to cheer him up, but he waved me off, and bundling his sketches up together, threw them on the sofa.

‘If I’ve patience, something may be made of me,’ he muttered; ‘if I haven’t, I shall remain a half-baked noble amateur. Come, we’d better be looking for Acia.’

We went out.

IV

The road to the ruin went twisting down the steep incline into a narrow wooded valley; at the bottom ran a stream, noisily threading its way through the pebbles, as though in haste to flow into the great river, peacefully shining beyond the dark ridge of the deep indented mountain crest. Gagin called my attention to some places where the light fell specially finely; one could see in his words that, even if not a painter, he was undoubtedly an artist. The ruin soon came into sight. On the very summit of the naked rock rose a square tower, black all over, still strong, but, as it were, cleft in two by a longitudinal crack. Mossy walls adjoined the tower; here and there ivy clung about it; wind-twisted bushes hung down from the grey battlements and crumbling arches. A stray path led up to the gates, still standing entire. We had just reached them, when suddenly a girl’s figure darted up in front of us, ran swiftly over a heap of debris, and stood on the projecting part of the wall, right over the precipice.

‘Why, it’s Acia!’ cried Gagin; ‘the mad thing.’ We went through the gates and found ourselves in a small courtyard, half overgrown with crab-apple trees and nettles. On the projecting ledge, Acia actually was sitting. She turned and faced us, laughing, but did not move. Gagin shook his finger at her, while I loudly reproached her for her recklessness.

‘That’s enough,’ Gagin said to me in a whisper; ‘don’t tease her; you don’t know what she is; she’d very likely climb right up on to the tower. Look, you’d better be admiring the intelligence of the people of these parts!’

I looked round. In a corner, ensconced in a tiny, wooden hut, an old woman was knitting a stocking, and looking at us through her spectacles. She sold beer, gingerbread, and seltzer water to tourists. We seated ourselves on a bench, and began drinking some fairly cold beer out of heavy pewter pots. Acia still sat without moving, with her feet tucked under her, and a muslin scarf wrapped round her head; her graceful figure stood out distinctly and finely against the clear sky; but I looked at her with a feeling of hostility. The evening before I had detected something forced, something not quite natural about her.… ‘She’s trying to impress us,’ I thought; ‘whatever for? What a childish trick.’ As though guessing my thoughts, she suddenly turned a rapid, searching glance upon me, laughed again, leaped in two bounds from the wall, and going up to the old woman, asked her for a glass of water.

‘Do you think I am thirsty?’ she said, addressing her brother; ‘no; there are some flowers on the walls, which must be watered.’

Gagin made her no reply; and with the glass in her hand, she began scrambling over the ruins, now and then stopping, bending down, and with comic solemnity pouring a few drops of water, which sparkled brightly in the sun. Her movements were very charming, but I felt, as before, angry with her, even while I could not help admiring her lightness and agility. At one dangerous place she purposely screamed, and then laughed.… I felt still more annoyed with her.

‘Why, she climbs like a goat,’ the old woman mumbled, turning for an instant from her stocking.

At last, Acia had emptied the glass, and with a saucy swing she walked back to us. A queer smile was faintly twitching at her eyebrows, nostrils, and lips; her dark eyes were screwed up with a half insolent, half merry look.

‘You consider my behaviour improper,’ her face seemed to say; ‘all the same, I know you’re admiring me.’

‘Well done, Acia, well done,’ Gagin said in a low voice.

She seemed all at once overcome with shame, she dropped her long eyelashes, and sat down beside us with a guilty air. At that moment I got for the first time a good look at her face, the most changeable face I had ever seen. A few instants later it had turned quite pale, and wore an intense, almost mournful expression, its very features seemed larger, sterner, simpler. She completely subsided. We walked round the ruins (Acia followed us), and admired the views. Meanwhile it was getting near dinner-time. As he paid the old woman, Gagin asked for another mug of beer, and turning to me, cried with a sly face—

‘To the health of the lady of your heart.’

‘Why, has he—have you such a lady?’ Acia asked suddenly.

‘Why, who hasn’t?’ retorted Gagin.

Acia seemed pensive for an instant; then her face changed, the challenging, almost insolent smile came back once more.

On the way home she kept laughing, and was more mischievous again. She broke off a long branch, put it on her shoulder, like a gun, and tied her scarf round her head. I remember we met a numerous family of light-haired affected English people; they all, as though at a word of command, looked Acia up and down with their glassy eyes in chilly amazement, while she started singing aloud, as though in defiance of them. When she reached home, she went straight to her own room, and only appeared when dinner was on the table. She was dressed in her best clothes, had carefully arranged her hair, laced herself in at the waist, and put on gloves. At dinner she behaved very decorously, almost affectedly, hardly tasting anything, and drinking water out of a wine-glass. She obviously wanted to show herself in a new character before me—the character of a well-bred, refined young lady. Gagin did not check her; one could see that it was his habit to humour her in everything. He merely glanced at me good-humouredly now and then, and slightly shrugged his shoulders, as though he would say—‘She’s a baby; don’t be hard on her.’ Directly dinner was over, Acia got up, made us a curtsey, and putting on her hat, asked Gagin if she might go to see Frau Luise.

‘Since when do you ask leave,’ he answered with his invariable smile, a rather embarrassed smile this time; ‘are you bored with us?’

‘No; but I promised Frau Luise yesterday to go and see her; besides, I thought you would like better being alone. Mr. N. (she indicated me) will tell you something more about himself.’

She went out.

‘Frau Luise,’ Gagin began, trying to avoid meeting my eyes, ‘is the widow of a former burgomaster here, a good-natured, but silly old woman. She has taken a great fancy to Acia. Acia has a passion for making friends with people of a lower class; I’ve noticed, it’s always pride that’s at the root of that. She’s pretty well spoilt with me, as you see,’ he went on after a brief pause: ‘but what would you have me do? I can’t be exacting with any one, and with her less than any one else. I am bound not to be hard on her.’

I was silent. Gagin changed the conversation. The more I saw of him, the more strongly was I attracted by him. I soon understood him. His was a typically Russian nature, truthful, honest, simple; but, unhappily, without energy, lacking tenacity and inward fire. Youth was not boiling over within him, but shone with a subdued light. He was very sweet and clever, but I could not picture to myself what he would become in ripe manhood. An artist … without intense, incessant toil, there is no being an artist … and as for toil, I mused, watching his soft features, listening to his slow deliberate talk, ‘no, you’ll never toil, you don’t know how to put pressure on yourself.’ But not to love him was an impossibility; one’s heart was simply drawn to him. We spent four hours together, sometimes sitting on the sofa, sometimes walking slowly up and down before the house; and in those four hours we became intimate friends.

The sun was setting, and it was time for me to go home. Acia had not yet come back.

‘What a reckless thing she is,’ said Gagin. ‘Shall I come along with you? We’ll turn in at Frau Luise’s on the way. I’ll ask whether she’s there. It’s not far out of the way.’

We went down into the town, and turning off into a narrow, crooked little by-street, stopped before a house four storeys high, and with two windows abreast in each storey. The second storey projected beyond the first, the third and fourth stood out still further than the second; the whole house, with its crumbling carving, its two stout columns below, its pointed brick roof, and the projecting piece on the attic poking out like a beak, looked like a huge, crouching bird.

‘Acia,’ shouted Gagin, ‘are you here?’

A window, with a light in it in the third storey, rattled and opened, and we saw Acia’s dark head. Behind her peered out the toothless and dim-sighted face of an old German woman.

‘I’m here,’ said Acia, leaning roguishly out with her elbows on the window-sill; ‘I’m quite contented here. Hullo there, catch,’ she added, flinging Gagin a twig of geranium; ‘imagine I’m the lady of your heart.’

Frau Luise laughed.

‘N. is going,’ said Gagin; ‘he wants to say good-bye to you.’

‘Really,’ said Acia; ‘in that case give him my geranium, and I’ll come back directly.’

She slammed-to the window and seemed to be kissing Frau Luise. Gagin offered me the twig without a word. I put it in my pocket in silence, went on to the ferry, and crossed over to the other side of the river.

I remember I went home thinking of nothing in particular, but with a strange load at my heart, when I was suddenly struck by a strong familiar scent, rare in Germany. I stood still, and saw near the road a small bed of hemp. Its fragrance of the steppes instantaneously brought my own country to my mind, and stirred a passionate longing for it in my heart. I longed to breathe Russian air, to tread on Russian soil. ‘What am I doing here, why am I trailing about in foreign countries among strangers?’ I cried, and the dead weight I had felt at my heart suddenly passed into a bitter, stinging emotion. I reached home in quite a different frame of mind from the evening before. I felt almost enraged, and it was a long while before I could recover my equanimity. I was beset by a feeling of anger I could not explain. At last I sat down, and bethinking myself of my faithless widow (I wound up every day regularly by dreaming, as in duty bound, of this lady), I pulled out one of her letters. But I did not even open it; my thoughts promptly took another turn. I began dreaming—dreaming of Acia. I recollected that Gagin had, in the course of conversation, hinted at certain difficulties, obstacles in the way of his returning to Russia.… ‘Come, is she his sister?’ I said aloud.

I undressed, got into bed, and tried to get to sleep; but an hour later I was sitting up again in bed, propped up with my elbow on the pillow, and was once more thinking about this ‘whimsical chit of a girl with the affected laugh.…’ ‘She’s the figure of the little Galatea of Raphael in the Farnesino,’ I murmured: ‘yes; and she’s not his sister——’

The widow’s letter lay tranquil and undisturbed on the floor, a white patch in the moonlight.

V

Next morning I went again to L——. I persuaded myself I wanted to see Gagin, but secretly I was tempted to go and see what Acia would do, whether she would be as whimsical as on the previous day. I found them both in their sitting-room, and strange to say—possibly because I had been thinking so much that night and morning of Russia—Acia struck me as a typically Russian girl, and a girl of the humbler class, almost like a Russian servant-girl. She wore an old gown, she had combed her hair back behind her ears, and was sitting still as a mouse at the window, working at some embroidery in a frame, quietly, demurely, as though she had never done anything else all her life. She said scarcely anything, looked quietly at her work, and her features wore such an ordinary, commonplace expression, that I could not help thinking of our Katias and Mashas at home in Russia. To complete the resemblance she started singing in a low voice, ‘Little mother, little dove.’ I looked at her little face, which was rather yellow and listless, I thought of my dreams of the previous night, and I felt a pang of regret for something.

It was exquisite weather. Gagin announced that he was going to make a sketch to-day from nature; I asked him if he would let me go with him, whether I shouldn’t be in his way.

‘On the contrary,’ he assured me; ‘you may give me some good advice.’

He put on a hat À la Vandyck, and a blouse, took a canvas under his arm, and set out; I sauntered after him. Acia stayed at home. Gagin, as he went out, asked her to see that the soup wasn’t too thin; Acia promised to look into the kitchen. Gagin went as far as the valley I knew already, sat down on a stone, and began to sketch a hollow oak with spreading branches. I lay on the grass and took out a book; but I didn’t read two pages, and he simply spoiled a sheet of paper; we did little else but talk, and as far as I am competent to judge, we talked rather cleverly and subtly of the right method of working, of what we must avoid, and what one must cling to, and wherein lay the significance of the artist in our age. Gagin, at last, decided that he was not in the mood to-day, and lay down beside me on the grass. And then our youthful eloquence flowed freely; fervent, pensive, enthusiastic by turns, but consisting almost always of those vague generalities into which a Russian is so ready to expand. When we had talked to our hearts’ content, and were full of a feeling of satisfaction as though we had got something done, achieved some sort of success, we returned home. I found Acia just as I had left her; however assiduously I watched her I could not detect a shade of coquetry, nor a sign of an intentionally assumed rÔle in her; this time it was impossible to reproach her for artificiality.

‘Aha!’ said Gagin; ‘she has imposed fasting and penance on herself.’

Towards evening she yawned several times with obvious genuineness, and went early to her room. I myself soon said good-bye to Gagin, and as I went home, I had no dreams of any kind; that day was spent in sober sensations. I remember, however, as I lay down to sleep, I involuntarily exclaimed aloud—

‘What a chameleon the girl is!’ and after a moment’s thought I added; ‘anyway, she’s not his sister.’

VI

A whole fortnight passed by. I visited the Gagins every day. Acia seemed to avoid me, but she did not permit herself one of the mischievous tricks which had so surprised me the first two days of our acquaintance. She seemed secretly wounded or embarrassed; she even laughed less than at first. I watched her with curiosity.

She spoke French and German fairly well; but one could easily see, in everything she did, that she had not from childhood been brought up under a woman’s care, and that she had had a curious, irregular education that had nothing in common with Gagin’s bringing up. He was, in spite of the Vandyck hat and the blouse, so thoroughly every inch of him the soft, half-effeminate Great Russian nobleman, while she was not like the young girl of the same class. In all her movements there was a certain restlessness. The wild stock had not long been grafted, the new wine was still fermenting. By nature modest and timid, she was exasperated by her own shyness, and in her exasperation tried to force herself to be bold and free and easy, in which she was not always successful. I sometimes began to talk to her about her life in Russia, about her past; she answered my questions reluctantly. I found out, however, that before going abroad she had lived a long while in the country. I came upon her once, intent on a book, alone. With her head on her hands and her fingers thrust into her hair, she was eagerly devouring the lines.

‘Bravo!’ I said, going up to her; ‘how studious you are!’ She raised her head, and looked gravely and severely at me. ‘You think I can do nothing but laugh,’ she said, and was about to go away.…

I glanced at the title of the book; it was some French novel.

‘I can’t commend your choice, though,’ I observed.

‘What am I to read then?’ she cried; and flinging the book on the table, she added—‘so I’d better go and play the fool,’ and ran out into the garden.

That same day, in the evening, I was reading Gagin Hermann und Dorothea. Acia at first kept fidgeting about us, then all at once she stopped, listened, softly sat down by me, and heard the reading through to the end. The next day I hardly knew her again, till I guessed it had suddenly occurred to her to be as domestic and discreet as Dorothea. In fact I saw her as a half-enigmatic creature. Vain, self-conscious to the last degree, she attracted me even when I was irritated by her. Of one thing only I felt more and more convinced; and that was, that she was not Gagin’s sister. His manner with her was not like a brother’s, it was too affectionate, too considerate, and at the same time a little constrained.

A curious incident apparently confirmed my suspicions.

One evening, when I reached the vineyard where the Gagins lived, I found the gate fastened. Without losing much time in deliberation, I made my way to a broken-down place I had noticed before in the hedge and jumped over it. Not far from this spot there was a little arbour of acacias on one side of the path. I got up to it and was just about to pass it.… Suddenly I was struck by Acia’s voice passionately and tearfully uttering the following words:

‘No, I’ll love no one but you, no, no, I will love you only, for ever!’

‘Come, Acia, calm yourself,’ said Gagin; ‘you know I believe you.’

Their voices came from the arbour. I could see them both through the thin net-work of leaves. They did not notice me.

‘You, you only,’ she repeated, and she flung herself on his neck, and with broken sobs began kissing him and clinging to his breast.

‘Come, come,’ he repeated, lightly passing his hand over her hair.

For a few instants I stood motionless.… Suddenly I started—should I go up to them?—‘On no consideration,’ flashed through my head. With rapid footsteps I turned back to the hedge, leaped over it into the road, and almost running, went home. I smiled, rubbed my hands, wondered at the chance which had so suddenly confirmed my surmises (I did not for one instant doubt their accuracy) and yet there was a great bitterness in my heart. What accomplished hypocrites they are, though, I thought. And what for? Why should he try to take me in? I shouldn’t have expected it of him.… And what a touching scene of reconciliation!

VII

I slept badly, and next morning got up early, fastened a knapsack on my back, and telling my landlady not to expect me back for the night, set off walking to the mountains, along the upper part of the stream on which Z. is situated. These mountains, offsets of the ridge known as the HundsrÜck, are very interesting from a geological point of view. They are especially remarkable for the purity and regularity of the strata of basalt; but I was in no mood for geological observations. I did not take stock of what was passing within me. One feeling was clear to me; a disinclination to see the Gagins. I assured myself that the sole reason of my sudden distaste for their society was anger at their duplicity. Who forced them to pass themselves off as brother and sister? However, I tried not to think about them; I sauntered in leisurely fashion about the mountains and valleys, sat in the village inns, talking peacefully to the innkeepers and people drinking in them, or lay on a flat stone warmed by the sun, and watched the clouds floating by. Luckily it was exquisite weather. In such pursuits I passed three days, and not without pleasure, though my heart did ache at times. My own mood was in perfect harmony with the peaceful nature of that quiet countryside.

I gave myself up entirely to the play of circumstances, of fleeting impressions; in slow succession they flowed through my soul, and left on it at last one general sensation, in which all I had seen, felt, and heard in those three days was mingled—all; the delicate fragrance of resin in the forest, the call and tap of the woodpeckers, the never-ceasing chatter of the clear brooks, with spotted trout lying in the sand at the bottom, the somewhat softened outlines of the mountains, the surly rocks, the little clean villages, with respectable old churches and trees, the storks in the meadows, the neat mills with swiftly turning wheels, the beaming faces of the villagers, their blue smocks and grey stockings, the creaking, deliberately-moving wagons, drawn by sleek horses, and sometimes cows, the long-haired young men, wandering on the clean roads, planted with apple and pear trees.…

Even now I like to recall my impressions of those days. Good luck go with thee, modest nook of Germany, with thy simple plenty, with traces everywhere of busy hands, of patient though leisurely toil.… Good luck and peace to thee!

I came home at the end of the third day: I forgot to say that in my anger with the Gagins I tried to revive the image of my cruel-hearted widow, but my efforts were fruitless. I remember when I applied myself to musing upon her, I saw a little peasant girl of five years old, with a round little face and innocently staring eyes. She gazed with such childish directness at me.… I felt ashamed before her innocent stare, I could not lie in her presence, and at once, and once for all, said a last good-bye to my former flame.

At home I found a note from Gagin. He wondered at the suddenness of my plan, reproached me, asked why I had not taken him with me, and pressed me to go and see him directly I was back. I read this note with dissatisfaction; but the next day I set off to the Gagins.

VIII

Gagin met me in friendly fashion, and overwhelmed me with affectionate reproaches; but Acia, as though intentionally, burst out laughing for no reason whatever, directly she saw me, and promptly ran away, as she so often did. Gagin was disconcerted; he muttered after her that she must be crazy, and begged me to excuse her. I confess I was very much annoyed with Acia; already, apart from that, I was not at my ease; and now again this unnatural laughter, these strange grimaces. I pretended, however, not to notice anything, and began telling Gagin some of the incidents of my short tour. He told me what he had been doing in my absence. But our talk did not flow easily; Acia came into the room and ran out again; I declared at last that I had urgent work to do, and must get back home. Gagin at first tried to keep me, then, looking intently at me, offered to see me on my way. In the passage, Acia suddenly came up to me and held out her hand; I shook her fingers very slightly, and barely bowed to her. Gagin and I crossed the Rhine together, and when we reached my favourite ash-tree with the statuette of the Madonna, we sat down on the bench to admire the view. A remarkable conversation took place between us.

At first we exchanged a few words, then we were silent, watching the clear river.

‘Tell me,’ began Gagin all at once, with his habitual smile, ‘what do you think of Acia? I suppose she must strike you as rather strange, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, in some perplexity. I had not expected he would begin to speak of her.

‘One has to know her well to judge of her,‘ he observed; ’she has a very good heart, but she’s wilful. She’s difficult to get on with. But you couldn’t blame her if you knew her story.…’

‘Her story?’ I broke in.… ‘Why, isn’t she your——’ Gagin glanced at me.

‘Do you really think she isn’t my sister?… No,’ he went on, paying no attention to my confusion, ‘she really is my sister, she’s my father’s daughter. Let me tell you about her, I feel I can trust you, and I’ll tell you all about it.

‘My father was very kind, clever, cultivated, and unhappy. Fate treated him no worse than others; but he could not get over her first blow. He married early, for love; his wife, my mother, died very soon after; I was only six months old then. My father took me away with him to his country place, and for twelve years he never went out anywhere. He looked after my education himself, and would never have parted with me, if his brother, my uncle, had not come to see us in the country. This uncle always lived in Petersburg, where he held a very important post. He persuaded my father to put me in his charge, as my father would not on any consideration agree to leave the country. My uncle represented to him that it was bad for a boy of my age to live in complete solitude, that with such a constantly depressed and taciturn instructor as my father I should infallibly be much behind other boys of my age in education, and that my character even might very possibly suffer. My father resisted his brother’s counsels a long while, but he gave way at last. I cried at parting from my father; I loved him, though I had never seen a smile on his face … but when I got to Petersburg, I soon forgot our dark and cheerless home. I entered a cadet’s school, and from school passed on into a regiment of the Guards. Every year I used to go home to the country for a few weeks, and every year I found my father more and more low-spirited, absorbed in himself, depressed, and even timorous. He used to go to church every day, and had quite got out of the way of talking. On one of my visits—I was about twenty then—I saw for the first time in our house a thin, dark-eyed little girl of ten years old—Acia. My father told me she was an orphan whom he had kept out of charity—that was his very expression. I paid no particular attention to her; she was shy, quick in her movements, and silent as a little wild animal, and directly I went into my father’s favourite room—an immense gloomy apartment, where my mother had died, and where candles were kept burning even in the daytime—she would hide at once behind his big arm-chair, or behind the book-case. It so happened that for three or four years after that visit the duties of the service prevented my going home to the country. I used to get a short letter from my father every month; Acia he rarely mentioned, and only incidentally. He was over fifty, but he seemed still young. Imagine my horror; all of a sudden, suspecting nothing, I received a letter from the steward, in which he informed me my father was dangerously ill, and begged me to come as soon as possible if I wanted to take leave of him. I galloped off post-haste, and found my father still alive, but almost at his last gasp. He was greatly relieved to see me, clasped me in his wasted arms, and gazed at me with a long, half-scrutinising, half-imploring look, and making me promise I would carry out his last request, he told his old valet to bring Acia. The old man brought her in; she could scarcely stand upright, and was shaking all over.

‘“Here,” said my father with an effort, “I confide to you my daughter—your sister. You will hear all about her from Yakov,” he added, pointing to the valet.

‘Acia sobbed, and fell with her face on the bed.… Half-an-hour later my father died.

‘This was what I learned. Acia was the daughter of my father by a former maidservant of my mother’s, Tatiana. I have a vivid recollection of this Tatiana, I remember her tall, slender figure, her handsome, stern, clever face, with big dark eyes. She had the character of being a proud, unapproachable girl. As far as I could find out from Yakov’s respectful, unfinished sentences, my father had become attached to her some years after my mother’s death. Tatiana was not living then in my father’s house, but in the hut of a married sister, who had charge of the cows. My father became exceedingly fond of her, and after my departure from the country he even wanted to marry her, but she herself would not consent to be his wife, in spite of his entreaties.

‘“The deceased Tatiana Vassilievna,” Yakov informed me, standing in the doorway with his hands behind him, “had good sense in everything, and she didn’t want to do harm to your father. ‘A poor wife I should be for you, a poor sort of lady I should make,’ so she was pleased to say, she said so before me.” Tatiana would not even move into the house, and went on living at her sister’s with Acia. In my childhood I used to see Tatiana only on saints’ days in church. With her head tied up in a dark kerchief, and a yellow shawl on her shoulders, she used to stand in the crowd, near a window—her stern profile used to stand out sharply against the transparent window-pane—and she used to pray sedately and gravely, bowing low to the ground in the old-fashioned way. When my uncle carried me off, Acia was only two years old, and she lost her mother when she was nine.

‘Directly Tatiana died, my father took Acia into his house. He had before then expressed a wish to have her with him, but that too Tatiana had refused him. Imagine what must have passed in Acia’s mind when she was taken into the master’s house. To this day she cannot forget the moment when they first put her on a silk dress and kissed her hand. Her mother, as long as she lived, had brought her up very strictly; with my father she enjoyed absolute freedom. He was her tutor; she saw no one except him. He did not spoil her, that is to say, he didn’t fondle and pet her; but he loved her passionately, and never checked her in anything; in his heart he considered he had wronged her. Acia soon realised that she was the chief personage in the house; she knew the master was her father; but just as quickly she was aware of her false position; self-consciousness was strongly developed in her, mistrustfulness too; bad habits took root, simplicity was lost. She wanted (she confessed this to me once herself), to force the whole world to forget her origin; she was ashamed of her mother, and at the same time ashamed of being ashamed, and was proud of her too. You see she knew and knows a lot that she oughtn’t to have known at her age.… But was it her fault? The forces of youth were at work in her, her heart was in a ferment, and not a guiding hand near her. Absolute independence in everything! And wasn’t it hard for her to put up with? She wanted to be as good as other young ladies; she flew to books. But what good could she get from that? Her life went on as irregularly as it had begun, but her heart was not spoiled, her intellect was uninjured.

‘And there was I left, a boy of twenty, with a girl of thirteen on my hands! For the first few days after my father’s death the very sound of my voice threw her into a fever, my caresses caused her anguish, and it was only slowly and gradually that she got used to me. It is true that later, when she fully realised that I really did acknowledge her as my sister, and cared for her, she became passionately attached to me; she can feel nothing by halves.

‘I took her to Petersburg. Painful as it was to part with her, we could not live together. I sent her to one of the best boarding-schools. Acia knew our separation was inevitable, yet she began by fretting herself ill over it, and almost died. Later on she plucked up more spirit, and spent four years at school; but, contrary to my expectations, she was almost exactly the same as before. The headmistress of the school often made complaints of her, “And we can’t punish her,” she used to say to me, “and she’s not amenable to kindness.” Acia was exceedingly quick-witted, and did better at her lessons than any one; but she never would put herself on a level with the rest; she was perverse, and held herself aloof.… I could not blame her very much for it; in her position she had either to be subservient, or to hold herself aloof. Of all her school-fellows she only made friends with one, an ugly girl of poor family, who was sat upon by the rest. The other girls with whom she was brought up, mostly of good family, did not like her, teased her and taunted her as far as they could. Acia would not give way to them an inch. One day at their lesson on the law of God, the teacher was talking of the vices. ‘Servility and cowardice are the worst vices,’ Acia said aloud. She would still go her own way, in fact; only her manners were improved, though even in that respect I think she did not gain a great deal.

‘At last she reached her seventeenth year. I could not keep her any longer at school. I found myself in a rather serious difficulty. Suddenly a blessed idea came to me—to resign my commission and go abroad for a year or two, taking Acia with me. No sooner thought than done; and here we are on the banks of the Rhine, where I am trying to take up painting, and she … is as naughty and troublesome as ever. But now I hope you will not judge her too harshly; for though she pretends she doesn’t care, she values the good opinion of every one, and yours particularly.’

And Gagin smiled again his gentle smile. I pressed his hand warmly.

‘That’s how it is,’ Gagin began again; ‘but I have a trying time with her. She’s like gun-powder, always ready to go off. So far, she has never taken a fancy to any one, but woe betide us, if she falls in love! I sometimes don’t know what to do with her. The other day she took some notion into her head, and suddenly began declaring I was colder to her than I used to be, that she loved me and no one else, and never would love any one else.… And she cried so, as she said it—’

‘So that was it,’—I was beginning, but I bit my tongue.

‘Tell me,’ I questioned Gagin, ‘we have talked so frankly about everything, is it possible really, she has never cared for any one yet? Didn’t she see any young men in Petersburg?’

‘She didn’t like them at all. No, Acia wants a hero—an exceptional individual—or a picturesque shepherd on a mountain pass. But I’ve been chattering away, and keeping you,’ he added, getting up.

‘Do you know——,’ I began; ‘let’s go back to your place, I don’t want to go home.’

‘What about your work?’

I made no reply. Gagin smiled good-humouredly, and we went back to L. As I caught sight of the familiar vineyard and little white house, I felt a certain sweetness—yes, sweetness in my heart, as though honey was stealthily dropping thence for me. My heart was light after what Gagin had told me.

IX

Acia met us in the very doorway of the house. I expected a laugh again; but she came to meet us, pale and silent, with downcast eyes.

‘Here he is again,’ Gagin began, ‘and he wanted to come back of his own accord, observe.’

Acia looked at me inquiringly. It was my turn now to hold out my hand, and this time I pressed her chilly fingers warmly. I felt very sorry for her. I understood now a great deal in her that had puzzled me before; her inward restlessness, her want of breeding, her desire to be striking—all became clear to me. I had had a peep into that soul; a secret scourge was always tormenting her, her ignorant self-consciousness struggled in confused alarm, but her whole nature strove towards truth. I understood why this strange little girl attracted me; it was not only by the half-wild charm of her slender body that she attracted me; I liked her soul.

Gagin began rummaging among his canvases. I suggested to Acia that she should take a turn with me in the vineyard. She agreed at once, with cheerful and almost humble readiness. We went half-way down the mountain, and sat down on a broad stone.

‘And you weren’t dull without us?’ Acia began.

‘And were you dull without me?’ I queried.

Acia gave me a sidelong look.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Was it nice in the mountains?’ she went on at once. ‘Were they high ones? Higher than the clouds? Tell me what you saw. You were telling my brother, but I didn’t hear anything.’

‘It was of your own accord you went away,’ I remarked.

‘I went away … because …—I’m not going away now,’ she added with a confiding caress in her voice. ‘You were angry to-day.’

‘I?’

‘Yes, you.’

‘Upon my word, whatever for?’

‘I don’t know, but you were angry, and you went away angry. I was very much vexed that you went away like that, and I’m so glad you came back.’

‘And I’m glad I came back,’ I observed.

Acia gave herself a little shrug, as children often do when they are very pleased.

‘Oh, I’m good at guessing!’ she went on. ‘Sometimes, simply from the way papa coughed, I could tell in the next room whether he was pleased with me or not.’

Till that day Acia had never once spoken to me of her father. I was struck by it.

‘Were you fond of your father?’ I said, and suddenly, to my intense annoyance, I felt I was reddening.

She made no answer, and blushed too. We were both silent. In the distance a smoking steamer was scudding along on the Rhine. We began watching it.

‘Why don’t you tell me about your tour?’ Acia murmured.

‘Why did you laugh to-day directly you saw me?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know really. Sometimes I want to cry, but I laugh. You mustn’t judge me—by what I do. Oh, by-the-bye, what a story that is about the Lorelei! Is that her rock we can see? They say she used to drown every one, but as soon as she fell in love she threw herself in the water. I like that story. Frau Luise tells me all sorts of stories. Frau Luise has a black cat with yellow eyes.…’

Acia raised her head and shook her curls.

‘Ah, I am happy,’ she said.

At that instant there floated across to us broken, monotonous sounds. Hundreds of voices in unison and at regular intervals were repeating a chanted litany. The crowd of pilgrims moved slowly along the road below with crosses and banners.…

‘I should like to go with them,’ said Acia, listening to the sounds of the voices gradually growing fainter.

‘Are you so religious?’

‘I should like to go far away on a pilgrimage, on some great exploit,’ she went on. ‘As it is, the days pass by, life passes by, and what have we done?’

‘You are ambitious,’ I observed. ‘You want to live to some purpose, to leave some trace behind you.…’

‘Is that impossible, then?’

‘Impossible,’ I was on the point of repeating.… But I glanced at her bright eyes, and only said:

‘You can try.’

‘Tell me,’ began Acia, after a brief silence during which shadows passed over her face, which had already turned pale, ‘did you care much for that lady?… You remember my brother drank her health at the ruins the day after we first knew you.’

I laughed.

‘Your brother was joking. I never cared for any lady; at any rate, I don’t care for one now.’

‘And what do you like in women?’ she asked, throwing back her head with innocent curiosity.

‘What a strange question!’ I cried.

Acia was a little disconcerted.

‘I ought not to ask you such a question, ought I? Forgive me, I’m used to chattering away about anything that comes into my head. That’s why I’m afraid to speak.’

‘Speak, for God’s sake, don’t be afraid,’ I hastened to intervene; ‘I’m so glad you’re leaving off being shy at last.’

Acia looked down, and laughed a soft light-hearted laugh; I had never heard such a laugh from her.

‘Well, tell me about something,’ she went on, stroking out the skirt of her dress, and arranging the folds over her legs, as though she were settling herself for a long while; ‘tell me or read me something, just as you read us, do you remember, from Oniegin.…’

She suddenly grew pensive—

She murmured in a low voice.

‘That’s not as it is in Pushkin,’ I observed.

‘But I should like to have been Tatiana,’ she went on, in the same dreamy tone. ‘Tell me a story,’ she suddenly added eagerly.

But I was not in a mood for telling stories. I was watching her, all bathed in the bright sunshine, all peace and gentleness. Everything was joyously radiant about us, below, and above us—sky, earth, and waters; the very air seemed saturated with brilliant light.

‘Look, how beautiful!’ I said, unconsciously sinking my voice.

‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ she answered just as softly, not looking at me. ‘If only you and I were birds—how we would soar, how we would fly.… We’d simply plunge into that blue.… But we’re not birds.’

‘But we may grow wings,’ I rejoined.

‘How so?’

‘Live a little longer—and you’ll find out. There are feelings that lift us above the earth. Don’t trouble yourself, you will have wings.’

‘Have you had them?’

‘How shall I say … I think up till now I never have taken flight.’

Acia grew pensive once more. I bent a little towards her.

‘Can you waltz?’ she asked me suddenly.

‘Yes,’ I answered, rather puzzled.

‘Well, come along then, come along.… I’ll ask my brother to play us a waltz.… We’ll fancy we are flying, that our wings have grown.’

She ran into the house. I ran after her, and in a few minutes, we were turning round and round the narrow little room, to the sweet strains of Lanner. Acia waltzed splendidly, with enthusiasm. Something soft and womanly suddenly peeped through the childish severity of her profile. Long after, my arm kept the feeling of the contact of her soft waist, long after I heard her quickened breathing close to my ear, long after I was haunted by dark, immobile, almost closed eyes in a pale but eager face, framed in by fluttering curls.

X

All that day passed most delightfully. We were as merry as children. Acia was very sweet and simple. Gagin was delighted, as he watched her. I went home late. When I had got out into the middle of the Rhine, I asked the ferryman to let the boat float down with the current. The old man pulled up his oars, and the majestic river bore us along. As I looked about me, listened, brooded over recollections, I was suddenly aware of a secret restlessness astir in my heart.… I lifted my eyes skywards, but there was no peace even in the sky; studded with stars, it seemed all moving, quivering, twinkling; I bent over to the river—but even there, even in those cold dark depths, the stars were trembling and glimmering; I seemed to feel an exciting quickening of life on all sides—and a sense of alarm rose up within me too. I leaned my elbows on the boat’s edge.… The whispering of the wind in my ears, the soft gurgling of the water at the rudder worked on my nerves, and the fresh breath of the river did not cool me; a nightingale was singing on the bank, and stung me with the sweet poison of its notes. Tears rose into my eyes, but they were not the tears of aimless rapture.… What I was feeling was not the vague sense I had known of late of all-embracing desire when the soul expands, resounds, when it feels that it grasps all, loves all.… No! it was the thirst for happiness aflame in me. I did not dare yet to call it by its name—but happiness, happiness full and overflowing—that was what I wanted, that was what I pined for.… The boat floated on, and the old ferryman sat dozing as he leant on his oars.

XI

As I set off next day to the Gagins, I did not ask myself whether I was in love with Acia, but I thought a great deal about her, her fate absorbed me, I rejoiced at our unexpected intimacy. I felt that it was only yesterday I had got to know her; till then she had turned away from me. And now, when she had at last revealed herself to me, in what a seductive light her image showed itself, how fresh it was for me, what secret fascinations were modestly peeping out.…

I walked boldly up the familiar road, gazing continually at the cottage, a white spot in the distance. I thought not of the future—not even of the morrow—I was very happy.

Acia flushed directly I came into the room; I noticed that she had dressed herself in her best again, but the expression of her face was not in keeping with her finery; it was mournful. And I had come in such high spirits! I even fancied that she was on the point of running away as usual, but she controlled herself and remained. Gagin was in that peculiar condition of artistic heat and intensity which seizes amateurs all of a sudden, like a fit, when they imagine they are succeeding in ‘catching nature and pinning her down.’ He was standing with dishevelled locks, and besmeared with paint, before a stretched canvas, and flourishing the brush over it; he almost savagely nodded to me, turned away, screwed up his eyes, and bent again over his picture. I did not hinder him, but went and sat down by Acia. Slowly her dark eyes turned to me.

‘You’re not the same to-day as yesterday,’ I observed, after ineffectual efforts to call up a smile on her lips.

‘No, I’m not,’ she answered, in a slow and dull voice. ‘But that means nothing. I did not sleep well, I was thinking all night.’

‘What about?’

‘Oh, I thought about so many things. It’s a way I have had from childhood; ever since I used to live with mother—’

She uttered the word with an effort, and then repeated again—

‘When I used to live with mother.… I used to think why it was no one could tell what would happen to him; and sometimes one sees trouble coming—and one can’t escape; and how it is one can never tell all the truth.… Then I used to think I knew nothing, and that I ought to learn. I want to be educated over again; I’m very badly educated. I can’t play the piano, I can’t draw, and even sewing I do very badly. I have no talent for anything; I must be a very dull person to be with.’

‘You’re unjust to yourself,’ I replied; ‘you’ve read a lot, you’re cultivated, and with your cleverness—’

‘Why, am I clever?’ she asked with such naÏve interest, that I could not help laughing; but she did not even smile. ‘Brother, am I clever?’ she asked Gagin.

He made her no answer, but went on working, continually changing brushes and raising his arm.

‘I don’t know myself what is in my head,’ Acia continued, with the same dreamy air. ‘I am sometimes afraid of myself, really. Ah, I should like.… Is it true that women ought not to read a great deal?’

‘A great deal’s not wanted, but.…’

‘Tell me what I ought to read? Tell me what I ought to do. I will do everything you tell me,’ she added, turning to me with innocent confidence.

I could not at once find a reply.

‘You won’t be dull with me, though?’

‘What nonsense,’ I was beginning.…

‘All right, thanks!’ Acia put in; ‘I was thinking you would be bored.’

And her little hot hand clasped mine warmly.

‘N!’ Gagin cried at that instant; ‘isn’t that background too dark?’

I went up to him. Acia got up and went away.

XII

She came back in an hour, stood in the doorway and beckoned to me.

‘Listen,’ she said; ‘if I were to die, would you be sorry?’

‘What ideas you have to-day!’ I exclaimed.

‘I fancy I shall die soon; it seems to me sometimes as though everything about me were saying good-bye. It’s better to die than live like this.… Ah! don’t look at me like that; I’m not pretending, really. Or else I shall begin to be afraid of you again.’

‘Why, were you afraid of me?’

‘If I am queer, it’s really not my fault,’ she rejoined. ‘You see, I can’t even laugh now.…’

She remained gloomy and preoccupied till evening. Something was taking place in her; what, I did not understand. Her eyes often rested upon me; my heart slowly throbbed under her enigmatic gaze. She appeared composed, and yet as I watched her I kept wanting to tell her not to let herself get excited. I admired her, found a touching charm in her pale face, her hesitating, slow movements, but she for some reason fancied I was out of humour.

‘Let me tell you something,’ she said to me not long before parting; ‘I am tortured by the idea that you consider me frivolous.… For the future believe what I say to you, only do you, too, be open with me; and I will always tell you the truth, I give you my word of honour.…’

This ‘word of honour’ set me laughing again.

‘Oh, don’t laugh,’ she said earnestly, ‘or I shall say to you to-day what you said to me yesterday, “why are you laughing?”’ and after a brief silence she added, ‘Do you remember you spoke yesterday of “wings”?… My wings have grown, but I have nowhere to fly.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said; ‘all the ways lie open before you.…’

Acia looked at me steadily, straight in the face.

‘You have a bad opinion of me to-day,’ she said, frowning.

‘I? a bad opinion of you!…’

‘Why is it you are both so low-spirited,’ Gagin interrupted me—‘would you like me to play a waltz, as I did yesterday?’

‘No, no,’ replied Acia, and she clenched her hands; ‘not to-day, not for anything!’

‘I’m not going to force you to; don’t excite yourself.’

‘Not for anything!’ she repeated, turning pale.

‘Can it be she’s in love with me?’ I thought, as I drew near the dark rushing waters of the Rhine.

XIII

‘Can it be that she loves me?’ I asked myself next morning, directly I awoke. I did not want to look into myself. I felt that her image, the image of the ‘girl with the affected laugh,’ had crept close into my heart, and that I should not easily get rid of it. I went to L—— and stayed there the whole day, but I saw Acia only by glimpses. She was not well; she had a headache. She came downstairs for a minute, with a bandage round her forehead, looking white and thin, her eyes half-closed. With a faint smile she said, ‘It will soon be over, it’s nothing; everything’s soon over, isn’t it?’ and went away. I felt bored and, as it were, listlessly sad, yet I could not make up my mind to go for a long while, and went home late, without seeing her again.

The next morning passed in a sort of half slumber of the consciousness. I tried to set to work, and could not; I tried to do nothing and not to think—and that was a failure too. I strolled about the town, returned home, went out again.

‘Are you Herr N——?’ I heard a childish voice ask suddenly behind me. I looked round; a little boy was standing before me. ‘This is for you from FraÜlein Annette,’ he said, handing me a note.

I opened it and recognised the irregular rapid handwriting of Acia. ‘I must see you to-day,’ she wrote to me; ‘come to-day at four o’clock to the stone chapel on the road near the ruin. I have done a most foolish thing to-day.… Come, for God’s sake; you shall know all about it.… Tell the messenger, yes.’

‘Is there an answer?’ the boy asked me.

‘Say, yes,’ I replied. The boy ran off.

XIV

I went home to my own room, sat down, and sank into thought. My heart was beating violently. I read Acia’s note through several times. I looked at my watch; it was not yet twelve o’clock.

The door opened, Gagin walked in.

His face was overcast. He seized my hand and pressed it warmly. He seemed very much agitated.

‘What is the matter?’ I asked.

Gagin took a chair and sat down opposite me. ‘Three days ago,’ he began with a rather forced smile, and hesitating, ‘I surprised you by what I told you; to-day I am going to surprise you more. With any other man I could not, most likely, bring myself … so directly.… But you’re an honourable man, you’re my friend, aren’t you? Listen—my sister, Acia, is in love with you.’

I trembled all over and stood up.…

‘Your sister, you say——’

‘Yes, yes,’ Gagin cut me short. ‘I tell you, she’s mad, and she’ll drive me mad. But happily she can’t tell a lie, and she confides in me. Ah, what a soul there is in that little girl!… but she’ll be her own ruin, that’s certain.’

‘But you’re making a mistake,’ I began.

‘No, I’m not making a mistake. Yesterday, you know, she was lying down almost all day, she ate nothing, but she did not complain.… She never does complain. I was not anxious, though towards evening she was in a slight fever. At two o’clock last night I was wakened by our landlady; “Go to your sister,” she said; “there’s something wrong with her.” I ran in to Acia, and found her not undressed, feverish, and in tears; her head was aching, her teeth were chattering. “What’s the matter with you?” I said, “are you ill?” She threw herself on my neck and began imploring me to take her away as soon as possible, if I want to keep her alive.… I could make out nothing, I tried to soothe her.… Her sobs grew more violent, … and suddenly through her sobs I made out … well, in fact, I made out that she loves you. I assure you, you and I are reasonable people, and we can’t imagine how deeply she feels and with what incredible force her feelings show themselves; it has come upon her as unexpectedly and irresistibly as a thunderstorm. You’re a very nice person,’ Gagin pursued, ‘but why she’s so in love with you, I confess I don’t understand. She says she has been drawn to you from the first moment she saw you. That’s why she cried the other day when she declared she would never love any one but me.—She imagines you despise her, that you most likely know about her birth; she asked me if I hadn’t told you her story,—I said, of course, that I hadn’t; but her intuition’s simply terrible. She has one wish,—to get away, to get away at once. I sat with her till morning; she made me promise we should not be here to-morrow, and only then, she fell asleep. I have been thinking and thinking, and at last I made up my mind to speak to you. To my mind, Acia is right; the best thing is for us both to go away from here. And I should have taken her away to-day, if I had not been struck by an idea which made me pause. Perhaps … who knows? do you like my sister? If so, what’s the object of my taking her away? And so I decided to cast aside all reserve.… Besides, I noticed something myself.… I made up my mind … to find out from you …’ Poor Gagin was completely out of countenance. ‘Excuse me, please,’ he added, ‘I’m not used to such bothers.’

I took his hand.

‘You want to know,’ I pronounced in a steady voice, ‘whether I like your sister? Yes, I do like her—’

Gagin glanced at me. ‘But,’ he said, faltering, ‘you’d hardly marry her, would you?’

‘How would you have me answer such a question? Only think; can I at the moment——’

‘I know, I know,’ Gagin cut me short; ‘I have no right to expect an answer from you, and my question was the very acme of impropriety.… But what am I to do? One can’t play with fire. You don’t know Acia; she’s quite capable of falling ill, running away, or asking you to see her alone.… Any other girl might manage to hide it all and wait—but not she. It is the first time with her, that’s the worst of it! If you had seen how she sobbed at my feet to-day, you would understand my fears.’

I was pondering. Gagin’s words ‘asking you to see her alone,’ had sent a twinge to my heart. I felt it was shameful not to meet his honest frankness with frankness.

‘Yes,’ I said at last; ‘you are right. An hour ago I got a note from your sister. Here it is.’

Gagin took the note, quickly looked it through, and let his hands fall on his knees. The expression of perplexity on his face was very amusing, but I was in no mood for laughter.

‘I tell you again, you’re an honourable man,’ he said; ‘but what’s to be done now? What? she herself wants to go away, and she writes to you and blames herself for acting unwisely … and when had she time to write this? What does she wish of you?’

I pacified him, and we began to discuss as coolly as we could what we ought to do.

The conclusion we reached at last was that, to avoid worse harm befalling, I was to go and meet Acia, and to have a straightforward explanation with her; Gagin pledged himself to stay at home, and not to give a sign of knowing about her note to me; in the evening we arranged to see each other again.

‘I have the greatest confidence in you,’ said Gagin, and he pressed my hand; ‘have mercy on her and on me. But we shall go away to-morrow, anyway,’ he added getting up, ‘for you won’t marry Acia, I see.’

‘Give me time till the evening,’ I objected.

‘All right, but you won’t marry her.’

He went away, and I threw myself on the sofa, and shut my eyes. My head was going round; too many impressions had come bursting on it at once. I was vexed at Gagin’s frankness, I was vexed with Acia, her love delighted and disconcerted me, I could not comprehend what had made her reveal it to her brother; the absolute necessity of rapid, almost instantaneous decision exasperated me. ‘Marry a little girl of seventeen, with her character, how is it possible?’ I said, getting up.

XV

At the appointed hour I crossed the Rhine, and the first person I met on the opposite bank was the very boy who had come to me in the morning. He was obviously waiting for me.

‘From FraÜlein Annette,’ he said in a whisper, and he handed me another note.

Acia informed me she had changed the place of our meeting. I was to go in an hour and a half, not to the chapel, but to Frau Luise’s house, to knock below, and go up to the third storey.

‘Is it, yes, again?’ asked the boy.

‘Yes,’ I repeated, and I walked along the bank of the Rhine. There was not time to go home, I didn’t want to wander about the streets. Beyond the town wall there was a little garden, with a skittle ground and tables for beer drinkers. I went in there. A few middle-aged Germans were playing skittles; the wooden balls rolled along with a sound of knocking, now and then cries of approval reached me. A pretty waitress, with her eyes swollen with weeping, brought me a tankard of beer; I glanced at her face. She turned quickly and walked away.

‘Yes, yes,’ observed a fat, red-cheeked citizen sitting by, ‘our Hannchen is dreadfully upset to-day; her sweetheart’s gone for a soldier.’ I looked at her; she was sitting huddled up in a corner, her face propped on her hand; tears were rolling one by one between her fingers. Some one called for beer; she took him a pot, and went back to her place. Her grief affected me; I began musing on the interview awaiting me, but my dreams were anxious, cheerless dreams. It was with no light heart I was going to this interview; I had no prospect before me of giving myself up to the bliss of love returned; what lay before me was to keep my word, to do a difficult duty. ‘One can’t play with her.’ These words of Gagin’s had gone through my heart like arrows. And three days ago, in that boat borne along by the current, had I not been pining with the thirst for happiness? It had become possible, and I was hesitating, I was pushing it away, I was bound to push it from me—its suddenness bewildered me. Acia herself, with her fiery temperament, her past, her bringing-up, this fascinating, strange creature, I confess she frightened me. My feelings were long struggling within me. The appointed hour was drawing near. ‘I can’t marry her,’ I decided at last; ‘she shall not know I love her.’

I got up, and putting a thaler in the hand of poor Hannchen (she did not even thank me), I directed my steps towards Frau Luise’s. The air was already overcast with the shadows of evening, and the narrow strip of sky, above the dark street, was red with the glow of sunset. I knocked faintly at the door; it was opened at once. I stepped through the doorway, and found myself in complete darkness.

‘This way.’ I heard an old woman’s voice. ‘You’re expected.’

I took two steps, groping my way, a long hand took mine.

‘Is that you, Frau Luise?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ answered the same voice, ‘’Tis I, my fine young man.’ The old woman led me up a steep staircase, and stopped on the third floor. In the feeble light from a tiny window, I saw the wrinkled visage of the burgomaster’s widow. A crafty smile of mawkish sweetness contorted her sunken lips, and pursed up her dim-sighted eyes. She pointed me to a little door; with an abrupt movement I opened it and slammed it behind me.

XVI

In the little room into which I stepped, it was rather dark, and I did not at once see Acia. Wrapped in a big shawl, she was sitting on a chair by the window, turning away from me and almost hiding her head like a frightened bird. She was breathing quickly, and trembling all over. I felt unutterably sorry for her. I went up to her. She averted her head still more.…

‘Anna Nikolaevna,’ I said.

She suddenly drew herself up, tried to look at me, and could not. I took her hand, it was cold, and lay like a dead thing in mine.

‘I wished’—Acia began, trying to smile, but unable to control her pale lips; ‘I wanted—No, I can’t,’ she said, and ceased. Her voice broke at every word.

I sat down beside her.

‘Anna Nikolaevna,’ I repeated, and I too could say nothing more.

A silence followed. I still held her hand and looked at her. She sat as before, shrinking together, breathing with difficulty, and stealthily biting her lower lip to keep back the rising tears.… I looked at her; there was something touchingly helpless in her timid passivity; it seemed as though she had been so exhausted she had hardly reached the chair, and had simply fallen on it. My heart began to melt.…

‘Acia,’ I said hardly audibly.…

She slowly lifted her eyes to me.… Oh, the eyes of a woman who loves—who can describe them? They were supplicating, those eyes, they were confiding, questioning, surrendering … I could not resist their fascination. A subtle flame passed all through me with tingling shocks; I bent down and pressed my lips to her hand.…

I heard a quivering sound, like a broken sigh and I felt on my hair the touch of a feeble hand shaking like a leaf. I raised my head and looked at her face. How transformed it was all of a sudden. The expression of terror had vanished from it, her eyes looked far away and drew me after them, her lips were slightly parted, her forehead was white as marble, and her curls floated back as though the wind had stirred them. I forgot everything, I drew her to me, her hand yielded unresistingly, her whole body followed her hand, the shawl fell from her shoulders, and her head lay softly on my breast, lay under my burning lips.…

‘Yours …’ she murmured, hardly above a breath.

My arms were slipping round her waist.… But suddenly the thought of Gagin flashed like lightning before me. ‘What are we doing,’ I cried, abruptly moving back.… ‘Your brother … why, he knows everything.… He knows I am with you.’

Acia sank back on her chair.

‘Yes,’ I went on, getting up and walking to the other end of the room. ‘Your brother knows all about it.… I had to tell him.…’

‘You had to?’ she articulated thickly. She could not, it seemed, recover herself, and hardly understood me.

‘Yes, yes,’ I repeated with a sort of exasperation, ‘and it’s all your fault, your fault. What did you betray your secret for? Who forced you to tell your brother? He has been with me to-day, and told me what you said to him.’ I tried not to look at Acia, and kept walking with long strides up and down the room. ‘Now everything is over, everything.’

Acia tried to get up from her chair.

‘Stay,’ I cried, ‘stay, I implore you. You have to do with an honourable man—yes, an honourable man. But, in Heaven’s name, what upset you? Did you notice any change in me? But I could not hide my feelings from your brother when he came to me to-day.’

‘Why am I talking like this?’ I was thinking inwardly, and the idea that I was an immoral liar, that Gagin knew of our interview, that everything was spoilt, exposed—seemed buzzing persistently in my head.

‘I didn’t call my brother’—I heard a frightened whisper from Acia: ‘he came of himself.’

‘See what you have done,’ I persisted. ‘Now you want to go away.…’

‘Yes, I must go away,’ she murmured in the same soft voice. ‘I only asked you to come here to say good-bye.’

‘And do you suppose,’ I retorted, ‘it will be easy for me to part with you?’

‘But what did you tell my brother for?’ Acia said, in perplexity.

‘I tell you—I could not do otherwise. If you had not yourself betrayed yourself.…’

‘I locked myself in my room,’ she answered simply. ‘I did not know the landlady had another key.…’

This innocent apology on her lips at such a moment almost infuriated me at the time … and now I cannot think of it without emotion. Poor, honest, truthful child!

‘And now everything’s at an end!’ I began again, ‘everything. Now we shall have to part.’ I stole a look at Acia.… Her face had quickly flushed crimson. She was, I felt it, both ashamed and afraid. I went on walking and talking as though in delirium. ‘You did not let the feeling develop which had begun to grow; you have broken off our relations yourself; you had no confidence in me; you doubted me.…’

While I was talking, Acia bent more and more forward, and suddenly slid on her knees, dropped her head on her arms, and began sobbing. I ran up to her and tried to lift her up, but she would not let me. I can’t bear women’s tears; at the sight of them I am at my wits’ end at once.

‘Anna Nikolaevna, Acia,’ I kept repeating, ‘please, I implore you, for God’s sake, stop.…’ I took her hand again.…

But, to my immense astonishment she suddenly jumped up, rushed with lightning swiftness to the door, and vanished.…

When, a few minutes later, Frau Luise came into the room I was still standing in the very middle of it, as it were, thunderstruck. I could not believe this interview could possibly have come to such a quick, such a stupid end, when I had not said a hundredth part of what I wanted to say, and what I ought to have said, when I did not know myself in what way it would be concluded.…

‘Is FraÜlein gone?’ Frau Luise asked me, raising her yellow eyebrows right up to her false front.

I stared at her like a fool, and went away.

XVII

I made my way out of the town and struck out straight into the open country. I was devoured by anger, frenzied anger. I hurled reproaches at myself. How was it I had not seen the reason that had forced Acia to change the place of our meeting; how was it I did not appreciate what it must have cost her to go to that old woman; how was it I had not kept her? Alone with her, in that dim, half-dark room I had had the force, I had had the heart to repulse her, even to reproach her.… Now her image simply pursued me. I begged her forgiveness. The thought of that pale face, those wet and timid eyes, of her loose hair falling on the drooping neck, the light touch of her head against my breast maddened me. ‘Yours’—I heard her whisper. ‘I acted from conscientious motives,’ I assured myself.… Not true! Did I really desire such a termination? Was I capable of parting from her? Could I really do without her?

‘Madman! madman!’ I repeated with exasperation.…

Meanwhile night was coming on. I walked with long strides towards the house where Acia lived.

XVIII

Gagin came out to meet me.

‘Have you seen my sister?’ he shouted to me while I was still some distance off.

‘Why, isn’t she at home?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘She hasn’t come back?’

‘No. I was in fault,’ Gagin went on. ‘I couldn’t restrain myself. Contrary to our agreement, I went to the chapel; she was not there; didn’t she come, then?’

‘She hasn’t been at the chapel?’

‘And you haven’t seen her?’

I was obliged to admit I had seen her.

‘Where?’

‘At Frau Luise’s. I parted from her an hour ago,’ I added. ‘I felt sure she had come home.’

‘We will wait a little,’ said Gagin.

We went into the house and sat down near each other. We were silent. We both felt very uncomfortable. We were continually looking round, staring at the door, listening. At last Gagin got up.

‘Oh, this is beyond anything!’ he cried. ‘My heart’s in my mouth. She’ll be the death of me, by God!… Let’s go and look for her.’

We went out. It was quite dark by now, outside.

‘What did you talk about to her?’ Gagin asked me, as he pulled his hat over his eyes.

‘I only saw her for five minutes,’ I answered. ‘I talked to her as we agreed.’

‘Do you know what?’ he replied, ‘it’s better for us to separate. In that way we are more likely to come across her before long. In any case come back here within an hour.’

XIX

I went hurriedly down from the vineyard and rushed into the town. I walked rapidly through all the streets, looked in all directions, even at Frau Luise’s windows, went back to the Rhine, and ran along the bank.… From time to time I was met by women’s figures, but Acia was nowhere to be seen. There was no anger gnawing at my heart now. I was tortured by a secret terror, and it was not only terror that I felt … no, I felt remorse, the most intense regret, and love,—yes! the tenderest love. I wrung my hands. I called ‘Acia’ through the falling darkness of the night, first in a low voice, then louder and louder; I repeated a hundred times over that I loved her. I vowed I would never part from her. I would have given everything in the world to hold her cold hand again, to hear again her soft voice, to see her again before me.… She had been so near, she had come to me, her mind perfectly made up, in perfect innocence of heart and feelings, she had offered me her unsullied youth … and I had not folded her to my breast, I had robbed myself of the bliss of watching her sweet face blossom with delight and the peace of rapture.… This thought drove me out of my mind.

‘Where can she have gone? What can she have done with herself?’ I cried in an agony of helpless despair.… I caught a glimpse of something white on the very edge of the river. I knew the place; there stood there, over the tomb of a man who had been drowned seventy years ago, a stone cross half-buried in the ground, bearing an old inscription. My heart sank … I ran up to the cross; the white figure vanished. I shouted ‘Acia!’ I felt frightened myself by my uncanny voice, but no one called back.

I resolved to go and see whether Gagin had found her.

XX

As I climbed swiftly up the vineyard path I caught sight of a light in Acia’s room.… This reassured me a little.

I went up to the house. The door below was fastened. I knocked. A window on the ground floor was cautiously opened, and Gagin’s head appeared.

‘Have you found her?’ I asked.

‘She has come back,’ he answered in a whisper. ‘She is in her own room undressing. Everything is all right.’

‘Thank God!’ I cried, in an indescribable rush of joy. ‘Thank God! now everything is right. But you know we must have another talk.’

‘Another time,’ he replied, softly drawing the casement towards him. ‘Another time; but now good-bye.’

‘Till to-morrow,’ I said. ‘To-morrow everything shall be arranged.’

‘Good-bye;’ repeated Gagin. The window was closed. I was on the point of knocking at the window. I was on the point of telling Gagin there and then that I wanted to ask him for his sister’s hand. But such a proposal at such a time.… ‘To-morrow,’ I reflected, ‘to-morrow I shall be happy.…’

To-morrow I shall be happy! Happiness has no to-morrow, no yesterday; it thinks not on the past, and dreams not of the future; it has the present—not a day even—a moment.

I don’t remember how I got to Z. It was not my legs that carried me, nor a boat that ferried me across; I felt that I was borne along by great, mighty wings. I passed a bush where a nightingale was singing. I stopped and listened long; I fancied it sang my love and happiness.

XXI

When next morning I began to approach the little house I knew so well, I was struck with one circumstance; all the windows in it were open, and the door too stood open; some bits of paper were lying about in front of the doorway; a maidservant appeared with a broom at the door.

I went up to her.…

‘They are gone!’ she bawled, before I had time to inquire whether Gagin was at home.

‘Gone?…’ I repeated. ‘What do you mean by gone? Where?’

‘They went away this morning at six o’clock, and didn’t say where. Wait a minute, I believe you’re Mr. N——, aren’t you?’

‘I’m Mr. N——, yes.’

‘The mistress has a letter for you.’ The maid went upstairs and returned with a letter. ‘Here it is, if you please, sir.’

‘But it’s impossible … how can it be?…’ I was beginning. The servant stared blankly at me, and began sweeping.

I opened the letter. Gagin had written it; there was not one word from Acia. He began with begging me not to be angry at his sudden departure; he felt sure that, on mature consideration, I should approve of his decision. He could find no other way out of a position which might become difficult and dangerous. ‘Yesterday evening,’ he wrote, ‘while we were both waiting in silence for Acia, I realised conclusively the necessity of separation. There are prejudices I respect; I can understand that it’s impossible for you to marry Acia. She has told me everything; for the sake of her peace of mind, I was bound to yield to her reiterated urgent entreaties.’ At the end of the letter he expressed his regret that our acquaintance had come to such a speedy termination, wished me every happiness, shook my hand in friendship, and besought me not to try to seek them out.

‘What prejudices?’ I cried aloud, as though he could hear me; ‘what rubbish! What right has he to snatch her from me?…’ I clutched at my head.

The servant began loudly calling for her mistress; her alarm forced me to control myself. One idea was aflame within me; to find them, to find them wherever they might be. To accept this blow, to resign myself to such a calamity was impossible. I learnt from the landlady that they had got on to a steamer at six o’clock in the morning, and were going down the Rhine. I went to the ticket-office; there I was told they had taken tickets for Cologne. I was going home to pack up at once and follow them. I happened to pass the house of Frau Luise.… Suddenly I heard some one calling me. I raised my head, and at the window of the very room where I had met Acia the day before, I saw the burgomaster’s widow. She smiled her loathsome smile, and called me. I turned away, and was going on; but she called after me that she had something for me. These words brought me to a halt, and I went into her house. How can I describe my feelings when I saw that room again?…

‘By rights,’ began the old woman, showing me a little note; ‘I oughtn’t to have given you this unless you’d come to me of your own accord, but you are such a fine young man. Take it.’

I took the note.

On a tiny scrap of paper stood the following words, hurriedly scribbled in pencil:

‘Good-bye, we shall not see each other again. It is not through pride that I’m going away—no, I can’t help it. Yesterday when I was crying before you, if you had said one word to me, only one word—I should have stayed. You did not say it. It seems it is better so.… Good-bye for ever!’

One word.… Oh, madman that I was! That word … I had repeated it the night before with tears, I had flung it to the wind, I had said it over and over again among the empty fields … but I did not say it to her, I did not tell her I loved her.… Indeed, I could not have uttered that word then. When I met her in that fatal room, I had as yet no clear consciousness of my love; it had not fully awakened even when I was sitting with her brother in senseless and burdensome silence … it flamed up with irrepressible force only a few instants later, when, terrified by the possibility of misfortune, I began to seek and call her … but then it was already too late. ‘But that’s impossible!’ I shall be told; I don’t know whether it’s possible, I know that it’s the truth. Acia would not have gone away if there had been the faintest shade of coquetry in her, and if her position had not been a false one. She could not put up with what any other girl would have endured; I did not realise that. My evil genius had arrested an avowal on my lips at my last interview with Gagin at the darkened window, and the last thread I might have caught at, had slipped out of my fingers.

The same day I went back with my portmanteau packed, to L., and started for Cologne. I remember the steamer was already off, and I was taking a mental farewell of those streets, all those spots which I was never to forget—when I caught sight of Hannchen. She was sitting on a seat near the river. Her face was pale but not sad; a handsome young fellow was standing beside her, laughing and telling her some story; while on the other side of the Rhine my little Madonna peeped out of the green of the old ash-tree as mournfully as ever.

XXII

In Cologne I came upon traces of the Gagins; I found out they had gone to London; I pushed on in pursuit of them; but in London all my researches were in vain. It was long before I would resign myself, for a long while I persevered, but I was obliged, at last, to give up all hope of coming across them.

And I never saw them again—I never saw Acia. Vague rumours reached me about him, but she had vanished for ever for me. I don’t even know whether she is alive. One day, a few years later, in a railway carriage abroad, I caught a glimpse of a woman, whose face vividly recalled those features I could never forget … but I was most likely deceived by a chance resemblance. Acia remained in my memory a little girl such as I had known her at the best time of my life, as I saw her the last time, leaning against the back of a low wooden chair.

But I must own I did not grieve over-long for her; I even came to the conclusion that fate had done all for the best, in not uniting me to Acia; I consoled myself with the reflection that I should probably not have been happy with such a wife. I was young then—and the future, the brief, swiftly-passing future seemed boundless to me then. Could not what had been be repeated, I thought, and better, fairer still?… I got to know other women—but the feeling Acia had aroused in me, that intense, tender, deep feeling has never come again. No! no eyes have for me taken the place of those that were once turned with love upon my eyes, to no heart, pressed to my breast, has my heart responded with such joyous sweet emotion! Condemned as I have been to a solitary life, without ties or family, I have led a dreary existence; but I keep as sacred relics, her little notes and the dry geranium, the flower she threw me once out of the window. It still retains a faint scent, while the hand that gave it, the hand I only once pressed to my lips, has perhaps long since decayed in the grave.… And I myself, what has become of me? What is left of me, of those blissful, heart-stirring days, of those winged hopes and aspirations? The faint fragrance of an insignificant plant outlives all man’s joys and sorrows—outlives man himself.

1857.

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press

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