ASSJA.
By Ivan Tourguéneff.
I was then twenty-five years old, began N. N. As you see, the story is of days long past. I was absolutely my own master, and was making a foreign tour, not to "finish my education," as the phrase is nowadays, but to look about me in the world a little. I was healthy, young, light-hearted; I had plenty of money and as yet no cares; I lived in the present and did precisely as I wished; in one word, life was in full flower with me. It did not occur to me that man is not like a plant, and that his time of bloom is but once. Youth eats its gilded gingerbread, and thinks that is to be its daily food; but the time comes when one longs in vain for a bit of dry bread. But it is not worth while to speak of that.
I was travelling without aim or plan: made stops wherever it pleased me, and went on whenever I felt the need of seeing fresh faces—especially faces. Men interested me above all things. I detested monuments, collections of curiosities. The mere sight of a guide roused in me feelings of weariness and fury. In the Dresden "Grüne Gewölbe" I nearly lost my wits. Nature made a powerful impression upon me; but I did not love her so-called beauties—her mighty hills, her crags and torrents. I did not like to have them take possession of me and disturb my tranquillity. Faces, on the contrary—living, earthly faces, men's talk, laughter, movements—I could not do without. In the midst of a crowd I was always particularly gay and at my ease. It gave me real pleasure merely to go where others went, to shout when others shouted, and at the same time to observe how these others shouted. It pleased me to observe men—yes, I did not observe them merely; I studied them with a delighted and insatiable curiosity. But I am digressing again.
Twenty years ago, then, I was living in the little German town of S——, on the left bank of the Rhine. I sought solitude. I had been wounded to the heart by a young widow whose acquaintance I had made at a watering-place. She was extremely pretty and vivacious, flirted with everybody—alas! with me also, poor rustic! At first she had lifted me to the skies, but soon plunged me in despair when she sacrificed me to a rosy-cheeked lieutenant from Bavaria. Seriously speaking, the wound in my heart was not very deep; but I considered it my duty to give myself for a time to melancholy and retirement—what pleasure youth finds in these!—and accordingly settled myself in S——.
This little town had attracted me by its position at the foot of high hills, by its old walls and towers, its hundred-year-old diadems, its steep bridges over the clear little brook which flowed into the Rhine, but above all by its good wine. And after sunset—it was in June—the loveliest of fair-haired Rhineland girls sauntered through the narrow streets and cried, "Good evening!" in their sweet tones to the stranger whom they met, some of them even lingering still when the moon rose behind the peaked roofs of the old houses, and the little stones of the pavement showed distinctly in her steady light. Then I delighted in strolling about the old town. The moon seemed to look down benignly from a cloudless sky, and the town received this glance and lay peacefully there wrapped in sleep and veiled in moonbeams—the light that at once soothes and vaguely stirs the soul. The weathercock upon the high, sharp spire gleamed in dull gold; long gleams of gold quivered on the dark surface of the stream; some dim lights—O thrifty German folk!—burned here and there in the small windows under the slated roofs; the vines stretched out mysterious fingers from the walls; something stirred perhaps in the shadow of the fountain in the little three-cornered market-place; suddenly the sleepy cry of the watchman sounded; then a good-natured dog growled in an undertone; and the air kissed the brow so softly, and the lindens smelled so sweet, that the breast involuntarily heaved quicker, and the word "Gretchen" rose to the lips, half a cry, half question.
This little town of S—— lies about two versts from the Rhine. I went often to look at the majestic river, and would sit for hours upon a stone bench under a lonely, large oak, thinking, not without a certain exertion, of my faithless widow. A little statue of the Virgin, with a red heart pierced with swords upon her breast, looked sadly out from the leaves. On the opposite bank lay the town of L——, somewhat larger than the one in which I had established myself. One evening I was sitting in my favorite spot, looking in turn at the stream, the sky, and the vineyards. Before me some white-hooded urchins were climbing over the sides of a boat that was drawn up on the shore and lay there keel upward. Little skiffs with sails hardly swollen passed slowly along; green waves slid by with a gentle, rushing sound. All at once strains of music greeted my ears. I listened. They were playing a waltz in L——. The double bass grumbled out its broken tones, the violins rang clear between, the flutes trilled noisily.
"What is that?" I asked an old man who approached me dressed in a plush waistcoat, blue stockings, and shoes with buckles.
"That?" he replied, shifting his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Those are the students who have come from B—— to the Commers."
"I will see this Commers," I thought. "Besides, I have not yet been in L——." I found a ferryman and crossed the river.
Perhaps not every one knows what a Commers is. It is a particular kind of drinking bout, in which the students from one section, or of one society, unite. Almost every participant of a Commers wears the conventional costume of the German student: a short jacket, high boots, and a little cap with colored vizor. The students generally assemble at midday and carouse till morning, drinking, singing, smoking, and occasionally they hire a band.
Such a Commers was at this moment held in L—— at a little inn called the Sun, in a garden adjoining the street. Flags were flying from the inn and over the garden itself. The students sat round tables under the spreading lindens; a huge bulldog under one of the tables. The musicians were under a trellis at one side, playing with great spirit, and refreshing themselves from time to time with mugs of beer. A great crowd had collected in the street before the unpretending little inn. The good citizens of L—— were not of the stuff to let slip a good opportunity of seeing strange guests. I mingled with the crowd of lookers-on. It gave me an immense satisfaction to watch the faces of the students, their embraces, their exclamations, the innocent affectations of youth, the eager glances, the unrestrained laughter—the best laughter in the world. All this generous ferment of young, fresh life, this striving forward, no matter whither so it be forward, this rollicking, untrammelled existence excited and infected me. Why not join them, I thought?
"Assja, have you had enough?" suddenly asked in Russian a man's voice behind me.
"Let us wait a little longer," answered another voice, a woman's, in the same tongue.
I turned hastily. My eyes fell on a handsome young fellow in a loose jacket and cap. On his arm hung a girl of medium height, with a straw hat which entirely hid the upper part of her face.
"You are Russians?" I said aloud involuntarily.
The young man smiled and answered, "Yes; we are Russians."
"I did not expect, in such an out-of-the-way place——" I began.
"Nor did we," he interrupted me. "But what does that signify? All the better. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Gagin, and this is"—he paused for an instant—"my sister. May we ask your name?"
I told him, and we began a conversation. I learned that Gagin, like myself, was travelling for pleasure; that he had arrived at L—— the week previous, and was now staying there. To speak candidly, I was always unwilling to make the acquaintance of Russians in other countries. I could recognize them at any distance by their gait, the cut of their clothes, and more than all by the expression of their faces. The self-satisfied, scornful, and usually haughty expression would change suddenly to one timid and suspicious; in a moment the whole man is on his guard, his glance wanders about unsteadily. "Have I said anything ridiculous? Are they laughing at me?" this anxious look seems to say. But a moment more, and the majesty of the physiognomy is restored, only occasionally replaced by stupidity. Yes, I avoided Russians, but Gagin pleased me at once. There are such fortunate faces in the world. To look at them is a pleasure for every one. One feels at once cheered and caressed by them. Gagin had just such a gentle, attractive face, with great soft eyes and fine curly hair. When he spoke, even if you did not see his face, you felt by the mere sound of his voice that he was smiling.
The young girl whom he had called his sister also seemed to me at the first glance very lovely. There was something peculiar and remarkable in the traits of her round, brown face, with its thin, delicate nose, its round, almost babyish cheeks, and its clear, dark eyes. Her form was graceful, but apparently not yet fully developed. She did not in the least resemble her brother.
"Will you come home with us?" Gagin asked me. "I think we have seen enough of the Germans. Our beloved countrymen would certainly have broken some window panes or smashed a few chairs, but these fellows are quite too well behaved. What do you say, Assja, shall we go home?"
The young girl nodded assent.
"We live just beyond the village," Gagin continued, "in a little solitary house far up the hillside. It is really fine there. You shall see for yourself. The landlady promised me to have some buttermilk for us. It will be dark very soon, and then you can cross the Rhine far more pleasantly by moonlight."
We set out. Through a low gate—for the town was surrounded on all sides by an old wall, some of whose loop-holes even yet remained undestroyed—we gained the open country, and after we had walked about a hundred paces beside a stone wall we came to a steep and narrow path up the hill, into which Gagin turned. The slope on both sides was planted with grapes. The sun had but just set, and a soft purple light rested on the green vines, the long poles, the dusty soil covered with bits of broken slate and stone, and upon the white walls of a small house with steep roof and light windows, which stood high above us on the mountain which we were climbing.
"Here is our place!" exclaimed Gagin as we drew near the house. "And here is the landlady just bringing us our buttermilk. Good evening, madam! We will be there in a moment. But first," he added, "look about you once. What do you say to this outlook?"
The view was indeed charming. The Rhine lay before us, a strip of silver between green banks. In one place it glowed in the purple and gold of the sunset. All the houses in the little towns clustering on the shores stood out distinctly; hills and fields spread far before us. Below us it was lovely, but above it was lovelier still. The brilliant transparency of the atmosphere, and the depth and purity of the sky, made a profound impression on me. The air was fresh and exhilarating. It blew with a light wave motion, as if it felt itself more free on the hilltop.
"You have chosen a magnificent situation," I said.
"Assja found it out," Gagin answered. "Now, Assja, give your orders. Let us have everything brought here. We will take tea in the open air. We can hear the music better here. Haven't you noticed it?" he went on. "A waltz close at hand may be often good for nothing—mere commonplace jingle. It becomes exquisite at a distance; sets all the sentimental strings in one's heart a twanging." Assja (her name was properly Anna; but Gagin always called her Assja, and I shall allow myself that privilege)—Assja went into the house and soon returned with the landlady. Both together they carried a great tea-tray with a jug full of milk, plates, spoons, sugar, berries, and bread. We seated ourselves and began to eat. Assja took off her hat. Her black hair, cut rather short, and curled like a boy's, fell in thick ringlets over neck and shoulders. At first she was shy; but Gagin said to her:
"Assja, don't be afraid. He won't hurt you!"
She smiled, and immediately addressed a little conversation to me. I have never seen a more restless creature. She did not sit still a moment. She stood up, ran into the house, came out again, sang in an undertone, and laughed often in an odd way. It seemed as if she was not laughing at what she heard, but at stray thoughts which came into her head. Her large, clear eyes looked at us frankly and fearlessly. Now and then, however, the lids fell, and then her glance became suddenly deep and gentle.
For nearly two hours we chatted together. Daylight was long past, and the twilight had changed from scarlet and gold to a faint redness, then to a clear gray, and finally all was lost in night; but our speech flowed as uninterruptedly, peaceful, and quiet as the air that surrounded us. Gagin brought a bottle of Rhine wine, and we drank it leisurely. We could still hear the music. The notes seemed fainter and sweeter to us. Lights began to appear in the town and on the river. Assja's head drooped forward so that her hair fell over her eyes. She was silent and breathed heavily. Then she declared that she was sleepy, and went into the house; but I saw that she stood for a long time behind the closed window without lighting her lamp. Then the moon rose, and her beams quivered on the surface of the water. Everything was bright or in deep shadow, but certainly took on a different appearance. Even the wine in our glasses sparkled with a mysterious brilliancy. The wind had fallen as if it had folded its wings and were resting. Warm, spicy odors of the night rose from the ground.
"It is time for me to go, or I shall not find a ferryman," I said.
"Yes; it is time," Gagin repeated.
We descended the footpath. Suddenly stones began to rattle down. Assja was running after us.
"Aren't you asleep then?" her brother asked her. But she ran on before us without replying. The last dim lights which the students had lighted in the little inn garden showed through the branches of the trees, and lent them a gay, fantastic appearance. We found Assja at the shore talking to the old boatmen. I sprang into the boat and took leave of my new friends. Gagin promised to visit me on the next day. I shook his hand and held mine out to Assja, but she merely looked at me and nodded. The boat was pushed off and was borne down on the swift current. The ferryman, a hale old fellow, dipped his oars deep into the dark flood.
"You're in the streak of moonshine—you've spoiled it," Assja called after me.
I looked down. The waves were rippling darkly about the boat.
"Good-by!" rang her voice again.
"Till to-morrow," Gagin added.
The boat touched the bank. I stepped out and looked back, but could see no one on the shore behind me. The moonshine spanned the stream again like a golden bridge, and like another good-by I caught the strains of an old country waltz. Gagin was right. I felt that all the strings of my heart trembled responsively. I crossed the dusky fields to my house, drinking great draughts of the balmy air, and giving myself up wholly to a sweet, vague feeling of expectation. I felt myself happy. But why? I wished for nothing, I thought of nothing. I was merely happy.
Still smiling from the fulness of delightful and changing sensations, I sank into bed, and had already closed my eyes when it suddenly occurred to me that I had not thought of my cruel fair one once in the whole evening. "What does it mean?" I asked myself. "Am I not hopelessly in love?" But just as I put this question to myself I fell asleep, as it seemed, like a baby in its cradle.
* * * * *
The next morning (I was awake, but had not risen) some one knocked with a stick under my window, and a voice that I immediately recognized as Gagin's began to sing,
Sleepest thou still? My lute shall wake thee.
I ran to open the door for him.
"Good morning," said Gagin as he entered. "I disturb you a little early. But what a morning it is! Fresh, dewy; the larks singing." With his wavy, shining hair, his bare neck and ruddy checks, he was as fresh as the morning himself.
I dressed myself, and we went out into the garden, sat down upon a bench, ordered coffee, and began to talk. Gagin confided to me his plans for the future. Possessed of a fair property, and entirely independent, he wished to devote himself to painting; only he regretted that this decision had been a late one, and that he had already lost much time. I also detailed my projects, and even took him into the secret of my unhappy love affair. He listened patiently, but, so far as I could see, the story of my passion did not awake any very lively sympathy in him. After he had sighed once or twice out of good manners, he proposed to me to come and see his studio. I was ready at once.
We did not find Assja. She had gone to the "ruin," the landlady assured us. Two versts from L—— were the remains of a castle of the middle ages. Gagin laid all his canvases before me. There was life and truth in his sketches, a certain breadth and freedom of treatment, but not one was finished, and the drawing was careless and often faulty. I told him my opinion frankly.
"Yes, yes," he interrupted me with a sigh. "You are right; it is all weak and unsatisfactory. But what is to be done? I haven't studied properly, and the inexcusable carelessness shows everywhere. Before working it always seems as if I were capable of eagle flights—it seems as I could hurl the earth out of her course; but when it comes to execution one loses strength quickly enough, and is tired."
I began to encourage him, but he motioned with his hand that I should be silent, rolled up his canvases, and threw himself on the sofa. "If my patience lasts, I shall make something yet," he muttered in his beard; "if not—then I shall stay a country lout. Come, let us look after Assja." We started.
* * * * *
The way to the ruin wound round the slope of a wooded valley, at whose bottom a brook flowed noisily over its pebbles as if it were anxious to lose itself in the great stream that was shining peacefully behind the sharply indented mountain side. Gagin called my attention to some partially lighted spots; in his words the artist certainly spoke, if not the painter. The river soon appeared. On the summit of the naked rock rose a square town, black with age but in tolerable preservation, though it was cleft from top to bottom. Moss-grown walls adjoined this town, ivy clung here and there, a tangle of briars filled the embrasures and the shattered arches. A stone foot-walk led to the door that remained intact. We were already near it when suddenly a girl's figure sped by us, sprang over the heaps of rubbish, and seated herself on a projection of the wall directly over the abyss. "There is Assja," cried Gagin. "Is she mad?"
Through the gate we stepped into a spacious courtyard half filled with wild apple trees and stinging nettles. It was indeed Assja, who was sitting on the projection. She looked down at us and laughed, but did not stir from her place. Gagin threatened her with his finger. I began to expostulate aloud with her on her recklessness.
"Don't do that," Gagin whispered to me. "Don't exasperate her. You don't know her. She would be capable of clambering up the town. Look yonder, rather, and see how ingenious the people hereabouts are."
I looked about me. A thrifty old lady had made herself very comfortable in a kind of narrow booth made of boards piled up in one corner, and knitted her stocking, while she occasionally glanced askance at us. She had beer, cake, and soda-water for tourists. We sat down on a bench and attacked our heavy tin mugs of cooling beer. Assja still sat motionless; she had drawn up her feet, and wound her muslin scarf about her head. Her charming, slender figure showed sharp against the sky, but I could not look at it without annoyance. Even on the previous day I had seen something intense, unnatural in her. "Does she want to astonish us?" I thought. "What for? What a childish freak!" As if she had fathomed my thought, she cast a quick and piercing glance at me, laughed loudly, sprang in two bounds from the wall, and going to the old woman, asked for a glass of water.
"You think that I want to drink it?" she said, turning to her brother. "No; there are some flowers up there that I must water."
Gagin made no reply, but she scrambled up the ruins glass in hand, and, stopping from time to time and bending down, with extraordinary painstaking she let fall some drops of water, which glistened in the sun. Her movements were full of grace, but I was vexed as before, although I was forced to admire her lightness and dexterity. In one perilous spot she uttered a little shriek with design, and then laughed loudly again. That annoyed me still more.
"The young lady climbs like a goat," mumbled the old woman, and stopped knitting for a moment.
Meanwhile Assja had emptied her glass and come down, roguishly swaying to and fro. A strange, imperceptible smile played round her brows, and nostrils, and lips; half audacious, half merry, the dark eyes were shining.
"You find my behavior scandalous," her face seemed to say. "Very well. I know that you admire me."
"Neatly done, Assja; neatly done," said Gagin under his breath.
It seemed as if she felt suddenly ashamed of herself. Her long lashes fell, and she sat down near us meekly, as if conscious of naughtiness. Now for the first time I could see her face fairly—the most changeful that I had ever beheld. For a few moments it was very pale, and took on a reserved, almost a melancholy expression. Her features seemed larger, stronger, and more simple. She was perfectly still. We made the tour of the ruins (Assja followed us), and were very enthusiastic over the view. Meanwhile dinnertime approached. Gagin paid the old woman, asked for another glass of beer, and cried, turning to me with a sly look,
"To the health of the lady of your heart!"
"Has he—have you such a lady?" asked Assja suddenly.
"Who hasn't?" replied Gagin.
Assja became thoughtful. Her face assumed yet another expression. The challenging, almost bold smile returned.
On the way home she laughed more, and her behavior was more whimsical than ever. She broke for herself a long branch, carried it over her shoulder like a gun, and bound her scarf about her head. A party of fair-haired young English dandies met us. As if at a word of command, they all stood aside to let Assja pass, with a cold glare of astonishment in their eyes, while she began to sing loudly in mockery. As soon as we had reached the house she went to her chamber, and appeared at dinner in a most elaborate dress, with carefully arranged hair, and wearing gloves. She behaved with great propriety, not to say stillness, at table, hardly touched her food, and drank water out of a wineglass. Evidently she wished to appear before me in a new rôle, that of a conventional and well brought up young lady. Gagin let her alone. It was easy to see that it had become a habit with him to let her have her will in all things. At times he looked at her good-naturedly and shrugged his shoulders slightly, as much as to say, "Be indulgent; she is only a child." When the meal was ended Assja rose, made us a courtesy, and taking up her hat, asked Gagin if she might go to see Frau Luise.
"Since when have you begun to ask permission?" answered Gagin with his ready smile, but with a little astonishment. "Is the time long to you with us?"
"No; but yesterday I promised Frau Luise that I would visit her. And then I think you two would rather be alone. Mr. N." (she pointed to me) "may have something to tell you."
She went.
"Frau Luise," Gagin began, taking pains to avoid my glance, "is the widow of a former burgomaster of this place; a good old soul, but rather narrow-minded. She has taken a great fancy to Assja. It is Assja's passion to make the acquaintance of people of the lower classes. I have found that pride is at the bottom of the matter every time. I have spoiled her thoroughly, you see," he went on after a pause; "but what was there for me to do? I never could carry a point by firmness with any one; most of all not with her. It is my duty to be indulgent with her."
I was silent. Gagin gave another direction to the conversation. The more I learned of him the more he pleased me. I soon understood him. His was a real Russian character—truth-loving, faithful, simple, but unfortunately rather sluggish, lacking firmness, and without the inward fire. Youth did not flame up in him; it burned with a gentle glow. He was most amiable and sensible; but I could not imagine what he would become in manhood. He wished to be an artist. Without constant, absorbing endeavor, no one is an artist. You exhaust yourself, I thought, looking at his gentle face and listening to the slow cadence of his voice. No; you will not strain every nerve; you will never succeed in mastering yourself. And yet it was impossible not to be attracted by him. My heart was really drawn to him. It may have been four hours that we talked together, sometimes sitting on the sofa, sometimes walking quietly up and down before the house; and in these four hours we became real friends.
The day was at its close, and it was time to go home. Assja had not returned.
"She is a wild creature," Gagin said. "If you please, I will go back with you, and we will go to Frau Luise's on the way, and I will ask if she is still there. The distance is trifling."
"We descended to the town, turned into a crooked and narrow cross street, and came to a standstill before a house of four stories with two windows on a floor. The second story projected into the street beyond the first; the third and fourth reached still further forward than the second. The whole house, with its old-fashioned carving, its two thick pillars below, its steep, tiled roof, and the beak-shaped gutter running out from the eaves, had the appearance of some monstrous, squatting bird.
"Assja," called Gagin, "are you there?"
A lighted window in the third story was thrown up, and Assja's little dark head appeared. Behind her peered forth the face of a toothless and blear-eyed old woman.
"Here I am," answered Assja, coquettishly leaning over the window-sill on her elbows. "It is exceedingly pleasant here. Catch," she added, flinging a bit of geranium down to Gagin. "Imagine that I am the lady of your heart."
Frau Luise laughed.
"N. is going," responded Gagin. "He would like to take leave of you."
"Indeed?" said Assja. "In that case give him my sprig. I am coming home directly."
She shut the window, and I fancied that she gave Frau Luise a kiss. Gagin handed me the sprig without a word. Without a word I put it in my pocket, went to the ferry, and crossed to the other side.
I remember that I went home thinking of nothing definite, but feeling a certain dull ache at my heart, when suddenly a strong odor, well known to me, but not usual in Germany, made me stop puzzled. I stood still and recognized by the roadside a hemp field of moderate size, whose smell reminded me at once of my native steppes. A mighty homesickness arose in me. I had a longing to feel Russian air blowing on my cheeks, to have Russian ground beneath my feet. "What am I doing here? Why am I wandering about among strangers in a strange land?" I cried aloud, and the vague uneasiness that weighed on my spirits changed suddenly to a bitter burning pain. I reached the house in a mood entirely different from the one of the preceding day. I was strangely excited. I could not compose myself. A feeling of vexation which I could not explain to myself possessed me. At last I sat down to think of my faithless widow (for I devoted the close of every day to official recollections of this lady), and I took out one of her letters. But this time I did not even open it. My thoughts had taken another turn; I thought—of Assja. I remembered that Gagin, in the course of conversation, had spoken of certain obstacles which would make his return to Russia very difficult. "Is she then really his sister?" I cried aloud.
I undressed myself, went to bed, and tried to sleep; but an hour afterward I was sitting up with my elbow on the pillow, and still thinking of the "capricious maid with her affected laugh." "She has a form like the little Galatea of Raphael in the Farnese," I said to myself. "Yes, and she is not his sister."
Meanwhile the widow's letter lay quietly on the floor, bleached by a moonbeam.
However, on the following day I went again to L——. I said to myself that I wished to visit Gagin, but in truth I was curious to watch Assja, to see if she would pursue the extravagances of the day previous. I found them both in the parlor, and wonderful!—was it because I had thought so much of Russia in the night and the morning?—Assja appeared to me a real Russian girl—yes, even a very ordinary one, almost like a servant. She wore a shabby gown; her hair was combed back behind her ears. She sat quietly by the window, busy with some sewing, sedate and still as if she never in her life had been otherwise. She hardly spoke, examined her work from time to time; and her features had an expression so dull and commonplace that I was involuntarily reminded of our own Kathinkas and Maschinkas. To complete the resemblance, she began to hum "My darling little mother." I looked at her sallow, languid face, thought of yesterday's fantasies, and got suddenly out of temper. The weather was magnificent. Gagin declared that he was going to sketch from nature. I asked if he would permit me to accompany him, if it would not disturb him?
"On the contrary," said he, "you will assist me by your suggestions."
He put on his Vandyk hat and his painting blouse, took his canvas under his arm, and started. I followed him slowly; Assja remained at home. In going out Gagin begged her to take care that the soup should not be too watery. Assja promised to oversee it in the kitchen. Gagin reached a dell which I already knew, sat down upon a stone, and began to sketch an old, hollow, wide-branched oak. I lay down in the grass and took out a book, but my reading did not advance beyond the second page, nor did he blacken much paper. We chatted a great deal, and, if my memory does not deceive me, we discoursed very subtly and profoundly about work: what one should avoid, what strive for, and in what consisted the real merit of the artists of our day. At last Gagin declared that he was not in the mood for work, threw himself down beside me, and then for the first time our youthful talk flowed free, now passionate, now dreamy, now almost inspired, but always vague—a conversation peculiar to Russians. After we had talked ourselves tired we started for home, filled with satisfaction that we had accomplished something, had arrived at some result. I found Assja precisely as I had left her. Whatever pains I might take with my scrutiny I could discover no trace of coquetry, no evidence of a part designedly played. This time it was impossible to accuse her of oddity. "Aha!" Gagin said; "you have imposed penance and fasting on yourself." In the evening she gaped several times without pretence at concealment, and retired early. I also took leave of Gagin betimes, and having reached home, I gave myself up to no more dreams. This day ended in sober reflections. But I remember that as I settled myself to sleep I said aloud, "What a chameleon the girl is!" And after a moment's thought I added, "And she is certainly not his sister."
In this way two whole weeks passed. I visited the Gagins every day. Assja seemed to shun me. She indulged in no more of those extravagances which had so astonished me on the first days of our acquaintance. It seemed to me that she was secretly troubled or perplexed. Neither did she laugh so much. I observed her with interest.
She spoke French and German indifferently well, but one could see in everything that she had not been in the hands of women since her childhood, and the strange, desultory education which she had received had nothing in common with Gagin's. In spite of the Vandyk hat and the painter's blouse, the delicate, almost effeminate Russian nobleman was always apparent in him; but she was not in the least like a noblewoman. In all her movements there was something unsteady. Here was a graft lately made, wine not yet fermented. Naturally of a timid and shy disposition, she yet was annoyed by her own timidity, and in her vexation she compelled herself to be unconcerned and at her ease, in which she did not always succeed. Several times I turned the conversation to her life in Russia, her past. She answered my questions reluctantly. I learned, however, that she had lived in the country for a long time before her travels. Once I found her with a book. She was alone. Her head supported by both hands, the fingers twisted deep in her hair, she was devouring the words with her eyes.
"Bravo!" I called out to her on entering. "You are very busy."
She raised her head and looked at me with great gravity and earnestness.
"Do you really think that I can do nothing but laugh?" she said, and was about to withdraw.
I glanced at the title of the book; it was a French novel.
"I can't commend your choice," I said.
"What shall I read then?" she cried. And throwing her book on the table, she added, "It's better that I fill up my time with nonsense," and with this she ran out into the garden.
That evening I read "Hermann and Dorothea" aloud to Gagin. At first Assja occupied herself rather noisily near us, then suddenly ceased and became attentive, seated herself quietly beside me, and listened to the reading to the end. On the following day I was again puzzled by her mood till it occurred to me that she had been seized with a whim to be womanly and discreet like Dorothea. In a word, she was an enigmatical creature. Full of conceit and irritable as she was, she attracted me even while she made me angry. I was more and more convinced that she was not Gagin's sister. His behavior toward her was not that of a brother; it was too gentle, too considerate, and at the same time a little constrained. A singular occurrence seemed, by every token, to confirm my suspicions.
One evening, when I came to the vineyard where the Gagins lived, I found the gate locked. Without much thought I went to a broken place which I had often noticed in the wall, and sprang over. Not far from this place, and aside from the path, there was a small clump of acacia. I had reached it, and was on the point of passing it. Suddenly I heard Assja's voice, the words spoken excitedly and through tears:
"No. I will love no one but you: no, no—you alone and for ever!"
"Listen, Assja. Compose yourself," replied Gagin. "You know that I believe you." I heard the voices of both in the arbor. I saw both through the sparse foliage. They were not aware of my presence.
"You—you alone," she repeated, threw herself on his neck, and clinging to his breast, she kissed him amid violent sobs. "Come, enough," he said, while he smoothed her hair gently with his hand.
For a moment I stood motionless. Suddenly I recollected myself. Enter and join them? For nothing in the world! it shot through my brain. With hasty steps I gained the wall, leaped it, and reached my dwelling almost on the run. I laughed, rubbed my hands together, and congratulated myself on the chance which had so unexpectedly confirmed my suspicion (whose truth I had not doubted for an instant); but my heart was heavy. "They dissemble well?" I thought. "And for what purpose? Why do they wish to amuse themselves at my expense? I would not have thought it of them!" What a disturbing discovery it was!
I slept ill, and on the following day I rose early, buckled on my knapsack, and after telling my landlady not to expect me at night, I turned my steps toward the mountains, following the stream on which the town of S—— is built. These mountains are very interesting from a geological point of view; they are particularly remarkable for the regularity and purity of their basaltic formations; but I was not bent on geological investigation. I could give no account to myself of my own feelings. One thing, however, was clear: I had not the least desire to see the Gagins. I insisted to myself that the only ground of my sudden distaste for their society lay in vexation at their falseness.
What had been the necessity of calling themselves brother and sister? I resolutely avoided thinking of them, loitered idly among the hills and valleys, spent much time in village inns in friendly talk with the landlord and his guests, or lay on a flat or sunny rock in the lovely weather, and watched the clouds float over. In this way three days passed not unpleasantly, though from time to time I had a stifled feeling at my heart. This quiet nature accorded perfectly with my state of mind. I gave myself up completely to the chance of the moment and the impressions that it brought to me; following one another without haste, they flooded my soul, and left finally a single feeling where everything which I had seen or heard or experienced during these three days was blended—everything: the faint resinous smell of the woods, cry and tapping of the woodpeckers, the continual murmur of the clear brooks with spotted trout in their sandy shallows, the not too bold outlines of the mountains, gray rock, the friendly villages with venerable churches and trees, storks in the meadows, snug mills with wheels merrily turning, the honest faces of the country people with their blue smocks and gray stockings, the slow creaking wagons and well-fed horses, or sometimes a yoke of oxen, long-haired lads strolling along the cleanly kept paths under apple and pear trees. To this day I remember with pleasure the impressions of that time. I greet you, little nook of modest ground, with your modest content, with your signs everywhere visible of busy hands, of labor constant if not severe—greetings to you and peace.
At the end of the third day I returned to S——. I have forgotten to say that in my vexation with the Gagins, I had endeavored to reinstate the image of my hard-hearted widow. But I remember, as I began to think of her, I saw before me a little peasant girl, about five years old, out of whose round little face a pair of great innocent eyes were regarding me curiously. The look was so childlike, so confiding, a kind of shame swept over me. I could not continue a lie before that gaze, and at once and for ever I said good-by to my early flame.
I found a note from Gagin waiting for me. My sudden whim astonished him. He made me some reproaches that I had not taken him with me, and begged me to come to him as soon as I should return. Distrustfully I read this note, yet the following day found me at L——.
Gagin's reception was friendly. He overwhelmed me with affectionate reproaches; but no sooner had Assja caught sight of me than she broke into loud laughter, designedly, it seemed, and without the least cause, and ran away precipitately. Gagin lost his temper, grumbled at her for a crazy girl, and begged me to excuse her. I must confess that I was very cross with Assja. I was uncomfortable before, and now this unnatural laughter and ridiculous behavior must be added. However, I acted as if I had observed nothing, and detailed to Gagin all the incidents of my little journey. He told me what he had done during my absence. But the conversation went lame. Assja kept running in and out. Finally I declared that I had some pressing work, and that it was time for me to be at home. Gagin tried to detain me at first, then looking keenly at me, he begged permission to accompany me. In the hall Assja approached me suddenly, and held out her hand to me. I gave her fingers an almost imperceptible pressure, and bade her good-by carelessly. We crossed the Rhine together, strolled to my favorite oak tree near the little shrine to the Virgin, and sat down on a bench to enjoy the landscape. There a remarkable conversation took place between us.
At first we only spoke in the briefest words, then fell into silence and fixed our eyes on the shining river.
"Tell me," Gagin began suddenly, with his accustomed smile, "what is your opinion of Assja? She must appear a little singular to you. Not so?"
"Yes," I answered, not without a certain constraint. I had not expected him to speak of her.
"One must learn to know her well to form a judgment upon her," he continued. "She has a very good heart, but a wild head. It is hard to live quietly with her. However, it is not her fault, and if you knew her history——"
"Her history!" I interrupted him. "Isn't she then your——" Gagin looked at me.
"Is it possible that you have doubted that she was my sister? No," he went on, without heeding my confusion. "She is; at least she is my father's daughter. Listen to me. I have confidence in you, and I will tell you all about her.
"My father was a very honest, sensible, cultivated, and unfortunate man. Fate had no harder blows for him than for others, but he could not bear the first one that he felt from her. He had married early—a love match; his wife, my mother, soon died, and I was left a six months' old baby. My father took me to his country estates, and for twelve whole years he lived there in absolute seclusion. He himself took charge of my education, and would never have been separated from me if my uncle, his brother, had not come to visit us in our country house. This uncle lived in Petersburg, where he held a rather important post. He persuaded my father, who could not be induced to quit his home under any consideration, to trust me to his care. He showed his brother what an injury it was to a boy of my age to live in such complete isolation, and that, with a companion always melancholy and silent as my father, I should inevitably remain behind boys of my age—yes, that my character might easily be endangered by such a life. For a long time my father resisted his brother's arguments, but at last he yielded. I cried at parting from my father, whom I loved, though I had never seen a smile on his face; but Petersburg once reached, our gloomy and silent nest was soon forgotten. I went to school, and was afterward placed in a regiment of the Guards. Every year I spent some weeks at our country house, and with every year I found my father more melancholy, more reserved, and depressed to an alarming degree. He went to church daily, and had almost given up speech. On one of my visits—I was then in my twentieth year—I saw for the first time about the house a little lean, black-eyed girl, who might have been about ten years old. It was Assja. My father said she was an orphan whose care he had undertaken: those were his own words. I gave her no further attention. She was as wild, quick, and shy as a little animal, and if I entered my father's favorite room, a great dismal chamber in which my mother had died, and which had to be lighted even by day, she always slunk out of sight behind my father's old-fashioned easy chair, or hid behind the bookcase. It happened that for the three or four years following I was prevented by my service from visiting our estate. Every month I received a short letter from my father, in which Assja was spoken of seldom and always incidentally. My father was already past his fiftieth year, but looked still a young man. Imagine my distress then when I suddenly received a perfectly unexpected letter from our steward, announcing the fatal illness of my father, and begging me urgently to come home as quickly as possible if I wished to see him alive. I rushed headlong home, and found my father, though in the last agony. My presence seemed the greatest joy to him; he clasped me in his wasted arms, turned on me his gaze half doubtful, half imploring, and after he had obtained from me a promise that I would carry out his last wishes, he ordered his old servant to fetch Assja. The old man brought her. She could hardly support herself on her feet, and was trembling in every limb.
"'Now take her,' said my father to me with earnestness. 'I bequeathe to you my daughter, your sister. You will hear everything from Jacob,' he added, while he pointed to his valet.
"Assja burst out sobbing, and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour afterward my father was dead.
"I learned the following story: Assja was the daughter of my father and a former waiting maid of my mother's, named Tatiana. She rose distinct to my remembrance, this Tatiana, with her tall, slender figure, her serious face, regular features, her dark and earnest eyes. She had the reputation of a proud, unapproachable girl. As nearly as I could learn from Jacob's reserved and respectful story, my father had entered into close relations with her some years after my mother's death. At that time Tatiana was not in her master's house, but living with a married sister, the dairywoman, in a separate hut. My father became very much attached to her, and wished to marry her after my departure, but she herself refused this in spite of his entreaties.
"'The departed Tatiana Vlassievna'—so Jacob told me, standing against the door, with his hands crossed behind his back—'was in all things very thoughtful, and would not lower your father. "A fine wife I should be for you—a real lady wife!" she said to him—in my presence she has said it.' Tatiana never would come back to the house, but remained, together with Assja, living with her sister as before. As a child I had often seen Tatiana at church on saint days. She stood among the servants, usually near a window. She wore a dark cloth wound about her head and a yellow shawl on her shoulders—the strong outline of her face clear against the transparent pane; and she prayed silently and humbly, bowing very low after the old fashion. When my uncle took me away Assja was just two; when she lost her mother, just nine years old.
"Immediately after Tatiana's death my father took Assja home to himself. He had already expressed a wish to have her with him, but Tatiana had refused it. You can imagine what Assja must have felt when she was taken into the master's house. To this day she has not forgotten the hour when for the first time they dressed her in a silk dress and kissed her little hand. In her mother's lifetime she had been brought up with great strictness: my father left her without a single restraint. He was her instructor; except him, she saw no one. He did not spoil her; at least he did not follow her about like a nursemaid, but he loved her fondly, and refused her nothing. He was conscious of guilt toward her. Assja soon discovered that she was the principal person in the household. She knew the master was her father, but at the same time she began to understand her equivocal position. Wilfulness and distrust were developed to an extreme degree in her. Bad manners were contracted; simplicity vanished. She wished (she herself told me) to compel the whole world to forget her origin. She was ashamed of her mother, was ashamed of being ashamed, and was in turn proud of her. You see that she knew and knows still many things that should not be known at her age. But does the blame rest with her? Youth was strong in her: her blood flowed hot, and no hand near to guide her—the fullest independence in everything! Is such a fate easily borne? She would not be inferior to other girls. She rushed headlong into study. But what good could result from it? The life, lawlessly begun, seemed likely to develop lawlessly. But the heart remained true and the reason sound.
"And so I found myself, a young fellow of twenty, weighted with the care of a thirteen-year old girl! In the first days after my father's death my voice caused her a feeling of feverish horror, my caresses made her sad, and only by degrees and after a long time did she become accustomed to me. And later, when she had gained security that I really considered her my sister, and that I loved her as a sister, she attached herself passionately to me: with her there is no half feeling.
"I brought her to Petersburg. Hard as it was to leave her—I could not live with her in any case—I placed her at one of the best boarding-schools. Assja agreed to the necessity of our separation, but it cost her a sickness which came near to being a fatal one. Little by little she reconciled herself, and she staid four years in this establishment. But contrary to my expectations, she remained almost her old self. The principal of the school often complained to me. 'I cannot punish her,' she would say; 'and I can do nothing by kindness.' Assja comprehended everything with great quickness, learned wonderfully—better than all; but it was utterly impossible to bring her under the common rule. She rebelled; was sulky. I could not blame her much. In her position she must keep herself at the service of every one, or avoid every one. Only one of all her companions was intimate with her—an insignificant, silent, and poor girl. The other young girls with whom she was associated, of good families for the most part, did not like her, and taunted and jibed her whenever they could find opportunity. Assja was not behind them by a hair's breadth. Once, in the hour for religious instruction, the teacher came to speak of the idea of vice. 'Sycophancy and cowardice,' said Assja aloud, 'are the meanest vices.' In a word, she continued to walk in her own way, only her manners improved somewhat; but even in this respect, I fancy, she has made no wonderful advance.
"She had reached her seventeenth year. It was useless to keep her longer at school. I found myself in great perplexity. All of a sudden a happy thought struck me: to quit the service, and to travel with Assja for a year or two. Done as soon as thought. So here are we both now on the banks of the Rhine: I occupied in learning to paint, she following out her whims in her usual way. But now I must hope that you will not pass too harsh judgment upon her; for however much she may insist that everything is indifferent to her, she does care very much for the opinion of others, and especially for your own."
And Gagin smiled again his gentle smile. I wrung his hand.
"That is how it stands now," Gagin continued. "But I have my hands full with her. A real firebrand, that girl! Up to this time no one has ever pleased her; but alas if ever she falls in love! At times I do not know what to do with her. Lately she took it into her head to declare that I was growing cold to her, but that she loved only me, and would love only me her life long. And how she sobbed!"
"So that was it," I said to myself, and bit my lip. "But tell me," I asked Gagin, "now that our hearts are open, has really no one ever caught her fancy? Surely she must have seen many young men in Petersburg?"
"And they are all absolutely distasteful to her. No. Assja is seeking a hero—an entirely extraordinary man, or else an artistic shepherd among his flock. But enough of this gossip. I am detaining you," he added as he rose.
"Come," I said, "let us go back. I don't care to go home."
"And your work?"
I made no reply. Gagin laughed good-naturedly, and we returned to L——. As the well-known vineyard and the little white house on the hillside came in sight, my heart was warmed in a curious way—yes, that was it—warmed and soothed as if, unknown to me, some one had poured some healing drops there. Gagin's story had made me cheerful.
Assja met us at the threshold. I had expected to find her still laughing, but she stepped forward to us, pale, silent, and with eyes down cast.
"Here he is again," Gagin said to her, "and be sure of this: it was his own wish to come back."
Assja looked at me inquiringly. I held out my hand to her, and this time I grasped tightly her cold and slender fingers. I felt deep pity for her. Now I understood much that had before disturbed me in her: her inner restlessness, her offensive manner, her endeavor to show herself other than she was—all was clear to me. I had had a glimpse into this soul. A constant weight oppressed it. Fearfully the untrained will fought and struggled, yet her whole being was striving after truth. Now I understood why this singular girl had attracted me: it was not only the charm which invested her whole body; it was her soul which drew me.
Gagin began to fumble among his sketches. I asked Assja to come for a walk with me through the vineyard. She gave a ready, almost humble assent. We climbed the hill about half way, and stopped on a broad plateau.
"And you felt no ennui without us?" Assja began.
"Did you, then, feel any in my absence?" I asked.
Assja looked at me sideways.
"Yes," she replied. "Is it pleasant in the mountains?" she immediately continued. "Are they high? Higher than the clouds? Tell me what you have seen. You have told my brother, but I have heard nothing about it."
"Why did you go away?" I interrupted her.
"I went—because—— Now I will not go away," she added in a gentle, confiding tone. "You were cross today."
"I?"
"You."
"But why? I beg you——"
"I don't know; but you were cross, and went away cross. It was very unpleasant to me to have you go away in that manner, and I am glad that you have come back."
"I am equally glad," I replied.
Assja moved her shoulders slightly, one after the other, as children do when they are in good humor.
"Oh, I am famous at guessing," she went on. "Long ago my father had only to cough, and I knew instantly whether he was pleased with me or not."
Till this time Assja had never spoken to me of her father. That struck me.
"You loved your father very much?" I asked, and I felt to my great annoyance that I was blushing.
She did not answer, but she also blushed. We were both silent. In the distance a steamboat with its trailing smoke was descending the Rhine: our looks followed it.
"Why do you not tell me something?" Assja said half aloud.
"Why did you laugh to-day when you saw me coming?" I asked her.
"I do not know myself. Sometimes I want to cry, and yet must laugh. You must not judge me by what I do. Ah, by the way, what a wonderful story it is about the Lorelei. Isn't it her rock that we see yonder? They say that at first she drew every one else beneath the water, but after she was acquainted with love, she cast herself in. The story pleases me. Frau Luise tells me all sorts of fairy stories. Frau Luise has a black cat with yellow eyes——"
Assja raised her head and threw back her hair.
"Ah, how comfortable I feel!" she said.
At this moment broken, monotonous tones fell on our ears. Hundreds of voices in unison repeated a hymn with measured pauses. A troop of pilgrims was moving along the way beneath us with flags and crosses.
"I would like to go with them!" cried Assja, while she listened to the sound of the voices, gradually dying away.
"Are you so devout?"
"I would like to go somewhere far off, to pray, to accomplish something difficult," she added. "The days hurry by, life will come to an end, and what have we done?"
"You are ambitious," I said. "You do not wish to live in vain. You would like to leave behind some trace of your existence."
"Would it be impossible?"
"Impossible," I had nearly repeated. I looked into her clear eyes and only said:
"Well, try it."
"Tell me," Assja began after a little silence, while flying shadows followed each other across her face, which had grown pale again—"did that lady please you very much? You remember, my brother drank to your health once, in the ruins; it was the day after we had made acquaintance."
I laughed aloud.
"It was a jest of your brother's; no lady has pleased me, at least no one now pleases me."
"What is it that pleases you in women?" asked Assja, tossing back her head in childish curiosity.
"What a singular question!" I exclaimed.
Assja was a little disturbed.
"I should not have asked the question—not so? Forgive me. I am used to chatter about everything that goes through my head. That is why I am afraid to talk."
"Only talk, for heaven's sake! Don't be afraid," I broke in. "I am so glad that at last you cease to be shy." Assja lowered her eyes and laughed; a still, gentle laughter that I did not recognize as hers.
"Well, tell me something then," she said, while she smoothed her dress and tucked it about her feet as if disposing herself to sit for a long while—"tell me something, or read something aloud, as that time when you read to us out of 'Onegin.'"
She grew suddenly thoughtful.
Where now in green boughs' shadow The cross rests on my mother's grave—
she said to herself in a low voice.
"In Pushkin the verse is somewhat different," I ventured.[J]
"I would have liked to be Pushkin's Tatiana," she continued, still lost in thought. "Tell me something," she cried suddenly, with vivacity.
But I could find nothing to say. I looked at her as she sat there, gentle and peaceful, surrounded with the clear sunshine. Everything about us glowed with happiness; the sky, the earth, the water. It seemed as if the very air was bathed in a splendor.
"Look, how beautiful!" I said, involuntarily lowering my voice.
"Yes, beautiful," she answered as gently, without looking at me. "If we were both birds, we would fly high up there—would soar. We would sink deep into that blue. But we are no birds."
"We may have wings though," I answered.
"How?"
"In time you will discover. There are feelings that swing us off from the earth. Don't fear; you will have wings."
"Have you had them then?"
"How shall I say? I believe that I have never flown till now."
Assja fell again into thought. I bent toward her a little.
"Can you waltz?" she asked unexpectedly.
"Yes, I can," I answered, somewhat surprised.
"Then come, come—I will ask my brother to play a waltz for us—we will imagine that we are flying, that our wings have grown."
She ran to the house. I hastened after her, and in a few moments we were whirling round the narrow room to the music of a charming waltz. Assja danced exceedingly well, with lightness and skill. Something soft and feminine came suddenly into her childish, earnest face. For a long time afterward my hand felt the contact of her delicate form, for a long time I seemed to feel her close, quickened breathing, and to see before me the dark, fixed, half-closed eyes, and the animated pale face with its wreathing hair.
This whole day passed so that one could not have wished it better. We were merry as children. Assja was very lovable and natural. It was a pleasure for Gagin to see her. It was late when I went away. In the middle of the Rhine I told the ferryman to leave the boat to the current. The old man drew in his oars and the majestic stream bore us onward. While I looked about me and listened, and called forgotten things to memory, I felt a sense of unrest in my heart. I turned my eyes to the heavens, but in the heavens was no rest; with its glittering host of stars it was in steady motion, revolving, trembling. I bent to the river, but there also in the dark, cool depths the stars were dancing and flickering; everywhere the restless spirit of life met me, and the restlessness in my own heart grew stronger. I leaned over the side of the boat. The murmuring of the breeze in my ears, the low splash of the water against the stern of the boat, excited me, and the freshness of the waves did not cool me. Somewhere on the shore a nightingale began her song, and this music worked upon me like a sweet poison. Tears filled my eyes, but not the tears of an indefinite rapture. What I experienced was not the vague feeling of boundless longing in which it seems as if the heart could embrace everything: no. In me arose a burning desire for happiness. Only as yet I did not dare call this happiness by its real name. But bliss—bliss to overflowing was what I longed for. The boat drifted further and further, and the old ferryman sat bowed over his oars and fast asleep.
On my way to the Gagins the following day I did not ask myself if I was in love with Assja, but I thought of her continually; her destiny absorbed me, and I rejoiced over our unhoped-for meeting. I felt that I had known her only since yesterday. Until then she had always avoided me. And now that she had finally admitted me to her friendship, in what a bewitching light did her image appear to me; what a mysterious charm streamed from it to me.
Hastily I sprang up the well-known path, straining my eyes for a glimpse of the little white house in the distance. I did not think of the future; I did not think even of the morrow; but my heart was light in me.
Assja blushed as I entered the room. I observed that she had again dressed herself with great care, but the expression of her face did not correspond with her finery; it was melancholy. And I had come so happily disposed! I believe that she was inclined to run away in her usual fashion, but forcibly compelled herself to remain. I found Gagin in that peculiar mood of artistic enthusiasm which catches dilettanti by surprise whenever they imagine themselves about to take nature by storm, as they express it. He stood with hair disordered, and bedaubed with paint, before a fresh canvas, drawing madly. Furiously he nodded to me, stepped backward, half closed his eyes, and then precipitated himself again upon his work. I did not like to disturb him, and sat down beside Assja. Slowly her dark eyes turned on me.
"You are not as you were yesterday," I ventured, after I had made some vain attempts to bring a smile to her lips.
"No, I am not," she replied, with a slow, suppressed voice. "But that is nothing. I did not sleep well. I was thinking the whole night."
"About what?"
"Oh, I thought about many things. It has been my habit from childhood, even when I was living with my mother."
She spoke this with a certain emphasis, and repeated it.
"When I was living with my mother I—I wondered why no one can know beforehand what is to happen to him. Sometimes one sees a misfortune coming, and yet cannot turn away from it; and why cannot one always say boldly the truth? Then I thought that I do not know anything, and that I must learn. I must be educated over again. I have been very badly brought up. I do not know how to play the piano, I cannot draw, I sew dreadfully; I have no capacity; I must be very tiresome."
"You are unjust to yourself," I answered. "You have read much, you are cultivated, and with your intellect——"
"Have I an intellect?" she asked with such naïve curiosity that I could not help laughing. She did not laugh.
"Brother, have I an intellect?" she asked Gagin.
He made her no answer, but continued his work, busily laying on his colors, and with one arm flourished in the air.
"Sometimes I hardly know myself what goes through my head," Assja went on with the same thoughtful expression. "At certain times I am actually afraid of myself. Ah, I wish—— Is it really true that women ought not to read much?"
"It is not necessary that they should read much, but——"
"Will you tell me what to read? Will you tell me what to do? I will do everything that you tell me," she said, turning to me with an innocent confidence.
I did not readily find any answer to make.
"The time with me will not seem long to you?"
"How can you think so!" I said.
"Well, I thank you," cried Assja, "but I thought you might be ennuyé."
And her little hot hand grasped mine tightly.
"N.!" cried Gagin at this moment, "isn't this background too dark?"
I went over to him. Assja rose and left the room.
An hour afterward she returned, stood in the doorway, and beckoned to me.
"Listen," she said. "Would you be sorry if I died?"
"What ideas you have to-day!" I exclaimed.
"I imagine that I shall die soon. Sometimes it seems to me as if everything about me was taking leave of me. It is better to die than to live as—— Ah, don't look at me so. Indeed I am not a hypocrite. I shall be afraid of you again."
"Have you ever been afraid of me?"
"If I am unlike other people, the fault is not mine," she answered. "Already, you see, I cannot laugh any more."
She was melancholy and depressed until evening. Something was passing in her that I could not understand. Her eyes often rested on me, and every time they did so I felt my heart chilled by their strange expression. She was quiet—and yet whenever I looked at her it seemed to me that I must beg her to be calm. Her appearance fascinated me; I found the greatest charm in her pale features, in her slow, aimless movements; but she fancied—I do not know why—that I was in ill humor.
"Listen," she said to me a little while before my departure. "The thought haunts me that you think me frivolous. In future you must believe everything that I tell you, and you must be frank with me. I will always tell you the truth, I give you my word of honor."
This "word of honor" made me laugh.
"Oh, do not laugh," she broke in with eagerness, "or else I must say to you to-day what you said to me yesterday: 'Why do you laugh so much?'" And after a short silence she continued: "Do you remember, yesterday we were talking of wings? My wings are grown—but where shall I fly?"
"What are you saying!" I replied. "To you all ways are open."
Assja looked in my eyes long and keenly.
"You have a bad opinion of me today," she said, and drew her eyebrows together.
"I have a bad opinion? Of you!"
"What is the matter with you two to-day?" Gagin interrupted me. "Shall I play a waltz for you as I did yesterday?"
"No, no," exclaimed Assja, clasping her hands together—"not for the world to-day."
"I won't insist—be easy."
"Not for the world," she repeated, and her cheeks grew pale.
Does she love me? I thought, as I came to the Rhine, whose waves rolled swiftly by.
Does she love me? I asked myself when I awoke the next morning. I did not wish to look into my own heart. I felt that her image—the image of the "girl with the bold laugh"—had impressed itself upon my soul, and that I could not easily get rid of it. I went to L—— and remained there the whole day; but I had only one glimpse of Assja. She was not well; her head ached. She came down stairs for a few moments with her head bound up, her eyes half closed, pale and weak; she smiled feebly, said, "It will pass; it is nothing; everything passes, does it not?" and went away. I was depressed and had a painful sense of blankness, but I would not go home till very late, without, however, seeing her again.
I spent the next day like a man walking in his sleep. I tried to work, but could not; then I tried to be absolutely idle, and to think of nothing; but neither did that succeed. I strolled about the town, returned home, and went out again.
"Are you Mr. N.?" said suddenly the voice of a child behind me. I turned. A little boy was standing before me. "From Miss Annette," and handed me a note.
I opened it, and recognized Assja's irregular and scrawling handwriting. "I must see you," she wrote. "Come to-day at four o'clock to the stone chapel on the way to the ruins. Something unexpected has happened. For heaven's sake, come. You shall know everything. Say to the bearer, 'yes.'"
"Any answer?" the boy asked me.
"Say 'yes,'" I replied. The boy ran off.
When I had reached my room I sat down and fell into deep thought. My heart beat forcibly. I read Assja's note several times over. I looked at the clock; it was not yet midday.
The door opened: Gagin walked in.
His face was gloomy. He seized my hand and shook it warmly. Apparently he was very much excited.
"What is the matter?" I asked him.
Gagin took a chair and drew it near mine. "Four days ago," he began with a forced smile, and stammering a little, "I amazed you with a confidence; and to-day I shall amaze you even more. With any other I probably should not—so plainly. But you are a man of honor; you're my friend, are you not? Well, here then; my sister Assja loves you."
I started up from my chair.
"You say—your sister——"
"Yes, yes," Gagin interrupted me. "I tell you she has lost her senses and will make me lose mine, moreover. Happily she is not used to lying and has great trust in me. Oh, what a soul the girl has! But she will surely do herself a mischief."
"You must be mistaken," I said.
"No, I'm not. Yesterday, you know, she staid in bed nearly all day; she ate nothing: to be sure she complained of nothing. She never complains. I was not uneasy, although toward evening she grew feverish. But at two o'clock this morning our landlady roused me. 'Come to your sister,' said she. 'There is something wrong with her.' I hastened to Assja, and found her not yet undressed, very feverish, in tears: her head was burning hot, her teeth chattered. 'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Are you sick?' She threw herself upon my neck, and insisted that I should take her away from there as speedily as possible if I wished her to remain alive. I could make nothing of it—tried to pacify her. Her sobs increased, and suddenly among her sobs I heard—well, in one word, I discovered that she loves you. I assure you, neither of us, being reasonable men, can have the smallest idea of the impetuosity of her feelings and the incredible violence with which she expresses them; it is as sudden and as inevitable as a thunder storm. You are a delightful fellow," Gagin continued, "But I must confess that I do not see why she has fallen in love with you. She believes that she has loved you from the first moment she saw you. She was crying lately on that account, even when she was declaring that she loved nobody but me. She imagines that you despise her; she fancies that you know her origin. She asked me if I had told you the story of her life. I naturally denied it, but it is astonishing how keen she is. She wishes only one thing: to go away: immediately away. I staid with her till morning. She wrung a promise from me that we would leave here to-morrow, and then at last she fell asleep. I thought it over and over, and decided—to talk with you. Assja is right, in my opinion. It is best that we should both leave this place. I should have taken her away to-day if an idea that has got into my head didn't prevent it. Perhaps—who can tell?—my sister pleases you? If this should be the case, why should I take her away? So I determined to put shame aside. Besides, I have myself noticed—so I decided—from your own mouth to learn——" Poor Gagin became hopelessly confused. "Pray excuse me," he added. "I am inexperienced in such matters."
I seized his hand.
"You wish to know whether your sister pleases me? Yes, she pleases me," I said in a steady voice. Gagin looked at me.
"But," he said with an effort, "you don't want to marry her?"
"How can I answer such a question? Think, yourself, how could I at this moment——"
"I know, I know," Gagin interrupted me. "I have not the least right to expect an answer from you, and my question was improper—to the last degree. But what was I to do? One cannot play with fire. You do not know Assja. It would be possible for her to drown herself—to run away, to seek an interview with you. Any other girl would know how to conceal everything and to wait opportunities—but not she. This is her first experience. That is the worst of it! If you had seen her as she lay sobbing at my feet, you would share my anxiety."
I became thoughtful. Gagin's expression, "seek an interview with you," sank into my heart. It seemed abominable not to answer his confidence with confidence as free.
"Yes," I said at last. "You are right. An hour ago I received a note from your sister. Here it is."
Gagin took the note, read it hurriedly, and let his hands fall on his knees. The expression of his features was ludicrous enough, but I was in no mood for laughter.
"You're a man of honor. I repeat it," he said. "But what is to be done now? What! She wishes to hurry away from here, yet she writes to you and reproaches herself for her own want of foresight. And when can she have written this? What does she want of you?"
I succeeded in calming him, and we began to talk, as coolly as we could, about what we might have to do.
At last we decided as follows: To guard against any desperate step on her part, I was to meet Assja at the appointed place, and have a fair explanation with her. Gagin pledged himself to remain at home and to avoid all appearance of knowing about the note. In the evening we agreed to meet again. "I have full confidence in you," said Gagin, and pressed my hand strongly. "Spare Assja and myself. But we shall leave to-morrow," he added as he rose, "for you will not marry Assja."
"Give me time till evening," I said.
"So be it. But you will not marry her."
He went away. I threw myself on the sofa and shut my eyes. My head spun round like a top. Too many emotions came crowding upon me. Gagin's frankness annoyed me, and I was angry with Assja. Her love distressed and delighted me at once. I could not understand how she could betray herself to her brother. The necessity of a hasty, an instantaneous decision tormented me. "Marry a seventeen-year-old girl of such a disposition! How can I do it?" I said, getting up from my seat.
I crossed the Rhine at the appointed hour, and the first face that met me on the opposite shore was that of the same boy who had come to me in the morning. He seemed to be waiting for me.
"From Miss Annette," he said, and gave me another letter. Assja wrote to appoint another place for our meeting. In half an hour I was to come, not to the chapel, but to the house of Frau Luise, knock at the door, and ascend to the third story.
"'Yes' again?" the boy asked me.
"Yes," I answered, and walked along the bank of the river. There was not time to return to my house, and I had no inclination to stroll about the streets. Just beyond the limits of the village there was a little garden with a covered bowling alley and tables for beer drinkers. I entered it. A few middle-aged men were playing ninepins. The balls rolled noisily, and from time to time I caught expressions of applause. A pretty girl, with eyelids reddened by crying, brought me a glass of beer. I looked her in the face. She turned hastily away and disappeared.
"Yes, yes," said a fat and ruddy-cheeked man who was sitting near me. "Our little Nancy is in great trouble to-day. Her lover is gone with the conscripts." I looked after her. She had retired to a corner and buried her face in her hands. One after another the tears trickled through her fingers. Some one called for beer. She brought it, and went back to her place. Her grief reacted upon me. I began to think of the interview before me; but I thought of it with anxiety, not with joy. I did not go light-hearted to the rendezvous. No joyful exchange of mutual love was before me; I had a promise to redeem, a hard duty to perform. "There is no jesting possible with her"—this expression of Gagin's pierced my soul like an arrow. And was not this the very happiness for which I had longed four days ago, in the little boat which the waves bore onward? Now it seemed to be possible—but I wavered, I thrust it from me; I must put it away from me. The very unexpectedness of it confused me. Assja herself, with her impetuosity, her past history, her education—this charming but singular being—let me confess it—inspired me with fear. For a long time I gave myself up to these conflicting feelings. The deferred tryst was at hand. "I cannot marry her," I decided at last, "and she shall not know that I love her."
I rose, and after I had pressed a thaler in poor Nancy's hand (for which she did not even thank me) I went straight to Frau Luise's house. Already the shadow of dusk was in the air, and above the darkening streets a narrow streak, the reflection of the sunset, reddened in the sky. I knocked lightly at the door. It was opened instantly. I stepped across the threshold and found myself suddenly in darkness.
"This way!" whispered an old woman's voice. "Some one is waiting for you."
I advanced a couple of steps, stumbling. A skinny hand clutched mine.
"Is it you, Frau Luise?" I asked.
"Yes," the same voice answered. "Yes, it is I, my handsome young gentleman." The old woman led me up one steep staircase and stopped at the bottom of a second. By the dull light which came in through a little window I recognized the wrinkled visage of the burgomaster's widow. A hateful, sly smile distorted her shrunken lips and half closed the little bleared eyes. She pointed out a small door to me. I opened it with a hand that trembled, and shut it again behind me.
It was nearly dark in the little room which I entered, and at first I did not discover Assja. Wrapped in a great cloak, she was sitting in a chair by the window, with her head averted and almost hidden, like a frightened bird. Her breath came quickly, and she was trembling in every limb. I felt an inexpressible pity for her. I approached her; she turned her head away still more.
"Anna Nicolaevna!" I addressed her.
She started suddenly as if she wished to look at me, but dared not. I took her hand. It was cold, and lay in mine like a dead thing.
"I wished," Assja began, and tried to smile, but her pallid lips would not obey her—"I wanted—no, I cannot," she said, and was silent. And in truth her voice broke at every word.
I sat down beside her.
"Anna Nicolaevna!" I repeated, and again found nothing further to say.
There was a silence. I still held her hand and looked at her. She was in the same constrained attitude as before: breathed heavily, and bit her under lip in order to keep back her tears. My eyes were fixed on her. There was something touchingly helpless in her shy immobility. It seemed as if she had just been able to reach the chair, and had fallen there. My heart overflowed.
"Assja!" I whispered, almost inaudibly.
Slowly she raised her eyes to mine. Oh, the glance of a woman who loves! Who shall describe it? Her eyes expressed entreaty, trust, questioning, surrender. I could not withstand their magic. A burning fire thrilled me like the prick of red-hot needles. I bent down and pressed my lips to her hand.
A little hurried sound as of a broken sob fell on my ear, and I felt on my hair the tender touch of a hand that trembled like a leaf. I raised my head, and looked in her face. The expression of fear was gone from her features. Her glance swept past me into the room. Her lips were a little apart, her forehead white as marble, and the hair pushed off as if the wind had blown it back. I forgot everything; I drew her toward me; willingly her hand obeyed, and her whole body followed; the shawl slipped from her shoulders, and her head bowed silently to my breast and laid itself against my burning lips.
"Yours!" she whispered faintly.
Already my arm was about her, when suddenly, like a gleam of lightning, the thought of Gagin flashed through my brain. "What are we doing?" I cried, and moved roughly away. "Your brother knows all—he knows that we are here together."
Assja sank into her chair.
"Yes," I went on, while I rose and went over to the other side of the room. "Your brother knows everything. I had to tell him everything."
"You had to?" she stammered unintelligibly. She could not come to herself, and only half comprehended me.
"Yes, yes," I repeated with a certain bitterness, "and you are to blame for it—you alone. Why did you betray your secret? Who compelled you to tell your brother? He himself was with me to-day, and told me of your conversation with him."
I avoided looking at Assja, and went up and down the room with great strides. "Now everything is lost—everything, everything."
Assja was about to get up from her chair.
"Oh, sit still," I cried; "sit still, I beg you. You have to do with a man of honor—yes, with a man of honor. But in Heaven's name what disturbed you so? Have you seen any change in me? But it was impossible for me to conceal it from your brother when he made me a visit to-day."
"What am I saying?" I thought to myself, and the idea that I should be a base hypocrite, that Gagin knew of this meeting, that everything had been talked over, twisted and spoiled, maddened me.
"I did not call my brother," Assja said, in a frightened, harsh voice. "He came of his own will."
"Only see what you have done," I went on. "Now you want to go away."
"Yes, I must go," she said in a whisper, "and I only asked you to come here that I might take leave of you."
"And do you think," I retorted, "that it is easy for me to part from you?"
"Why were you obliged to tell my brother?" repeated Assja with an expression of amazement.
"I tell you, I could not do otherwise. If you had not betrayed yourself——"
"I had locked myself into my chamber," she answered simply. "I did not know that my landlady had another key."
This innocent speech from her mouth at such a moment nearly cost me my self-control. Even now I cannot think of it without emotion. Poor, honest, innocent child!
"And so it is all over," I began again. "All. Now indeed we must part." I threw a stolen glance at Assja, whose face became more and scarlet. She was, I felt, alarmed and ashamed. I myself was greatly agitated, and spoke like one in a fever. "You did not leave the budding feeling time to unfold itself. You yourself have torn the bond between us. You had no confidence in me; you cherished suspicion against me."
While I was speaking Assja bent forward more and more, then sank suddenly on her knees, let her head fall into her hands, and broke into sobs. I rushed to her and tried to raise her, but she resisted me. I cannot endure women's tears; when I see them I lose my self-possession at once.
"Anna Nicolaevna, Assja!" I cried repeatedly. "I beg, I implore you! Stop, for God's sake!" I took her hand again.
But to my extremest astonishment she sprang up suddenly, sped like a flash through the door, and vanished.
When Frau Luise came in a few moments later, I still stood in the middle of the chamber as if thunderstruck. I could not believe that the interview had come to an end so abrupt, so unmeaning, when I myself had not said the hundredth part of what I meant to say, and was, besides, quite uncertain how it should finally terminate.
"Is the young lady gone?" Frau Luise asked me, and raised her yellow eyebrows quite to the parting of her hair.
I stared at her like an idiot, and went away.
I left the village and made my way into the fields. Vexation, the keenest vexation possessed me. I overwhelmed myself with reproaches. How had it been possible for me to misunderstand the reason which had induced Assja to change our place of meeting? How could I have failed to know what it must have cost her to go to the old woman? Why had I not detained her! Alone with her in the dim, empty room I had found the strength, I had had the heart to drive her from me—even to reproach her for coming. Now her image followed me; I besought her pardon. The memory of that pale face, those shy, wet eyes, that hair flowing over the bowed back, the soft nestling of her head against my breast, consumed me like a fire. "Yours!" Her whisper still rang in my ears. "I have acted conscientiously," I tried to say to myself. Lies! What was the conclusion I truly wished? Am I in a condition to part with her? Can I lose her? "O fool! fool!" I repeated with bitterness.
By this time the night had fallen. With hasty steps I sought the house where Assja lived.
Gagin came to meet me.
"Have you seen my sister?" he called to me, still at a distance.
"Isn't she at home then?" I returned.
"No."
"She has not come back?"
"No. Excuse me," Gagin went on. "I could not stand it. I went to the chapel in spite of our agreement; she was not there; she cannot have gone there."
"She did not go to the chapel."
"And you have not seen her?"
I had to acknowledge that I had seen her.
"Where?"
"At Frau Luise's. We separated an hour ago," I added. "I believed certainly that she had come home."
"Let us wait," said Gagin.
We entered the house and sat down near each other. We were silent. Neither of us was without anxiety. We watched the door and listened. At last Gagin rose.
"This is the end of everything," he cried. "I don't know if my heart is in my body. She will kill me yet, by God! Come, let us search for her."
We went out. It had grown dark.
"Of what did you talk with her?" asked Gagin as he crushed his hat down over his eyes.
"I was with her five minutes at longest," I answered. "I spoke to her as we had decided."
"Well," he said, "we would better go, each for himself; in that way we shall find her sooner. In any event, come back here in an hour."
Hastily I descended the hill and ran to the town. I made my way rapidly through all the streets, staring in all directions, took another glance at the windows of Frau Luise's house, reached the Rhine, and began to walk quickly along its bank. From time to time I met women, but Assja was nowhere to be seen. It was no longer vexation that I felt. A secret fear oppressed me, and not fear alone; no, remorse, the warmest pity. Love! yes, tenderest love! Wringing my hands, I called on Assja, into the gathering darkness of the night; softly at first, then louder and louder; a hundred times I repeated that I loved her. I swore never to part from her. I would have given everything in the world to hear her gentle voice again, to hold her cold hand, to see herself standing before me. So near had she been to me, in perfect trustfulness, in utter simplicity of heart and feeling had she come to me and laid her inexperienced youth in my hands; and I had not caught her to my heart; I had thrown away the bliss of seeing the shy face bloom into a joy, a rapture of peace—this thought drove me to madness.
"Where can she be gone? What is become of her?" I called out, desperate with helpless fears. Suddenly something white glimmered near by on the shore. I knew the spot. An old half sunken cross with quaint inscription stood there, over the grave of a man drowned seventy years before. My heart stood still in my body. I ran to the cross. The white figure had disappeared. "Assja!" I shouted. My wild cry terrified me. No one made answer.
I determined to see if Gagin had found her.
As I hastened up the footpath I saw a light in Assja's chamber. It calmed me a little.
I drew near the house. The door was fastened. I knocked. A window in the darkened first story was carefully raised, and Gagin's head showed itself.
"Found?" I asked.
"She is come back," he whispered to me. "She is in her chamber, and undressing. All is as it should be."
"God be thanked!" I cried, in a transport of inexpressible joy. "God be thanked! Now all will be well. But you know we have something to say to each other."
"Another time," he answered, softly closing the window—"another time. For this, good-by."
"Till to-morrow then," I said. "Tomorrow everything will be clear."
"Good-by," Gagin repeated, and the window was shut. I came near to knocking again. I wished to tell Gagin at once that I sought his sister's hand. But such a wooing, at such an hour! "Till to-morrow then," I thought. "To-morrow I shall be happy!"
"To-morrow I shall be happy!" Happiness has no to-morrow; it has no yesterday; it knows of no past; it thinks of no future. The present belongs to it, and not even the present day—only the moment.
I do not know how I reached S——. Not my feet brought me; not the boat carried me; I was borne over as if on broad, mighty wings. My way led me by a thicket in which a nightingale was singing. It seemed to me it sang of my love and my joy.
The next morning, as I drew near the familiar little house, one circumstance seemed strange: all its windows were open, and the door as well. Scraps of paper lay strewn about the threshold, and behind the door a maid was visible with her broom.
I stepped up to her.
"They're off!" she volunteered, before I could ask her if the Gagins were at home.
"Off!" I repeated. "What, gone? Where?"
"They went at six o'clock this morning, and did not say where. But stop. You are surely Mr. N."
"I am Mr. N."
"There is a letter for you inside." She went in and returned with a letter. "Here it is, if you please."
"But it isn't possible. How can it be?" I said. The maid stared at me stupidly, and began to sweep.
I opened the letter. It was Gagin who wrote. From Assja not a line. He began with a hope that I would not be angry with him on account of his sudden departure. He felt assured that, after mature thought, I would agree to his decision. He had found no other way out of a situation which might easily become difficult, even dangerous. "Yesterday," he wrote, "as we were both waiting silently for Assja, I convinced myself fully that a separation was necessary. There are prejudices which I know how to respect. I understand that you cannot marry Assja. She has told me everything. For her own sake I am compelled to yield to her repeated, desperate prayers." In conclusion he expressed his regret that our acquaintance should be broken off so abruptly; wished me happiness; shook my hand affectionately; and assured me that it would be useless for me to try to find them.
"What prejudices?" I cried out, as if he could hear me. "Nonsense! Who has given him the right to rob me of her?" I clutched my head with my hands.
The maid began to call loudly for the landlady. Her terror rendered me my self control. One thought took possession of me—to find them, to find them at whatever cost. To submit to this stroke, to calmly accept it, was impossible. I learned from the landlady that they had taken a steamboat about six o'clock in the morning to go down the Rhine. I went to the office. There I was told that they had taken tickets for Cologne. I went home with the intention to pack at once and follow them. My way led me by Frau Luise's house. All at once I heard some one call me. I raised my head, and saw the Burgomaster's widow at the window of the very room where, the day before, I had met Assja. She summoned me with her disagreeable smile. I turned away, and would have gone on, but she called after me that something was there for me. This brought me to a standstill, and I entered the house. How shall I describe my feelings as I again beheld that little room?
"To tell the truth," the old woman said to me, handing me a little note, "I was only to give you that if you came here of your own free will. But you are such a handsome young gentleman. Take it."
I took the letter.
The following words were hastily scrawled in pencil on a scrap of paper:
"Farewell! We shall not see each other any more. It is not from pride that I go. No; I cannot do anything else. Yesterday, when I was crying before you, it only needed a word from you—only one single word. I should have staid. You did not speak it. It must be better so. Farewell, for always."
One word! Fool that I had been! This word! I had said it with tears over and over. I had scattered it to the wind. I had repeated it—how often—to the lonely fields; but to her I had not said it. I had not told her that I loved her. And now I must never say it. When I met her in that fatal room, I myself had no clear consciousness of my love. Perhaps I was not even yet awakened to it while I was sitting with her brother in helpless and fearful silence. A moment later it broke out with irresistible force as I shuddered at the possibility of harm to her, and began to seek her, to call her, but then it was already too late. "But that is impossible," you say. I do not know whether it is possible, but I know that it is true. Assja would not have left me if there had been a trace of coquetry in her, and if her position had not been a false one. She could not bear that which every other girl could have borne; but that I had not realized. My evil genius held my confession back from my lips, as I saw Gagin for the last time, at the dark window, and the last thread that I might have seized slipped from my fingers.
On the same day I returned to L—— with my travelling trunk, and took passage for Cologne. I remember that, as the boat was under way, and I was taking leave in spirit of the streets and the places I should never lose from memory, I saw Nancy on the bank. She was sitting on a bench. Her face was pale, but not sorrowful, and a stalwart young peasant stood beside her, laughing and talking to her. On the other shore of the river the little Madonna looked out, sad as ever, from the green shadow of the old oak tree.
I found myself on the Gagins' track in Cologne. I learned that they had started for London. Hastily I followed them; but in London all my inquiries were fruitless. For a long time I would not be discouraged, for a long time I kept up an obstinate search; but at last I was obliged to give up hope of finding them.
And I never saw them again; I never saw Assja again. Of her brother I heard brief news sometimes; but she had for ever vanished from my sight. I do not know if she is yet living. Once, while travelling, years afterward, I caught a hasty glimpse of a woman in a railway carriage whose face reminded me vividly of features never to be forgotten, but I was deceived by a chance resemblance. Assja remained in my memory as I had known her in the fairest days of my life, and as I had last seen her, bowed over the arm of the low wooden chair.
But I will confess that I did not grieve too long for her. Yes, I have even fancied that Fate had been kind in refusing to unite us. I consoled myself with the thought that I could not have been happy with such a wife. I was young, and the future—this short, fleeting life—seemed endless to me. Why should not that be again which once had been so sweet, and even better and more beautiful? I have known other women, but the feeling which Assja awakened in me—that deep and ardent tenderness—has never repeated itself.
No! No eyes could compensate me for the loss of those that once were lifted, with such love, to mine. No heart has ever rested on my breast which could make my own beat with such delicious anguish! Condemned to the solitary existence of a man without a family tie, I bring my life to its gloomy end; but I guard still, as a sacred relic, her letters and the dried geranium sprig which she once tossed me from the window. There clings a faint fragrance to it even yet; but the hand that gave it, the hand that it was only once vouchsafed to me to kiss, has mouldered, perhaps, for many a year in the grave. And I—what has become of me? What remains to me of myself—of those happy and painful days—of those winged hopes and desires? So the slight fragrance of a feeble weed outlasts all the joys and all the sorrows of a man. Nay, it outlasts the man himself!
[ [J]In Pushkin it reads, "On my nurse's grave."