"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.