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.