"I should like to go with them," said Acia, listening to the sounds of the voices gradually growing fainter.
"Are you so religious?"
"I should like to go far away on a pilgrimage, on some great exploit," she went on. "As it is, the days pass by, life passes by, and what have we done?"
"You are ambitious," I observed. "You want to live to some purpose, to leave some trace behind you. . . ."
"Is that impossible, then?"
"Impossible," I was on the point of repeating. . . . But I glanced at her bright eyes, and only said:
"You can try."
"Tell me," began Acia, after a brief silence during which shadows passed over her face, which had already turned pale, "did you care much for that lady? . . . You remember my brother drank her health at the ruins the day after we first knew you."
I laughed.
"Your brother was joking. I never cared for any lady; at any rate, I don't care for one now."
"And what do you like in women?" she asked, throwing back her head with innocent curiosity.
"What a strange question!" I cried.
Acia was a little disconcerted.
"I ought not to ask you such a question, ought I? Forgive me, I'm used to chattering away about anything that comes into my head. That's why I'm afraid to speak."
"Speak, for God's sake, don't be afraid," I hastened to intervene; "I'm so glad you're leaving off being shy at last."
Acia looked down, and laughed a soft light-hearted laugh; I had never heard such a laugh from her.
"Well, tell me about something," she went on, stroking out the skirt of her dress, and arranging the folds over her legs, as though she were settling herself for a long while; "tell me or read me something, just as you read us, do you remember, from Oniegin. . ."
She suddenly grew pensive-- "Where now is the cross and the branches' shade
Over my poor mother's grave!"
She murmured in a low voice.
"That's not as it is in Pushkin," I observed.
"But I should like to have been Tatiana," she went on, in the same dreamy tone. "Tell me a story," she suddenly added eagerly.
But I was not in a mood for telling stories. I was watching her, all bathed in the bright sunshine, all peace and gentleness. Everything was joyously radiant about us, below, and above us--sky, earth, and waters; the very air seemed saturated with brilliant light.
"Look, how beautiful!" I said, unconsciously sinking my voice.
"Yes, it is beautiful," she answered just as softly, not looking at me. "If only you and I were birds--how we would soar, how we would fly. . . . We'd simply plunge into that blue . . . But we're not birds."
"But we may grow wings," I rejoined.
"How so?"
"Live a little longer--and you'll find out. There are feelings that lift us above the earth. Don't trouble yourself, you will have wings."
"Have you had them?"
"How shall I say . . . I think up till now I never have taken flight."
Acia grew pensive once more. I bent a little towards her.
"Can you waltz?" she asked me suddenly.
"Yes," I answered, rather puzzled.
"Well, come along then, come along . . . I'll ask my brother to play us a waltz. . . . We'll fancy we are flying, that our wings have grown."
She ran into the house. I ran after her, and in a few minutes, we were turning round and round the narrow little room, to the sweet strains of Lanner. Acia waltzed splendidly, with enthusiasm. Something soft and womanly suddenly peeped through the childish severity of her profile. Long after, my arm kept the feeling of the contact of her soft waist, long after I heard her quickened breathing close to my ear, long after I was haunted by dark, immobile, almost closed eyes in a pale but eager face, framed in by fluttering curls. X
ALL that day passed most delightfully. We were as merry as children. Acia was very sweet and simple. Gagin was delighted, as he watched her. I went home late. When I had got out into the middle of the Rhine, I asked the ferryman to let the boat float down with the current. The old man pulled up his oars, and the majestic river bore us along. As I looked about me, listened, brooded over recollections, I was suddenly aware of a secret restlessness astir in my heart . . . I lifted my eyes skywards, but there was no peace even in the sky; studded with stars, it seemed all moving, quivering, twinkling; I bent over to the river--but even there, even in those cold dark depths, the stars were trembling and glimmering; I seemed to feel an exciting quickening of life on all sides--and a sense of alarm rose up within me too. I leaned my elbows on the boat's edge . . . The whispering of the wind in my ears, the soft gurgling of the water at the rudder worked on my nerves, and the fresh breath of the river did not cool me; a nightingale was singing on the bank, and stung me with the sweet poison of its notes. Tears rose into my eyes, but they were not the tears of aimless rapture. . . . What I was feeling was not the vague sense I had known of late of all-embracing desire when the soul expands, resounds, when it feels that it grasps all, loves all. . . . No! it was the thirst for happiness aflame in me. I did not dare yet to call it by its name--but happiness, happiness full and overflowing--that was what I wanted, that was what I pined for. . . . The boat floated on, and the old ferryman sat dozing as he leant on his oars. XI
As I set off next day to the Gagins, I did not ask myself whether I was in love with Acia, but I thought a great deal about her, her fate absorbed me, I rejoiced at our unexpected intimacy. I felt that it was only yesterday I had got to know her; till then she had turned away from me. And now, when she had at last revealed herself to me, in what a seductive light her image showed itself, how fresh it was for me, what secret fascinations were modestly peeping out. . . .
I walked boldly up the familiar road, gazing continually at the cottage, a white spot in the distance. I thought not of the future--not even of the morrow--I was very happy.
Acia flushed directly I came into the room; I noticed that she had dressed herself in her best again, but the expression of her face was not in keeping with her finery; it was mournful. And I had come in such high spirits! I even fancied that she was on the point of running away as usual, but she controlled herself and remained. Gagin was in that peculiar condition of artistic heat and intensity which seizes amateurs all of a sudden, like a fit, when they imagine they are succeeding in "catching nature and pinning her down." He was standing with dishevelled locks, and besmeared with paint, before a stretched canvas, and flourishing the brush over it; he almost savagely nodded to me, turned away, screwed up his eyes, and bent again over his picture. I did not hinder him, but went and sat down by Acia. Slowly her dark eyes turned to me.
"You're not the same to-day as yesterday," I observed, after ineffectual efforts to call up a smile on her lips.
"No, I'm not," she answered, in a slow and dull voice. "But that means nothing. I did not sleep well, I was thinking all night."
"What about?"
"Oh, I thought about so many things. It's a way I have had from childhood; ever since I used to live with mother--"
She uttered the word with an effort, and then repeated again--
"When I used to live with mother . . . I used to think why it was no one could tell what would happen to him; and sometimes one sees trouble coming--and one can't escape; and how it is one can never tell all the truth . . . Then I used to think I knew nothing, and that I ought to learn. I want to be educated over again; I'm very badly educated. I can't play the piano, I can't draw, and even sewing I do very badly. I have no talent for anything; I must be a very dull person to be with."
"You're unjust to yourself," I replied; "you've read a lot, you're cultivated, and with your cleverness--"
"Why, am I clever?" she asked with such naïve interest, that I could not help laughing; but she did not even smile. "Brother, am I clever?" she asked Gagin.
He made her no answer, but went on working, continually changing brushes and raising his arm.
"I don't know myself
what is in my head," Acia continued, with the same dreamy air. "I am sometimes afraid of myself, really . Ah, I should like . . . Is it true that women ought not to read a great deal?"
"A great deal's not wanted, but . . ."
"Tell me what I ought to read? Tell me what I ought to do. I will do everything you tell me," she added, turning to me with innocent confidence.
I could not at once find a reply.
"You won't be dull with me, though?"
"What nonsense," I was beginning. . . .
"All right, thanks!" Acia put in; "I was thinking you would be bored."
And her little hot hand clasped mine warmly.
"N!" Gagin cried at that instant; "isn't that background too dark?"
I went up to him. Acia got up and went away. XII
SHE came back in an hour, stood in the doorway and beckoned to me.
"Listen," she said; "if I were to die, would you be sorry?"
"What ideas you have to-day!" I exclaimed.
"I fancy I shall die soon; it seems to me sometimes as though everything about me were saying good-bye. It's better to die than live like this. . . Ah! don't look at me like that; I'm not pretending, really. Or else I shall begin to be afraid of you again."
"Why, were you afraid of me?"
"If I am queer, it's really not my fault," she rejoined. "You see, I can't even laugh now. . . ."
She remained gloomy and preoccupied till evening. Something was taking place in her; what, I did not understand. Her eyes often rested upon me; my heart slowly throbbed under her enigmatic gaze. She appeared composed, and yet as I watched her I kept wanting to tell her not to let herself get excited. I admired her, found a touching charm in her pale face, her hesitating, slow movements, but she for some reason fancied I was out of humour.
"Let me tell you something," she said to me not long before parting; "I am tortured by the idea that you consider me frivolous. . . . For the future believe what I say to you, only do you, too, be open with me; and I will always tell you the truth, I give you my word of honour. . . ."
This "word of honour" set me laughing again.
"Oh, don't laugh," she said earnestly, "or I shall say to you to-day what you said to me yesterday, 'why are you laughing?'" and after a brief silence she added, "Do you remember you spoke yesterday of 'wings'? . . . My wings have grown, but I have nowhere to fly."
"Nonsense," I said; "all the ways lie open before you. . . ."
Acia looked at me steadily, straight in the face.
"You have a bad opinion of me to-day," she said, frowning.
"I? a bad opinion of you! . . ."
"Why is it you are both so low-spirited," Gagin interrupted me--"would you like me to play a waltz, as I did yesterday?"
"No, no," replied Acia, and she clenched her hands; "not to-day, not for anything!"
"I'm not going to force you to; don't excite yourself."
"Not for anything!" she repeated, turning pale. * * * * * * *
"Can it be she's in love with me?" I thought, as I drew near the dark rushing waters of the Rhine. XIII
"CAN it be that she loves me?" I asked myself next morning, directly I awoke. I did not want to look into myself. I felt that her image, the image of the "girl with the affected laugh," had crept close into my heart, and that I should not easily get rid of it. I went to L---- and stayed there the whole day, but I saw Acia only by glimpses. She was not well; she had a headache. She came downstairs for a minute, with a bandage round her forehead, looking white and thin, her eyes half-closed. With a faint smile she said, "It will soon be over, it's nothing; everything's soon over, isn't it?" and went away. I felt bored and, as it were, listlessly sad, yet I could not make up my mind to go for a long while, and went home late, without seeing her again.
The next morning passed in a sort of half slumber of the consciousness. I tried to set to work, and could not; I tried to do nothing and not to think--and that was a failure too. I strolled about the town, returned home, went out again.
"Are you Herr N----?" I heard a childish voice ask suddenly behind me. I looked round; a little boy was standing before me. "This is for you from Fraülein Annette," he said, handing me a note.
I opened it and recognised the irregular rapid handwriting of Acia. "I must see you to-day," she wrote to me; "come to-day at four o'clock to the stone chapel on the road near the ruin. I have done a most foolish thing to-day. . . . Come, for God's sake; you shall know all about it. . . . Tell the messenger, yes."
"Is there an answer?" the boy asked me.
"Say, yes," I replied. The boy ran off. XIV
I WENT home to my own room, sat down, and sank into thought. My heart was beating violently. I read Acia's note through several times. I looked at my watch; it was not yet twelve o'clock.
The door opened, Gagin walked in.
His face was overcast. He seized my hand and pressed it warmly. He seemed very much agitated.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
Gagin took a chair and sat down opposite me. "Three days ago," he began with a rather forced smile, and hesitating, "I surprised you by what I told you; to-day I am going to surprise you more. With any other man I could not, most likely, bring myself . . . so directly. . . . But you're an honourable man, you're my friend, aren't you? Listen--my sister, Acia, is in love with you."
I trembled all over and stood up. . . .
"Your sister, you say----"
"Yes, yes," Gagin cut me short. "I tell you, she's mad, and she'll drive me mad. But happily she can't tell a lie, and she confides in me. Ah, what a soul there is in that little girl! . . . but she'll be her own ruin, that's certain."
"But you're making a mistake," I began.
"No, I'm not making a mistake. Yesterday, you know, she was lying down almost all day, she ate nothing, but she did not complain. She never does complain. I was not anxious, though towards evening she was in a slight fever. At two o'clock last night I was wakened by our landlady; 'Go to your sister,' she said; 'there's something wrong with her.' I ran in to Acia, and found her not undressed, feverish, and in tears; her head was aching, her teeth were chattering. 'What's the matter with you?' I said, 'are you ill?' She threw herself on my neck and began imploring me to take her away as soon as possible, if I want to keep her alive. . . . I could make out nothing, I tried to soothe her. . . . Her sobs grew more violent, . . . and suddenly through her sobs I made out . . . well, in fact, I made out that she loves you. I assure you, you and I are reasonable people, and we can't imagine how deeply she feels and with what incredible force her feelings show themselves; it has come upon her as unexpectedly and irresistibly as a thunderstorm. You're a very nice person," Gagin pursued, "but why she's so in love with you, I confess I don't understand. She says she has been drawn to you from the first moment she saw you. That's why she cried the other day when she declared she would never love any one but me.--She imagines you despise her, that you most likely know about her birth; she asked me if I hadn't told you her story,--I said, of course, that I hadn't; but her intuition's simply terrible. She has one wish,--to get away, to get away at once. I sat with her till morning; she made me promise we should not be here to-morrow, and only then, she fell asleep. I have been thinking and thinking, and at last I made up my mind to speak to you. To my mind, Acia is right; the best thing is for us both to go away from here. And I should have taken her away to-day, if I had not been struck by an idea which made me pause. Perhaps . . . who knows? do you like my sister? If so, what's the object of my taking her away? And so I decided to cast aside all reserve. . . . Besides, I noticed something myself. . . I made up my mind . . . to find out from you . . ." Poor Gagin was completely out of countenance. "Excuse me, please," he added, "I'm not used to such bothers."
I took his hand.
"You want to know," I pronounced in a steady voice, "whether I like your sister? Yes, I do like her--"
Gagin glanced at me. "But," he said, faltering, "you'd hardly marry her, would you?"
&n
bsp; "How would you have me answer such a question? Only think; can I at the moment----"
"I know, I know," Gagin cut me short; "I have no right to expect an answer from you, and my question was the very acme of impropriety. . . . But what am I to do? One can't play with fire. You don't know Acia; she's quite capable of falling ill, running away, or asking you to see her alone. . . . Any other girl might manage to hide it all and wait--but not she. It is the first time with her, that's the worst of it! If you had seen how she sobbed at my feet to-day, you would understand my fears."
I was pondering. Gagin's words "asking you to see her alone," had sent a twinge to my heart. I felt it was shameful not to meet his honest frankness with frankness.
"Yes," I said at last; "you are right. An hour ago I got a note from your sister. Here it is."
Gagin took the note, quickly looked it through, and let his hands fall on his knees. The expression of perplexity on his face was very amusing, but I was in no mood for laughter.
"I tell you again, you're an honourable man," he said; "but what's to be done now? What? she herself wants to go away, and she writes to you and blames herself for acting unwisely . . . and when had she time to write this? What does she wish of you?"
I pacified him, and we began to discuss as coolly as we could what we ought to do.
The conclusion we reached at last was that, to avoid worse harm befalling, I was to go and meet Acia, and to have a straight-forward explanation with her; Gagin pledged himself to stay at home, and not to give a sign of knowing about her note to me; in the evening we arranged to see each other again.
"I have the greatest confidence in you," said Gagin, and he pressed my hand; "have mercy on her and on me. But we shall go away to-morrow, anyway," he added getting up, "for you won't marry Acia, I see."
"Give me time till the evening," I objected.
"All right, but you won't marry her."
He went away, and I threw myself on the sofa, and shut my eyes. My head was going round; too many impressions had come bursting on it at once. I was vexed at Gagin's frankness, I was vexed with Acia, her love delighted and disconcerted me, I could not comprehend what had made her reveal it to her brother; the absolute necessity of rapid, almost instantaneous decision exasperated me. "Marry a little girl of seventeen, with her character, how is it possible?" I said, getting up. XV
A Lear of the Steppes and Other Stories Page 13
