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
