“At last she reached her seventeenth year. I could not keep her any longer at school. I found myself in a rather serious difficulty. Suddenly a blessed idea came to me - - to resign my commission and go abroad for a year or two, taking Acia with me. No sooner thought than done; and here we are on the banks of the Rhine, where I am trying to take up painting, and she . . . is as naughty and troublesome as ever. But now I hope you will not judge her too harshly; for though she pretends she doesn’t care, she values the good opinion of every one, and yours particularly.”
And Gagin smiled again his gentle smile. I pressed his hand warmly.
“That’s how it is,” Gagin began again; “but I have a trying time with her. She’s like gunpowder, always ready to go off So far, she has never taken a fancy to any one, but woe betide us, if she falls in love! I sometimes don’t know what to do with her. The other day she took some notion into her head, and suddenly began declaring I was colder to her than I used to be, that she loved me and no one else, and never would love any one else. . . . And she cried so, as she said it - - “
“So that was it,” - - I was beginning, but I bit my tongue.
“Tell me,” I questioned Gagin, “we have talked so frankly about everything, is it possible really, she has never cared for any one yet? Didn’t she see any young men in Petersburg?”
“She didn’t like them at all. No, Acia wants a hero - - an exceptional individual - - or a picturesque shepherd on a mountain pass. But I’ve been chattering away, and keeping you,” he added, getting up.
“Do you know - - - - ,” I began; “let’s go back to your place, I don’t want to go home.”
“What about your work?”
I made no reply. Gagin smiled good - humouredly, and we went back to L. As I caught sight of the familiar vineyard and little white house, I felt a certain sweetness - - yes, sweetness in my heart, as though honey was stealthily dropping thence for me. My heart was light after what Gagin had told me.
IX
ACIA met us in the very doorway of the house. I expected a laugh again; but she came to meet us, pale and silent, with downcast eyes.
“Here he is again,” Gagin began, “and he wanted to come back of his own accord, observe.”
Acia looked at me inquiringly. It was my turn now to hold out my hand, and this time I pressed her chilly fingers warmly. I felt very sorry for her. I understood now a great deal in her that had puzzled me before; her inward restlessness, her want of breeding, her desire to be striking - - all became clear to me. I had had a peep into that soul; a secret scourge was always tormenting her, her ignorant self - consciousness struggled in confused alarm, but her whole nature strove towards truth. I understood why this strange little girl attracted me; it was not only by the half - wild charm of her slender body that she attracted me; I liked her soul.
Gagin began rummaging among his canvases. I suggested to Acia that she should take a turn with me in the vineyard. She agreed at once, with cheerful and almost humble readiness. We went half - way down the mountain, and sat down on a broad stone.
“And you weren’t dull without us?” Acia began.
“And were you dull without me?” I queried.
Acia gave me a sidelong look.
“Yes,” she answered. “Was it nice in the mountains?” she went on at once. “Were they high ones? Higher than the clouds? Tell me what you saw. You were telling my brother, but I didn’t hear anything.”
“It was of your own accord you went away,” I remarked.
“I went away . . . because . . . - - I’m not going away now,” she added with a confiding caress in her voice. “You were angry to - day.”
“I?”
“Yes, you.”
“Upon my word, whatever for?”
“I don’t know, but you were angry, and you went away angry. I was very much vexed that you went away like that, and I’m so glad you came back.”
“And I’m glad I came back,” I observed.
Acia gave herself a little shrug, as children often do when they are very pleased.
“Oh, I’m good at guessing!” she went on. “Sometimes, simply from the way papa coughed, I could tell in the next room whether he was pleased with me or not.”
Till that day Acia had never once spoken to me of her father. I was struck by it.
“Were you fond of your father?” I said, and suddenly, to my intense annoyance, I felt I was reddening.
She made no answer, and blushed too. We were both silent. In the distance a smoking steamer was scudding along on the Rhine. We began watching it.
“Why don’t you tell me about your tour?” Acia murmured.
“Why did you laugh to - day directly you saw me?” I asked.
“I don’t know really. Sometimes I want to cry, but I laugh. You mustn’t judge me - - by what I do. Oh, by - the - bye, what a story that is about the Lorelei! Is that her rock we can see? They say she used to drown every one, but as soon as she fell in love she threw herself in the water. I like that story. Frau Luise tells me all sorts of stories. Frau Luise has a black cat with yellow eyes. . . .”
Acia raised her head and shook her curls.
“Ah, I am happy,” she said.
At that instant there floated across to us broken, monotonous sounds. Hundreds of voices in unison and at regular intervals were repeating a chanted litany. The crowd of pilgrims moved slowly along the road below with crosses and banners. . . .
“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 beautif
ul!” 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.
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 145