finely against the clear sky; but I looked at her with a feeling of hostility. The evening before I had detected something forced, something not quite natural about her. . . . 'She's trying to impress us,' I thought; 'whatever for? What a childish trick.' As though guessing my thoughts, she suddenly turned a rapid, searching glance upon me, laughed again, leaped in two bounds from the wall, and going up to the old woman, asked her for a glass of water.
'Do you think I am thirsty?' she said, addressing her brother; 'no; there are some flowers on the walls, which must be watered.'
Gagin made her no reply; and with the glass in her hand, she began scrambling over the ruins, now and then stopping, bending down, and with comic solemnity pouring a few drops of water, which sparkled brightly in the sun. Her movements were very charming, but I felt, as before, angry with her, even while I could not help admiring her lightness and agility. At one dangerous place she purposely screamed, and then laughed. . . . I felt still more annoyed with her.
'Why, she climbs like a goat,' the old woman mumbled, turning for an instant from her stocking.
At last, Acia had emptied the glass, and with a saucy swing she walked back to us. A queer smile was faintly twitching at her eyebrows, nostrils, and lips; her dark eyes were screwed up with a half insolent, half merry look.
'You consider my behaviour improper,' her face seemed to say; 'all the same, I know you're admiring me.'
'Well done, Acia, well done,' Gagin said in a low voice.
She seemed all at once overcome with shame, she dropped her long eyelashes, and sat down beside us with a guilty air. At that moment I got for the first time a good look at her face, the most changeable face I had ever seen. A few instants later it had turned quite pale, and wore an intense, almost mournful expression, its very features seemed larger, sterner, simpler. She completely subsided. We walked round the ruins (Acia followed us), and admired the views. Meanwhile it was getting near dinner-time. As he paid the old woman, Gagin asked for another mug of beer, and turning to me, cried with a sly face--
'To the health of the lady of your heart.'
'Why, has he--have you such a lady?' Acia asked suddenly.
'Why, who hasn't?' retorted Gagin.
Acia seemed pensive for an instant; then her face changed, the challenging, almost insolent smile came back once more.
On the way home she kept laughing, and was more mischievous again. She broke off a long branch, put it on her shoulder, like a gun, and tied her scarf round her head. I remember we met a numerous family of light-haired affected English people; they all, as though at a word of command, looked Acia up and down with their glassy eyes in chilly amazement, while she started singing aloud, as though in defiance of them. When she reached home, she went straight to her own room, and only appeared when dinner was on the table. She was dressed in her best clothes, had carefully arranged her hair, laced herself in at the waist, and put on gloves. At dinner she behaved very decorously, almost affectedly, hardly tasting anything, and drinking water out of a wine- glass. She obviously wanted to show herself in a new character before me--the character of a well-bred, refined young lady. Gagin did not check her; one could see that it was his habit to humour her in everything. He merely glanced at me good- humouredly now and then and slightly shrugged his shoulders, as though he would say--'She's a baby; don't be hard on her.' Directly dinner was over, Acia got up, made us a curtsey, and putting on her hat, asked Gagin if she might go to see Frau Luise.
'Since when do you ask leave,' he answered with his invariable smile, a rather embarrassed smile this time; 'are you bored with us?'
'No; but I promised Frau Luise yesterday to go and see her; besides, I thought you would like better being alone. Mr. N. (she indicated me) will tell you something more about himself.'
She went out.
'Frau Luise,' Gagin began, trying to avoid meeting my eyes, 'is the widow of a former burgomaster here, a good-natured, but silly old woman. She has taken a great fancy to Acia. Acia has a passion for making friends with people of a lower class; I've noticed, it's always pride that's at the root of that. She's pretty well spoilt with me, as you see,' he went on after a brief pause: 'but what would you have me do? I can't be exacting with any one, and with her less than any one else. I am
I was silent. Gagin changed the conversation. The more I saw of him, the more strongly was I attracted by him. I soon understood him. His was a typically Russian nature, truthful, honest, simple; but, unhappily, without energy, lacking tenacity and inward fire. Youth was not boiling over within him, but shone with a subdued light. He was very sweet and clever, but I could not picture to myself what he would become in ripe manhood. An artist . . . without intense, incessant toil, there is no being an artist . and as for toil, I mused, watching his soft features, listening to his slow deliberate talk, 'no, you'll never toil, you don't know how to put pressure on yourself.' But not to love him was an impossibility; one's heart was simply drawn to him. We spent four hours together, sometimes sitting on the sofa, sometimes walking slowly up and down before the house; and in those four hours we became intimate friends.
The sun was setting, and it was time for me to go home. Acia had not yet come back.
'What a reckless thing she is,' said Gagin. 'Shall I come along with you? We'll turn in at Frau Luise's on the way. I'll ask whether she's there. It's not far out of the way.'
We went down into the town, and turning off into a narrow, crooked little by-street, stopped before a house four storeys high, and with two windows abreast in each storey. The second storey projected beyond the first, the third and fourth stood out still further than the second; the whole house, with its crumbling carving, its two stout columns below, its pointed brick roof, and the projecting piece on the attic poking out like a beak, looked like a huge, crouching bird.
'Acia,' shouted Gagin, 'are you here?'
A window, with a light in it in the third storey, rattled and opened, and we saw Acia's dark head. Behind her peered out the toothless and dim-sighted face of an old German woman.
'I'm here,' said Acia, leaning roguishly out with her elbows on the window-sill; 'I'm quite contented here. Hullo there, catch,' she added flinging Gagin a twig of geranium; 'imagine I'm the lady of your heart.'
Frau Luise laughed.
'N. is going,' said Gagin; 'he wants to say good-bye to you.'
'Really,' said Acia; 'in that case give him my geranium, and I'll come back directly.'
She slammed-to the window and seemed to be kissing Frau Luise. Gagin offered me the twig without a word. I put it in my pocket in silence, went on to the ferry, and crossed over to the other side of the river.
I remember I went home thinking of nothing in particular, but with a strange load at my heart, when I was suddenly struck by a strong familiar scent, rare in Germany. I stood still, and saw near the road a small bed of hemp. Its fragrance of the steppes instantaneously brought my own country to my mind, and stirred a passionate longing for it in my heart. I longed to breathe Russian air, to tread on Russian soil. 'What am I doing here, why am I trailing about in foreign countries among strangers?' I cried, and the dead weight I had felt at my heart suddenly passed into a bitter, stinging emotion. I reached home in quite a different frame of mind from the evening before. I felt almost enraged, and it was a long while before I could recover my equanimity. I was beset by a feeling of anger I could not explain. At last I sat down, and bethinking myself of my faithless widow (I wound up every day regularly by dreaming, as in duty bound, of this lady), I pulled out one of her letters. But I did not even open it; my thoughts promptly took another turn. I began dreaming--dreaming of Acia. I recollected that Gagin had, in the course of conversation, hinted at certain difficulties, obstacles in the way of his returning to Russia. . . . 'Come, is she his sister?' I said aloud.
I undressed, got into bed, and tried to get to sleep; but an hour later I was sitting up again in bed, propped up with my elbow on the pillow, and was once more thinking about this 'whimsical chit of a girl with the affected laugh.' . . . 'She's the figure of the little Galatea of Raphael in the Farnesino,' I murmured: 'yes; and she's not his sister----'
The widow's letter lay tranquil and undisturbed on the floor, a white patch in the moonlight. V
NEXT morning I went again to L----. I persuaded myself I wanted to see Gagin, but secretly I was tempted to go and see what Acia would do, whether she would be as whimsical as on the previous day. I found them both in
