A Lear of the Steppes and Other Stories

and did better at her lessons than any one; but she never would put herself on a level with the rest; she was perverse, and held herself aloof. . . . I could not blame her very much for it; in her position she had either to be subservient, or to hold herself aloof. Of all her school-fellows she only made friends with one, an ugly girl of poor family, who was sat upon by the rest. The other girls with whom she was brought up, mostly of good family, did not like her, teased her and taunted her as far as they could. Acia would not give way to them an inch. One day at their lesson on the law of God, the teacher was talking of the vices. 'Servility and cowardice are the worst vices,' Acia said aloud. She would still go her own way, in fact; only her manners were improved, though even in that respect I think she did not gain a great deal.

'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