The Project Gutenberg EBook of Annouchka, by Ivan Sergheievitch Turgenef This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Annouchka A Tale Author: Ivan Sergheievitch Turgenef Translator: Franklin P. Abbott Release Date: April 11, 2012 [EBook #39427] Last updated: April 22, 2012 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNOUCHKA *** Produced by sp1nd, Mebyon, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) ANNOUCHKA A Tale BY IVAN SERGHEÏEVITCH TURGENEF TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF THE AUTHOR'S OWN TRANSLATION BY FRANKLIN ABBOTT BOSTON CUPPLES, UPHAM AND COMPANY 1884 Copyright, By Franklin P. Abbott, 1884. All Rights Reserved. C. J. PETERS AND SON, ELECTROTYPERS AND STEREOTYPERS, 145 High Street. ANNOUCHKA. I. I was then five-and-twenty,—that was a sufficient indication that I had a past, said he, beginning. My own master for some little time, I resolved to travel,—not to complete my education, as they said at the time, but to see the world. I was young, light-hearted, in good health, free from every care, with a well-filled purse; I gave no thought to the future; I indulged every whim,—in fact, I lived like a flower that expands in the sun. The idea that man is but a plant, and that its flower can only live a short time, had not yet occurred to me. "Youth," says a Russian proverb, "lives upon gilded gingerbread, which it ingenuously takes for bread; then one day even bread fails." But of what use are these digressions? I travelled from place to place, with no definite plan, stopping where it suited me, moving at once when I felt the need of seeing new faces,—nothing more. The men alone interested me; I abhorred remarkable monuments, celebrated collections, and ciceroni; the Galerie Verte of Dresden almost drove me mad. As to nature, it gave me some very keen impressions, but I did not care the least in the world for what is commonly called its beauties,—mountains, rocks, waterfalls, which strike me with astonishment; I did not care to have nature impose itself upon my admiration or trouble my mind. In return, I could not live without my fellow-creatures; their talk, their laughter, their movements, were for me objects of prime necessity. I felt superlatively well in the midst of a crowd; I followed gayly the surging of men, shouting when they shouted, and observing them attentively whilst they abandoned themselves to enthusiasm. Yes, the study of men was, indeed, my delight; and yet is study the word? I contemplated them, enjoying it with an intense curiosity. But again I digress. So, then, about five-and-twenty years ago I was living in the small town of Z., upon the banks of the Rhine. I sought isolation: a young widow, whose acquaintance I made at a watering-place, had just inflicted upon me a cruel blow. Pretty and intelligent, she coquetted with every one, and with me in particular; then, after some encouragement, she jilted me for a Bavarian lieutenant with rosy cheeks. This blow, to tell the truth, was not very serious, but I found it advisable to give myself up for a time to regrets and solitude, and I established myself at Z. It was not alone the situation of this small town, at the foot of two lofty mountains, that had impressed me; it had enticed me by its old walls, flanked with towers, its venerable lindens, the steep bridge, which crossed its limpid river, and chiefly by its good wine. After sundown (it was then the month of June), charming little German girls, with yellow hair, came down for a walk in its narrow streets, greeting the strangers whom they met with a gracious guten abend. Some of them did not return until the moon had risen from behind the peaked roofs of the old houses, making the little stones with which the streets were paved scintillate by the clearness of its motionless rays. I loved then to wander in the town of Z.; the moon seemed to regard it steadfastly from the depths of a clear sky, and the town felt this look and remained quiet and on the alert, inundated by the clearness that filled the soul with a trouble mingled with sweetness. The cock at the top of the gothic steeple shone with a pale reflection of gold; a similar reflection crept in little golden serpents over the dark depths of the river; at narrow windows, under slated roofs, shone the solitary lights. The German is economical! The vine reared its festoons mysteriously over the walls. At times a rustling could be heard in the obscurity near an old empty well upon the public square of the town; the watchman replied to it by a prolonged whistle, and a faithful dog uttered a deep growl. Then a breath of air came so softly caressing the face, the lindens exhaled a perfume so sweet, that involuntarily the chest dilated more and more, and the name of Marguerite, half in exclamation, half in appeal, arose to the lips. The town of Z. is about a mile from the Rhine. I often went to admire that magnificent river, and I whiled away entire hours at the foot of a gigantic ash, dwelling, in my reveries, upon many things, among others, but not without a certain effort, upon the image of my faithless widow. A little madonna, with almost infantine features, whose breast showed a red heart, pierced with swords, looked at me in a melancholy way from the midst of the branches. Upon the opposite side of the river, rose up the town of L., a little larger than that in which I was living. I went one evening as usual to take my seat upon my favorite bench; I looked in turn at the water, the heavens, and the vines. Opposite me some tow- headed children clambered over the tarred hull of a boat that had been left upon the sands of the river, bottom up. Little boats, with sails puffed out by the breeze, advanced slowly; greenish waves passed before me, creeping along, swelling out a little, and then going down with a feeble murmur. Suddenly I thought I distinguished the sound of an orchestra, which re-echoed in the distance. I listened; they were playing a waltz in the town of L. The double bass pealed out at intervals, the violin squeaked confusedly, the whistlings of the flute were quite distinct. "What is it?" I asked of an old man who was approaching me. He wore, after the custom of the country, a plush waistcoat, blue stockings, and buckled shoes. "They are students, who have come from B. for a commersch," he replied, after shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth. "Let us see what is a commersch," I said to myself: "besides I have not seen the town of L." I hailed a boatman, and had him take me across the river. II. Many people, no doubt, are ignorant of what this word commersch means. Thus they designate a fête to which come all the students of the same country or of the same society to take part (Landsmannschaft). Most of the young men who resort to these gatherings wear the traditional costume of the German students, a frogged surtout, large boots, and a small cap, the lace of which is of the color of the country. The students assemble for the banquet, over which presides a Senior, or the oldest of the band, and remain at table until morning. They drink; they sing the Landesvater, the Gaudeamus; they smoke; they laugh at the Philistines, and often indulge in the luxury of an orchestra. It was a gathering of this kind that was taking place in the garden of the hotel, with the sign of the Soleil. The house and garden, which looked upon the street, were draped with flags; the students were seated at tables under the lindens; an enormous bull-dog was lying under one of the tables; in a corner, under a thicket of ivy, were seated the musicians, who were playing their best, imbibing quantities of beer to keep themselves in working order. A great number of curious townspeople were assembled in the street, before the rather high railing of the garden, the good citizens of the town of L. not wishing to let slip an occasion to examine closely the guests who had come among them. I joined the group of spectators. I could observe with pleasure the faces of the students; their embracings, their exclamations, the innocent presumption of youth, their enthusiastic glances, their impulsive laughter,—the best kind of laughter, that joyful ebullition of a life yet full, that impetuous flight towards no matter what aim, providing it was forward, that abandon full of thoughtlessness, touched and captivated me. Why should I not join them? I asked myself. "Annouchka, have you not had enough of this?" suddenly said in Russian a man's voice behind me. "Stay a little longer," answered a woman's voice in the same language. I turned quickly, and my looks fell upon a man some young man in a riding-coat and cap; he had on his arm a young girl, very small, whose straw hat almost concealed her features. "You are a Russian?" I asked of them, with a start which I could not help. "Yes, we are Russian," answered the young man, smiling. "I did not expect," I said to him, "in a foreign country to meet"— "Nor we either," said he, interrupting me. "Allow me," continued he, "to make ourselves known to you; my name is Gaguine, and here is"—he hesitated a moment—"here is my sister. And you, monsieur?" I in turn told him my name, and we engaged in conversation. I learned that Gaguine was travelling, like myself, for pleasure, and that, having arrived about a week ago at L., he had settled himself there for the time being. I must confess I do not like to become intimate with Russians in a foreign country. As far as I can see them, I easily recognize their walk, the cut of their clothes, principally the expression of their face. This expression, supercilious and scornful in its nature, at times imperious, suddenly assumes a cautious and even a timid air. They appear seized with a kind of restlessness; their eyes disclose a strange anxiety: "Seigneur! have I not said something foolish; are they laughing at me by chance?" their look seems to ask. Then one sees them again assume their majestic calmness, until a new feeling of uneasiness comes to trouble them. Yes, I say it again, I avoid all intercourse with my fellow-countrymen; nevertheless, at first sight, I felt attracted towards Gaguine. There are in the world such happy faces that one takes pleasure in looking at them, they reflect a warmth which attracts and does one good, as if one had received a caress. Such was Gaguine's, with large eyes as soft as the curls of his hair, and a voice whose sound made you divine that he had a smile upon his lips. The young girl whom he called his sister at first sight appeared to me charming. There was an expression quite peculiar, piquant and pretty at times, upon her round and slightly brown face; her nose was small and slender, her cheeks chubby as a child's, her eyes black and clear. Though well proportioned, her figure had not yet entirely developed. Withal there was no resemblance to her brother. "Will you come home with us?" said Gaguine to me. "It seems to me that we have looked long enough at these Germans. Russians by this time would have broken up the glasses and chairs; but these young fellows before us are too reserved. Come, Annouchka, is it not time to return home?" The young girl assented by a nod of the head. "We live out of town," added Gaguine, "in a small isolated house upon a hill, surrounded by vines. You shall see whether it is pretty! Come, our landlady has promised to make us some cheese-rennet. Besides the day is on the wane, and you will cross the Rhine more securely by moonlight." We proceeded. A few moments after we passed through the low gate of the town, which was surrounded by an old stone wall that still preserved some battlements. We advanced into the country; after going along by the side of an old wall a hundred paces, we stopped before a little door; Gaguine opened it and made us ascend a steep path, upon the sides of which were rows of vines. The sun was just setting; a faint purple hue tinged the vines, the props that sustained them, the parched earth covered with pieces of slate, as well as the white walls of a little house, all the bright windows of which were framed in black bars, and towards which the footpath that we were climbing guided us. "Here is our stopping-place!" cried Gaguine, when were a little way from the house, "and there's our landlady, too, bringing us some milk. Guten abend, madam," cried he. "We are going to have our frugal repast at once; but first," said he, "look about you and tell me what you think of the view." The site that he showed me was, indeed, admirable. At our feet the silvery waters of the Rhine, illumined by the purple of the setting sun, flowed between the verdant banks. The town, peacefully placed on the river banks, displayed to our eyes all its houses and all its streets; the hills and fields stretched out about it. If that which was at our feet was beautiful, more lovely still was the sight above our heads. One was struck by the depth and clearness of the heavens, the transparency and brilliancy of the atmosphere. Clear and light, the undulations of the breeze moved softly about us; that also seemed to take delight in the heights. "You have chosen an admirable place to live in," I said to Gaguine. "It is Annouchka who found it out," he replied to me. "Come, Annouchka, give your orders. Have them bring everything here; we will sup in the open air, that we may hear the music better. Have you noticed," added he, turning to me, "that such music as a waltz near at hand seems detestable; heard at a distance, charms and makes all the poetic chords of your heart vibrate." Annouchka directed her steps towards the house, and soon returned accompanied by the landlady. They brought an enormous dish of milk, spoons, plates, sugar, fruits, and bread. We seated ourselves and began to eat. Annouchka took off her hat; her black hair, cut short, fell in large curls over her ears and her neck. My presence appeared to embarrass her; but Gaguine said to her, "don't be shy; he will not bite you." These words made her smile, and a few moments after she spoke to me without the least embarrassment. She did not remain quiet a moment. Hardly was she seated than she arose, ran towards the house, and reappeared again, singing in a low voice; often she laughed, and her laugh had something strange about it—one would say that it was not provoked by anything that was said, but by some thoughts that were passing through her mind. Her large eyes looked one in the face openly, with boldness, but at times she half closed her eyelids, and her looks became suddenly deep and caressing. We chatted for about two hours. It was some time since the sun had gone down, and the evening light, at first resplendent with fire, then calm and red, later on confused and dim, mingled little by little with the shades of night. Yet our conversation still went on. Gaguine had a bottle of Rhine wine brought; we drank it slowly. The music had not stopped, but the sounds that the wind brought us seemed sweeter. In the town and upon the river lights began to spring up. Annouchka suddenly lowered her head, her curly hair fell over her brow, then she became silent and sighed. In a few moments she told us that she was sleepy and went into the house. I followed her with my eyes, and saw her sitting a long time motionless in the shadow behind the closed window. At last the moon appeared on the horizon, and its rays made the waters of the Rhine scintillate softly. Everything before us suddenly changed; brightness, then darkness, sprang up in every direction, and the wine, even in our glasses, assumed a mysterious appearance. There was no longer any wind; it ceased suddenly, like a bird that folds its wings; a delicate and warm perfume arose from the ground. "It is time to go!" I exclaimed, "otherwise I shall not find a boatman." "Yes, it is time," replied Gaguine. We took the path that came down the mountain. Suddenly we heard some pebbles rolling behind us; it was Annouchka, who was coming to rejoin us. "You did not go to bed then?" said her brother. She did not reply, but ran down before us. Some of the lamps that the students had to light up the garden still threw a dying glimmer, which lighted up the foliage of the trees, at the foot of which they burnt, and gave to them a solemn and fantastic appearance. We found Annouchka upon the bank; she was talking with the boatman. I jumped into the boat and took leave of my new friends. Gaguine promised me a visit the next day. I gave him my hand, which he pressed; I offered the other to Annouchka, but she contented herself by looking at me and nodding her head. The boat was set loose from the bank, and the current carried it along with rapidity. The boatman, a robust old man, plunged his oars energetically into the dark waters of the river. "You are going into the reflection of the moon," cried Annouchka; "you have broken it." I looked upon the river, its dim shadows crowded about the boat. "Adieu," she said once more. "To-morrow, then," added Gaguine. The boat reached the shore; I jumped out of it and looked behind me, but I no longer saw any one on the other bank. The reflection of the moon spread out again, like a bridge of gold, from one bank of the river to the other. The last chords of a waltz of Lanner's could be heard, as if bidding me a farewell. Gaguine was right; these far-away sounds moved me strangely. I regained the house through the fields, shrouded in a profound obscurity, inhaling slowly the balmy air; and when I had re-entered my little room, I felt troubled to the bottom of my soul by the confused expectation of an undefined happiness. What do I say? I was already happy; why? I could not have told what I wanted, nor of what I was thinking, and yet I was happy. At the time this superabundance of strange and delicious sensations almost made me laugh; I quickly went to bed, and just as I was closing my eyes I suddenly remembered that I had not thought the whole evening of my faithless one.— What does this mean, I asked myself; is it that I am no longer in love? But that question remained unanswered, and I slept like a child in its cradle. III. The next morning, being awake, but not yet up, I heard the sound of a walking-stick echoing under my window, and a voice that I recognized as that of Gaguine, pouring forth the following song:— "Si je trouve encor dans les bras du sommeil, Je viens te reveiller au bruit de ma guitare."[1] I hastened to open the door to him. "Good-morning," said he, entering, "I disturb you very early, but the weather is so fine. See what a delicious freshness, the dew, the singing of the larks"— And, indeed, he, with his rosy cheeks, his curly hair, and his half-bare neck, had all the freshness of morning. I dressed myself; we went into my little garden and took a seat upon a bench; they brought our coffee there, and we began to talk. Gaguine told of some of his future plans; having a fine fortune and dependent upon no one, he wished to devote himself to painting, and regretted only that he had taken it up so late, he had lost so much valuable time. I in turn confided to him the plans that I had formed, and took advantage of the opportunity to make him the confidant of my unhappy love affair. He listened patiently, but I could see that the sufferings of my heart had but little interest for him. After having listened to my story for politeness' sake, with two or three sighs, he proposed that we should go and see his sketches. I immediately consented. We started. Annouchka was not at home. The landlady informed us that she must be at the ruins. They so called the remains of an old feudal castle, which was situated a mile or so from the town. Gaguine opened all his portfolios. I found that his sketches had much life and truth, something broad and bold; but none were finished, and the drawing appeared to me incorrect and careless. I frankly expressed my opinion. "Yes, yes," he replied, sighing, "you are right; all that is bad, and it is not matured by reflection. What am I to do? I have not worked enough; our cursed Slavic indolence always ends in getting the better of me! Whilst the work is still but an idea, like an eagle soaring in the air, we believe ourselves able to move the world; then at the moment of execution come weaknesses, and then—weariness." I offered him some words of encouragement, but he interrupted me with a wave of the hand, picked up his sketches, and threw them in a heap upon the sofa. "If perseverance does not fail me, I shall succeed," said he, between his teeth; "otherwise, I shall vegetate as a country squire, never amounting to anything. "Let us go and look for Annouchka!" IV. The road that led to the ruins ran along the side of a narrow and wooded dell. At the bottom a rapid stream rushed noisily over the stones, as if in a hurry to lose itself in the great river, which was seen in the distance behind the dark rampart of steep mountains. Gaguine called my attention to several very harmonious effects of color, and his words revealed to me, if not a painter of talent, at least a true artist. The ruin was soon before us. It was at the top of a barren rock, a square tower, entirely blackened, quite intact, but nearly split from top to bottom by a deep crack. Walls covered with moss were attached to the tower. Ivy clung here and there; stunted shrubbery sprang out of grayish embrasures and caved-in vaults; a stony path led to an entrance door standing upright. We were not far from it when a woman's figure appeared suddenly before us, leaped lightly upon a heap of rubbish, and stood erect upon the projection of a wall at the edge of a precipice. "I am not mistaken!" exclaimed Gaguine; "it is Annouchka. How foolish of her!" We passed through the door, and found ourselves in a small court almost entirely filled with nettles and wild apple trees. It was, indeed, Annouchka, sitting upon the projection of the wall. She turned her head towards us and began to laugh, not moving from her place; Gaguine shook his finger at her, and raising my voice, I reproached her for her imprudence. "Be quiet," Gaguine said, in my ear; "let her do it; you have no idea of what she is capable when provoked; she would climb to the top of the tower. Admire rather the industrious spirit of the people of the country." I turned and saw in a corner a booth of boards, on the floor of which was squatting an old woman knitting stockings, looking at us from under her spectacles. She had for sale beer, cakes, and seltzer water, for the use of tourists. We seated ourselves upon a bench and began to drink foamy beer from heavy tin goblets. Annouchka still remained seated in the same place, her feet curled under her, her head enveloped in her muslin scarf; her charming profile outlined clearly against the blue sky; but I looked at her with some irritation. I believed the evening before that her manners were affected and unnatural. She wishes to astonish us, I thought; but why? what a childish whim. You would say that she had divined my thought, for, throwing upon me a quick penetrating glance, she began to laugh, descended from the wall in two jumps, then, approaching the old woman, she asked her for a glass of water. "You think I wish to drink?" she said to her brother; "no, I wish to water the flowers upon the wall yonder that are dying and dried up by the sun." Gaguine did not reply; she left us, her glass in her hand, and climbed once more upon the ruins. Stopping at intervals she stooped and poured out with a comic gravity some drops of water that sparkled in the sun. Her movements were very graceful; but I still watched her with disapproval, admiring, however, her nimbleness and activity. Coming to a dangerous place she purposely alarmed us by giving a little cry and then began to laugh. That was the finishing stroke to my impatience. "She is a regular goat," muttered the old woman, who had stopped working. Having emptied the last drop of water from her glass, Annouchka at length arose to rejoin us, approaching with a defiant manner. A strange smile for a moment contracted her lips and her eyebrows and dilated her nostrils; she half closed her black eyes with a provoking air of mockery. "You think my conduct unbecoming," her face seemed to say; "no matter, I know that you admire me." "Perfect! charming! Annouchka," said Gaguine. Suddenly the young girl appeared to feel a sense of shame, and lowering her eyes, she came and sat by us like a culprit. For the first time I examined her features closely; and I have rarely seen more mobile ones. A few moments had scarcely elapsed before her face lost all color and took an expression approaching almost to sadness; it even seemed to me that her features assumed grandeur, artlessness. She appeared entirely absorbed. We explored the ruins minutely. Annouchka kept behind us, and we began to admire the view. When the dinner hour arrived, Gaguine paid the old woman, and asked from her a last jug of beer; then turning to me, he said with a shy smile: — "To the lady of your thoughts!" "He has then—you have then a lady of whom you think?" asked Annouchka. "And who has not?" replied Gaguine. Annouchka remained thoughtful for some moments, the expression of her face changed again, and a smile of defiance, almost impudent, appeared once more upon her lips. We again took our way to the house, and Annouchka again began to laugh and frolic with more affectation than before. Breaking a branch from a tree, she shouldered it like a gun, and rolled her scarf about her head. I remember that we then met a large family of English people, with light hair, looking awkward; all, as if obeying a word of command, threw upon Annouchka their blue eyes, in which was depicted a cold look of astonishment; she began to sing in a loud voice, as if to defy them. When we arrived, she immediately went to her room, and did not reappear until dinner, decked out in her finest dress, her hair dressed with care, wearing a tight-fitting bodice, and gloves on her hands. At table she sat with dignity, scarcely tasted anything, and drank only water. It was evident she wished to play a new rôle in my presence: that of a young person, modest and well-bred. Gaguine did not restrain her; you could see that it was his custom to contradict her in nothing. From time to time he contented himself with looking at me, faintly shrugging his shoulders, and his kindly eye seemed to say: "She is but a child; be indulgent." Immediately after dinner she rose, bowed to us, and, putting on her hat, asked of Gaguine if she could go and see Dame Louise. "How long have you been in need of my permission?" he replied, with his usual smile, which this time, however, was slightly constrained; "you are tired of us, then?" "No; but yesterday I promised Dame Louise to go and see her; besides, I think you would be more at your ease without me. Monsieur," she added, turning to me, "you will—you will perhaps, have some more confidences." She left us. "Dame Louise," said Gaguine, trying to avoid my look, "is the widow of the old burgomaster of the town. She is rather a plain, but an excellent old woman. She has a great liking for Annouchka, who, moreover, has a mania for becoming intimate with people below her; a mania that, as far as I can observe, almost always springs from pride." "You see," added he, after a moment's silence, "that I treat Annouchka like a spoiled child, and it could not be otherwise; I could not be exacting towards any body, how much less towards her?" I did not reply. Gaguine began to talk upon another subject. The more I learned to know him the more he inspired me with affection. I soon summed up his character; it was a fine, good Russian nature, straightforward, upright, and unaffected, but unfortunately wanting in energy and earnestness. His youth did not give forth passion and ardor, but shone with a sweet and dim light. He had wit and charming manners, but how difficult to conjecture what would become of him when he became a man! An artist—no! Every art calls for hard work, unceasing efforts; and never, I said to myself, in looking at his calm features, listening to his languid voice, never could he bind himself to constant and well-directed work. And yet it was impossible not to like him; one became attached to him involuntarily. We passed nearly four hours together, sometimes side by side upon the sofa, sometimes walking slowly before the house, and our talk ended by uniting us. The sun went down, and I was thinking about going home. Annouchka had not yet returned. "Ah, what a wayward child!" exclaimed Gaguine. "Wait, I will see you home; would you not like to have me? As we go we will stop at Dame Louise's and see if she is yet there; it will not be much out of the way." We descended into the town, and after following for a short time a narrow and winding street, we stopped before a high, four-storied house, with but two windows in front; the second story projected over the street more than the first, and in the same manner the other two. This strange habitation, with its Gothic arches, placed upon two enormous posts and topped with a pointed tiled roof, and a dormer window, surmounted by an iron crane extended in the form of a beak, had the effect of an enormous bird meditating. "Annouchka, are you there?" cried Gaguine. A lighted window opened in the third story, and we perceived the brown head of the young girl. Behind her appeared the toothless face of an old German woman, her eyes weak with age. "Here I am," said Annouchka, leaning coquettishly on the window-sill. "I like it very well. Wait, take this," added she, throwing to Gaguine a slip of geranium. "Imagine to yourself that I am the lady of your thoughts." Dame Louise began to laugh. "He is going away," replied Gaguine; "he wishes to bid you farewell." "Really?" said Annouchka. "Well, then, as he is going, give him the flower. I will come home very soon." She quickly closed the window, and I thought I saw her embrace the old German. Gaguine offered me the flower in silence. Without saying a word I put it in my pocket, and returning to the place where they cross the river, I passed over to the other side. I recollect walking towards my house with a singularly sad heart, though thinking of nothing, when a perfume well known to me, but rare enough in Germany, attracted my attention. I stopped, and saw near the road a plot of ground sown with hemp. The perfume that this plant of the steppes gave out suddenly transported me to Russia, and brought forth in my soul a passionate enthusiasm towards my country; I conceived the ardent desire of breathing my native air, and feeling again under my feet the soil of my fatherland. "What am I doing here?" I exclaimed; "What interest have I in wandering in a strange land, among people who are nothing to me?" and the oppression that filled my heart soon gave way to an emotion violent and full of bitterness. I re-entered my house in a state of mind the opposite to that of the night before; I felt almost vexed, and was long in calming myself. I felt a deep vexation, for which I could not account. I ended by sitting down, and recalling my faithless widow (she came to my recollection officially every evening); I took one of her letters, but did not open it, for my thoughts took wing to the other side of the river. I began to dream, and Annouchka was the subject. I recalled that in the course of our conversation; Gaguine gave me to understand that certain circumstances prevented him from returning to Russia.—"Who knows, indeed, if she is his sister," I asked myself aloud. I laid down and tried to sleep, but an hour after I was still leaning on my elbow, and thinking again of that capricious little girl with a forced laugh. She has the figure of La Galathée of Raphael of the Farnese palace, I murmured.—It is well that—and she is not his sister. During this time the widow's letter reposed quietly upon the floor, lighted up by a pale ray of the moon. V. The next morning I returned to L. I persuaded myself that I should take the greatest pleasure in seeing Gaguine, but the fact is that I was secretly impelled by the desire of knowing how Annouchka would behave,—if she would act as strangely as the night before. I found them both in the parlor; and a singular thing,—but perhaps because I had been dreaming so long of Russia,—Annouchka seemed to me entirely Russian. I found in her the air of a young girl of the people, almost that of one of the servants. She wore quite an old dress, her hair was drawn back behind her ears, and, seated near the window, she was quietly working at her embroidery, as if she had never done anything else in her life. Her eyes fixed upon her work, she scarcely spoke, and her features had an expression so dull, so commonplace, that I was involuntarily reminded of Macha and Katia[2] at home. To complete the resemblance she began to hum the air,— O, ma mère, ma douce Colombe![3] While observing her face, the dreams of the night before came back to mind, and without knowing why, I felt an oppression in my heart. The weather was magnificent. Gaguine told us he intended to go out to sketch. I asked permission to accompany him if it would not trouble him. "On the contrary," he said, "you can give me some good advice." He put on his blouse, donned his round Van Dyck hat, took his portfolio under his arm, and started out. I followed him. Annouchka remained at home. On leaving, Gaguine begged her to see that the soup was not made too thin. She promised to keep her eye on the kitchen. Leading me into the valley, with which I was already familiar, Gaguine seated himself upon a stone, and began to draw an old tufted oak. I stretched myself upon the grass and took a book, but read two pages of it at the most. Gaguine, on his side, made but a poor daub. In return we did not fail to discuss very fully, and, in my opinion, not without judgment and justness, the best method to follow to work with profit, the dangers to avoid, the end to be aimed at, and the mission of the true artist in the age in which we live. Gaguine ended by declaring that to-day he did not feel sufficiently in spirits, and came and stretched himself at my side. Then we gave ourselves up to the irresistible temptation of one of those conversations so dear to youth, conversations sometimes enthusiastic, sometimes pensive and melancholy, but always sincere and always vague, in which we Russians love so much to indulge. After having talked to satiety, we took the road to the town, very well satisfied with ourselves, as if we had just accomplished a difficult task, or brought a great enterprise to a good end. We found Annouchka exactly as we left her. I observed her with the utmost attention; I could discover in her neither the slightest shade of coquetry, or indication denoting a studied part; it was impossible this time to find in her any vestiges of oddity. "Decidedly," said Gaguine, "she is fasting and doing penance." Towards evening she yawned two or three times without the least affectation, and went to bed early. I took leave of Gaguine soon after, and, going home, I did not allow myself to dream. The day came to an end without my mind suffering the least trouble, only it seemed to me, as I lay down, that I said involuntarily aloud,— "Oh! that little girl—she is, indeed, an enigma. And yet," added I, after a moment's reflection, "and yet she is not his sister!" VI. A fortnight elapsed after these events. I went every day to make Gaguine a visit. Annouchka seemed to shun me, and no longer indulged in those head-shakings that had annoyed me so much in the first days of our acquaintance. She seemed to conceal a grief or a secret trouble; she laughed more rarely. I continued to observe her with curiosity. French and German were quite familiar to her, but a number of things made me divine that she had been without a woman's care in her infancy, that she had received a strange, desultory education, quite different from that of Gaguine. In him, in spite of his blouse and Van Dyck hat, you quickly discovered the Russian gentleman, nonchalant and slightly effeminate; she in no wise resembled a noble lady. All her movements implied a kind of restlessness; she was a seedling newly grafted, a wine that yet fermented. Naturally timid and distrustful of herself, she was vexed at feeling gauche, and sought in spite of it to give herself an unconstrained and bold manner, but not always with success. Several times I led the conversation to her past, and her way of living in Russia; I saw that she replied with a bad grace to my questions. All that I could learn was that at the time she left Russia she was living in the country. One day I found her alone and reading; her head leaning on her hands, her fingers thrust in her hair, she was devouring the book before her with her eyes. "Bravo!" I cried, approaching. "What, a love of study?" She raised her head, and, looking at me with a serious and dignified air, "You thought, then, I could do nothing but laugh?" she said, and she rose to leave. I glanced at the title of the book; it was a bad French novel. "You might have made a better choice," I said to her. "What must I read, then?" she cried, and, throwing her book upon the table, she added: "Then, in that case, I am going to amuse myself." And she ran towards the garden. The same day, in the evening, I read to Gaguine Herrman and Dorothea. As I began to read, Annouchka went to and fro incessantly, then suddenly she stopped, listened, seated herself quietly beside me, and gave me her attention to the end. The next day I was again surprised in no longer seeing the old Annouchka. I began to comprehend that she had suddenly taken into her head to be a housewife, wrapped up in her duties, like Dorothea. Finally her character seemed inexplicable to me. In spite of the excessive amour propre that I found in her, I felt attracted towards her, even when she made me angry. One thing, at least, appeared certain, and that was that she was not the sister of Gaguine. I did not find in him towards her the conduct of a brother; on her side too much respect and compliance, too little constraint. A strange circumstance seemed, according to all appearances, to strengthen my suspicions. One evening, approaching the hedge which surrounded Gaguine's house, I found the gate closed. Without stopping at this obstacle I reached a place where, some days before, I had noticed that a part of the hedge was destroyed, and I jumped into the enclosure; some distance from there, a few steps from the path, there was a little arbor of acacias; scarcely had I passed it than I distinguished the voice of Annouchka, who cried out with fervor, weeping,— "No, I shall never love any one but you; no, no, it is you alone whom I wish to love, and forever!" "Come, calm yourself," replied Gaguine, "you know very well that I believe you." Their voices left the arbor. I could see them through the thin foliage; they did not observe me. "You, you only," she repeated; and, throwing herself on his neck, she clung to him with convulsive sobs, covering him with kisses. "Calm yourself, calm yourself," he kept repeating, passing his hand over the hair of the young girl. I remained quiet for some moments, then I came to my senses.—Should I approach them? "No, not for the world," I immediately said. I quickly regained the hedge, and, passing it at a stride, I again took the road to my house, running. I smiled, I rubbed my hands, I wondered at the chance that had unexpectedly confirmed my suppositions; the least doubt seemed no longer possible, and at the same time I felt in my heart an intense bitterness. "I must confess," I said to myself, "that they can dissimulate well! But what is their object? And I—why should they make me their dupe? I should not expect such a thing from him. Then, what a melodramatic scene!" VII. I passed a bad night. Rising early in the morning, I threw over my shoulders my travelling bag, warned my landlady that I would not return during the day, and walked by the side of the mountains, along the river, upon the borders of which was situated the little town of L. These mountains, whose chain bears the name of Hundsrüch (Dog's Back) are of a very curious formation; especially noticeable were columns of basalt very regular and of great purity of shape, but at the moment I hardly thought of making any geological observations. I could not account for the way I felt, only I was conscious that I no longer wished to persuade even myself that the only cause of the sudden estrangement with which they inspired me was my chagrin at being deceived by them. Nothing obliged them to give themselves out as—brother and sister. Finally I tried to banish the remembrance of them from my mind. I wandered at leisure over mountains and valleys; I made some long stops in the village inns; engaging in a quiet conversation with the landlord and travellers, or else, lying down upon a flat stone, warmed by the sun, I looked at the clouds floating by. Happily for me the weather was beautiful. It was thus I occupied my leisure for three days, and I found in doing so a certain charm, though at times I felt depressed. The state of my mind was in perfect accord with the tranquil nature of these regions. I abandoned myself entirely to chance, to all the impressions that happened to strike me. They followed each other slowly and left in the depths of my soul a general sensation, in which mingled harmoniously all that I had seen, felt, and heard for the last three days; yes, everything, without exception, the penetrating odor of rosin in the woods, the cries and the tappings of the woodpecker, the incessant rushing of the clear streams, with speckled trout playing on the sandy bottom, the undulating outlines of the mountains, the towering rocks; the neat little villages, with their respectable old churches; the storks in the meadows, the pretty mills with clattering wheels, the stout figures of the countrymen with their blue waistcoats and gray stockings, the lumbering carts drawn slowly by heavy horses and sometimes by cows, young travellers, with long hair, walking in groups on the smooth streets, bordered with pear and apple trees. I still find a charm in the remembrance of these impressions. Hail to you! humble corner of German soil, abode of a modest comfort, where one meets at every step traces of a diligent hand, of a work slow, but full of perseverance, to you my vows and my reverence! I returned home only on the evening of the third day. I have forgotten to say that, in my chagrin against Annouchka, I attempted to revive in my thoughts the image of my stony-hearted widow, but had my labor for my pains. I remember that as soon as I recalled her, I found myself face to face with a little girl of about five years of age, with a round and innocent face, with eyes animated with a naïve curiosity. She looked at me with such a candid expression that I felt quite ashamed before her glance; it was distasteful for me to lie even to myself in her presence, and my old idol disappeared from my remembrance forever. Arriving home, I found a letter from Gaguine; he spoke of the astonishment that my sudden disappearance had caused him; reproached me for not having taken him for a companion, and begged me to come and see him as soon as I returned. This letter caused me a painful impression; nevertheless, I started for L. the next day. VIII. Gaguine gave me a friendly greeting, and loaded me with affectionate reproaches. As to Annouchka, as if she did it on purpose, as soon as she saw me, she burst out laughing without the slightest cause, and immediately fled, as usual. Gaguine appeared embarrassed, stammered out that she was foolish, and begged me to excuse her. I confess that, being already displeased, I was so much the more wounded by this forced merriment and strange affectation. I feigned, however, to attach no importance to it, and related to Gaguine the details of my little excursion. On his side, he informed me of what he had done during my absence; nevertheless the conversation languished, while Annouchka kept coming in and out of the room. I brought this to an end by pretending unavoidable work, and manifested my intention of leaving. Gaguine attempted at first to detain me; then, bestowing a searching glance at me, offered to accompany me. In the outer room Annouchka came up suddenly and offered me her hand. I just touched the ends of her fingers and scarcely bowed. I crossed the Rhine with Gaguine, and when we were near the ash of the little Madonna we seated ourselves upon the bench to admire the view. Then we entered into a conversation I shall never forget. We at first exchanged some commonplaces, then there was a silence. We fixed our eyes upon the transparent waters of the river. "I should like to know what you think of Annouchka," said Gaguine suddenly, with his usual smile. "Does she not appear somewhat fantastic?" "Yes," I replied, much surprised at the question, as I hardly expected him to venture upon such ground. "That comes from not knowing her; thus you cannot judge her well," said he. "She has an excellent heart, but a very bad head. You must bear a great deal from her! You would not reproach her if you knew her history." "Her history?" I exclaimed; "is she not then your"— Gaguine stopped me with a look. "You are not going to imagine that she is not my sister?" he replied, without paying any attention to my embarrassment. "Yes, she is indeed the daughter of my father. Give me your attention. I have confidence in you and am going to tell you everything. "My father was an excellent man, having intelligence and a cultivated mind, but whose life was nevertheless very sad. It was not that he was more ill-used by fortune than any one else, but he had not the strength to bear a first misfortune. While still young he had made a love marriage; his wife, who was my mother, did not live long; I was only six months old when she died. My father then took me into the country, and for twelve years did not put foot outside of his domain. He himself began my education, and would never have separated himself from me if his brother, my paternal uncle, had not come to see him on his estate. This uncle lived at Petersburg, and he held an important position there. He succeeded in persuading my father to confide me to his care, so that he would never need to leave his estate; he represented to him that isolation was injurious to a boy already grown, and who in the hands of a preceptor as sad and stern as my father would be far behind children of my own age, and that even my character would suffer. "My father resisted his attempts for a long time, but finally yielded. I cried on being separated from him, for I loved him, though I had never seen a smile upon his lips. Arrived at Petersburg, I soon forgot the sad, dark place where my infancy was passed. I entered the military school, then a regiment of the Guard. I went every year to pass some weeks in the country. Each time I found my father more morose, more reserved and pensive, until at times he became fierce. He went every day to church, and almost entirely lost the habit of talking. "During one of these visits (I was about twenty years of age) I perceived for the first time a slight girl with black eyes, about twelve years old; it was Annouchka. My father told me she was an orphan whom he took care of, and I paid but little attention to this child, wild, silent, and active as a young fallow deer. When I entered my father's favorite room, the vast chamber where my mother died, and so dark that they kept it lighted in broad day, Annouchka hid herself behind a large arm-chair or the bookcase. It happened that for three or four days after this last visit I was prevented by my duties from returning to my father's, but every month I received a few lines from his hand, in which he rarely spoke of Annouchka, and always without going into any details of the subject. He was already over fifty, but appeared still a young man. You may imagine the shock when I suddenly received a letter from our steward, in which he announced to me that my father was dangerously ill, and implored me to come as soon as possible if I wished to see him before he died. "I started immediately, and travelled with the greatest speed, and found my father still living, but just about to breathe his last. He was delighted to see me again, and clasped me in his emaciated arms, fastening his glance upon me, which appeared at once to fathom my thoughts and to address me a mute prayer, and making me promise to fulfil his last wish, he ordered his old valet to bring Annouchka into his room. "The old man led her in; she could hardly stand, trembling all over. "'Now,' said my father with an effort, 'I confide to your care my daughter, your sister; Iskof will relate everything to you,' he added, designating his old servant. "Annouchka began to sob and fell upon the bed, hiding her face. Half an hour after, my father expired. "This is what I learned: Annouchka was the daughter of my father and of an old waiting maid of my mother, named Tatiana. I recollect Tatiana very well. She was tall, with large, dark eyes, noble, severe, and intelligent features, and passed for a proud girl, rather unapproachable. As far as I could understand by the simple story with respectfu...