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
respectful omissions that Iskof related, my father did not notice
Tatiana until several years after the death of my mother. At that time
Tatiana no longer lived in the manor-house, but with one of her married
sisters, charged with looking after the courtyard. My father had taken a
fancy to her, and when I left the country he even thought of marrying
her, but she resisted all his entreaties. 'The dead Tatiana
Vlassievna,' said Iskof, standing reverentially near the door, his hands
behind his back, 'was a person of great good judgment; she did not wish
to bring prejudice against your father,'--'I become your wife, mistress
here, you can't think of it?' she cried, thus addressing your father in
my presence." Inflexible upon this point, Tatiana would not even change
her abode; she continued to live at her sister's with Annouchka. When I
was a child I often remember having seen Tatiana on fête-days at church.
A dark handkerchief on her head, a yellow shawl thrown over her
shoulder, she stood with the other villagers near a window. Her stern
profile stood out clearly against the panes, and she prayed with modest
gravity, bowing profoundly after the custom of the old time, and
touching the earth with the end of her fingers before touching it with
her forehead.
"At the time my uncle took me away, little Annouchka was only two years
old; she was nine when she lost her mother. After the death of Tatiana,
my father took the child to his own house. Already he had several times
expressed a wish to do so, but Tatiana was always opposed to it. You
may imagine what Annouchka must have felt when she found herself
established in the house of him they called "the master." Even to the
present time she preserves the remembrance of the day when for the first
time she put on a silk dress, and they made her kiss his hand. Her
mother had brought her up with severity; my father did not place the
least restraint upon her. He charged himself with her education; she had
no other master. He did not spoil her, or load her with useless tasks.
He loved her ardently; he could refuse her nothing. Annouchka soon
learned that she was the principal personage of the house; she knew that
the master was her father; even then she had a feeling of her false
position, and an _amour propre_ unhealthful and full of mistrust sprang
up in her. Some bad habits took root; her _naïveté_ disappeared; she
wished, she confided to me later, to force the whole world to forget her
origin. At times she blushed at it; then, ashamed at her blushes, she
showed that she was proud of her mother. You see that she knew, and
knows still, a great many things which she should have been ignorant of
at her age; but whose fault was it? The passion of youth burst forth
impetuously, and there was no friendly hand to direct her. It is so
difficult to make good use of such entire independence. So, not wishing
to be behind other nobles' daughters, she devoted herself to reading;
but what profit could she derive from it? Her life, begun in a false
way, remained so, but her heart kept pure.
"At this time I was but twenty years of age, and charged with the care
of a young girl of thirteen. For the first few days after my father's
death the sound of my voice was sufficient to throw her into a fever. My
caresses caused her agony; it was but gradually and almost insensibly
that she became accustomed to me. It is true that later, when she saw
that I was thoughtful of her, and loved her as a sister, she became
ardently attached to me; she could feel nothing half way.
"I took her to Petersburg, and though hard for me to leave her, it not
being in my power to keep her near me, I placed her in one of the best
boarding-schools of the city. Annouchka understood the necessity of this
separation, but she fell ill and nearly died. Later she became
accustomed to this kind of life. She remained at boarding-school four
years, and, contrary to my expectation, she came out nearly the same as
she went in. The mistress of the boarding-school often complained of
her. "Punishments have no effect upon her," she told me, "and marks of
affection find her equally insensible." Annouchka was very intelligent;
she studied hard, and in this respect led all her companions; but
nothing could make her comply with the ordinary rules,--she remained
obstinate, and with an unsociable humor. I do not blame her entirely;
she was in a position where there were but two ways of acting open to
her,--a complacent servility or a proud shyness. Among all her
schoolmates, she was intimate with but one, a young girl, quite plain,
poor, and persecuted. The other scholars of the boarding-school, most of
them of the aristocracy, did not like her, and pursued her with their
sarcasms. Annouchka kept aloof from them in every way. One day the
priest charged with their religious instruction spoke of the faults of
youth; Annouchka said aloud: "There are no greater faults than flattery
and meanness." In a word, her character did not change, only her manners
improved, although there was still much to be desired.
"So she reached her seventeenth year. My position was quite
embarrassing; but a happy thought suddenly occurred to me: it was to
leave the service, pass three or four years in a strange country and
take my sister with me. As soon as I conceived this resolution I put it
in execution, and that is why you find us both upon the banks of the
Rhine, I attempting to paint, and she doing anything she wishes,
according to her fancy. Now I hope that you will not judge her too
severely, for I warn you that Annouchka, though pretending to care
nothing about it, is very sensitive to the opinion that others have of
her, and to yours above all."
As he said these last words, Gaguine smiled with his usual calmness. I
pressed his hand with warmth.
"All this is nothing," he replied, "but I tremble for her in the future.
She has one of the most inflammable natures. Up to the present time no
one has pleased her; but if she ever loves, who can tell what may result
from it? I do not at times know how to behave towards her. Imagine those
days when she wished to prove to me that I was cool towards her, whilst
she loved only me, and would never love another man! and while saying
this she would weep bitterly.
"It is for this reason then?--" I began to say, but I immediately
stopped myself.
"Since we are in the chapter of confidences," I replied, "allow me one
question. Is it true that no one has pleased her up to the present time?
Yet at Petersburg she must have seen a great many young people?"
"They were all to the highest degree displeasing to her. You see,
Annouchka was seeking for a hero, an extraordinary man, or some handsome
shepherd living in a mountain cave. But it is time for me to stop; I
detain you," added he, rising.
"No," I said to him, "let us rather go to your house. I don't wish to go
into the house."
"And your work?" he asked of me.
I did not reply to him. Gaguine kindly smiled, and we returned to L. In
again seeing the vineyard and the white house on the mountain, I felt a
peculiarly sweet emotion that penetrated my soul; it was as if balm had
been poured into my heart.
Gaguine's story relieved me greatly.