“It shall be our secret,” I said; “no one else shall know.”
And I knew that I loved him.
Illustration: “No,” he said, “it is a cow”
A Week Later.
Each morning I go to see Otto beside the river in the meadow.
He sits and paints, and I sit with my hands clasped about my knees and
talk to him. I tell him all that I think, all that I read, all that I
know, all that I feel, all that I do not feel.
He listens to me with that far-away look that I have learned to love
and that means that he is thinking deeply; at times he almost seems not
to hear.
The intercourse of our minds is wonderful.
We stimulate one another’s thought.
Otto is my master. I am his disciple!
Yesterday I asked him if Hegel or Schlegel or Whegel gives the truest
view of life.
He said he didn’t know! My Otto!
To-day.
Otto touched me! He touched me!
How the recollection of it thrills me!
I stood beside him on the river bank, and as we talked the handle of my
parasol touched the bottom button of his waistcoat.
It seemed to burn me like fire!
To-morrow I am to bring Otto to see my father.
But to-night I can think of nothing else but that Otto has touched me.
Next Day.
Otto has touched father! He touched him for ten roubles. My father is
furious. I cannot tell what it means.
I brought Otto to our home. He spoke with my father, Ivan Ivanovitch.
They sat together in the evening. And now my father is angry. He says
that Otto wanted to touch him.
Why should he be angry?
But Otto is forbidden the house, and I can see him only in the meadow.
Two Days Later.
To-day Otto asked me for a keepsake.
I offered him one of my hatpins. But he said no. He has taken instead
the diamond buckle from my belt.