‘Yes, we are Russians.’
‘I never expected … in such an out of the way place,’ I was beginning--
‘Nor did we,’ he interrupted me. ‘Well, so much the better. Let me
introduce myself. My name’s Gagin, and this is my----’ he hesitated for
an instant, ‘my sister. What is your name, may I ask?’
I told him my name, and we got into conversation. I found out that
Gagin was travelling, like me, for his amusement; that he had arrived a
week before at L., and was staying on there. To tell the truth, I was
not eager to make friends with Russians abroad. I used to recognise
them a long way off by their walk, the cut of their clothes, and, most
of all, by the expression of their faces which was self-complacent and
supercilious, often imperious, but would all of a sudden change, and
give place to an expression of shyness and cautiousness.… The whole man
would suddenly be on his guard, his eyes would shift uneasily.… ‘Mercy
upon us! Haven’t I said something silly; aren’t they laughing at me?’
those restless eyes seem to ask.… An instant later and haughtiness has
regained its sway over the physiognomy, varied at times by a look of
dull blankness. Yes, I avoided Russians; but I liked Gagin at once.
There are faces in the world of that happy sort; every one is glad to
look at them, as though they warmed or soothed one in some way. Gagin
had just such a face--sweet and kind, with large soft eyes and soft
curly hair. He spoke in such a way that even if you did not see his
face, you could tell by the mere sound of his voice that he was smiling!
The girl, whom he had called his sister, struck me at the first glance
as very charming. There was something individual, characteristic in
the lines of her dark, round face, with its small, fine nose, almost
childish cheeks, and clear black eyes. She was gracefully built, but
hardly seemed to have reached her full development yet. She was not in
the least like her brother.
‘Will you come home with us?’ Gagin said to me; ‘I think we’ve stared
enough at the Germans. Our fellows, to be sure, would have broken the
windows, and smashed up the chairs, but these chaps are very sedate.
What do you say, Acia, shall we go home?’
The girl nodded her head in assent.
‘We live outside the town,’ Gagin continued, ‘in a vineyard, in a
lonely little house, high up. It’s delightful there, you’ll see. Our
landlady promised to make us some junket. It will soon be dark now, and
you had much better cross the Rhine by moonlight.’
We set off. Through the low gates of the town (it was enclosed on all
sides by an ancient wall of cobble-stones, even the barbicans had not
all fallen into ruins at that time), we came out into the open country,
and after walking a hundred paces beside a stone wall, we came to a
standstill before a little narrow gate. Gagin opened it, and led us
along a steep path up the mountain-side. On the slopes on both sides
was the vineyard; the sun had just set, and a delicate rosy flush lay
on the green vines, on the tall poles, on the dry earth, which was
dotted with big and little stones, and on the white wall of the little
cottage, with sloping black beams, and four bright little windows,
which stood at the very top of the mountain we had climbed up.
‘Here is our house!’ cried Gagin, directly we began to approach the
cottage, ‘and here’s the landlady bringing in the junket. Guten Abend,
Madame!… We’ll come in to supper directly; but first,’ he added, ‘look
round … isn’t it a view?’
The view certainly was marvellous. The Rhine lay at our feet, all
silvery between its green banks; in one place it glowed with the
purple and gold of the sunset. The little town, nestling close to the
river-bank, displayed all its streets and houses; sloping hills and
meadows ran in wide stretches in all directions. Below it was fine,
but above was finer still; I was specially impressed by the depth and
purity of the sky, the radiant transparency of the atmosphere. The
fresh, light air seemed softly quivering and undulating, as though it
too were more free and at ease on the heights.
‘You have chosen delightful lodgings,’ I observed.
‘It was Acia found it,’ answered Gagin; ‘come, Acia,’ he went on, ‘see
after the supper. Let everything be brought out here. We will have
supper in the open air. We can hear the music better here. Have you
ever noticed,’ he added, turning to me, ‘a waltz is often poor stuff
close by--vulgar, coarse music--but in the distance, it’s exquisite! it
fairly stirs every romantic chord within one.’
Acia (her real name was Anna, but Gagin called her Acia, and you must
let me do the same), went into the house, and soon came back with
the landlady. They were carrying together a big tray, with a bowl of
junket, plates, spoons, sugar, fruit, and bread. We sat down and began
supper. Acia took off her hat; her black hair cropped short and combed,
like a boy’s, fell in thick curls on her neck and ears. At first she
was shy of me; but Gagin said to her--
‘Come, Acia, come out of your shell! he won’t bite.’
She smiled, and a little while after she began talking to me of her
own accord. I had never seen such a restless creature. She did not sit
still for a single instant; she got up, ran off into the house, and
ran back again, hummed in an undertone, often laughed, and in a very
strange way; she seemed to laugh, not at what she heard, but at the
different ideas that crossed her mind. Her big eyes looked out boldly,
brightly, directly, but sometimes her eyelids faintly drooped, and then
their expression instantaneously became deep and tender.
We chatted away for a couple of hours. The daylight had long died
away, and the evening glow, at first fiery, then clear and red, then
pale and dim, had slowly melted away and passed into night, but our
conversation still went on, as quiet and peaceful as the air around us.
Gagin ordered a bottle of Rhine wine; we drank it between us, slowly
and deliberately. The music floated across to us as before, its strains
seemed sweeter and tenderer; lights were burning in the town and on the
river. Acia suddenly let her head fall, so that her curls dropped into
her eyes, ceased speaking, and sighed. Then she said she was sleepy,
and went indoors. I saw, though, that she stood a long while at the
unopened window without lighting a candle. At last the moon rose and
began shining upon the Rhine; everything turned to light and darkness,
everything was transformed, even the wine in our cut-glass tumblers
gleamed with a mysterious light. The wind drooped, as it were, folded
its wings and sank to rest; the fragrant warmth of night rose in whiffs
from the earth.
‘It’s time I was going!’ I cried, ‘or else perhaps, there’ll be no
getting a ferryman.’
‘Yes, it’s time to start,’ Gagin assented.
We went down the path. Suddenly we heard the rolling of the stones
behind us; it was Acia coming after us.
‘Aren’t you asleep?’ asked her brother; but, without answering a word,
she ran by us. The last, smouldering lamps, lighted by the students in
the garden of the inn, threw a light on the leaves of the trees from
below, giving them a fantastic and festive look. We found Acia at the
river’s edge; she was talking to a ferryman. I jumped into the boat,
and said good-bye to my new friends. Gagin promised to pay me a visit
next day; I pressed his hand, and held out my hand to Acia; but she
only looked at me and shook her head. The boat pushed off and floated
on the rapid river. The ferryman, a sturdy old man, buried his oars in
the dark water, and pulled with great effort.
‘You are in the streak of moonlight, you have broken it up,’ Acia
shouted to me.