IT was a bright winter midday. . . . There was a sharp snapping
frost and the curls on Nadenka's temples and the down on her upper
lip were covered with silvery frost. She was holding my arm and we
were standing on a high hill. From where we stood to the ground
below there stretched a smooth sloping descent in which the sun was
reflected as in a looking-glass. Beside us was a little sledge lined
with bright red cloth.
"Let us go down, Nadyezhda Petrovna!" I besought her. "Only once!
I assure you we shall be all right and not hurt."
But Nadenka was afraid. The slope from her little goloshes to the
bottom of the ice hill seemed to her a terrible, immensely deep
abyss. Her spirit failed her, and she held her breath as she looked
down, when I merely suggested her getting into the sledge, but what
would it be if she were to risk flying into the abyss! She would
die, she would go out of her mind.
"I entreat you!" I said. "You mustn't be afraid! You know it's
poor-spirited, it's cowardly!"
Nadenka gave way at last, and from her face I saw that she gave way
in mortal dread. I sat her in the sledge, pale and trembling, put
my arm round her and with her cast myself down the precipice.
The sledge flew like a bullet. The air cleft by our flight beat in
our faces, roared, whistled in our ears, tore at us, nipped us
cruelly in its anger, tried to tear our heads off our shoulders.
We had hardly strength to breathe from the pressure of the wind.
It seemed as though the devil himself had caught us in his claws
and was dragging us with a roar to hell. Surrounding objects melted
into one long furiously racing streak . . . another moment and it
seemed we should perish.
"I love you, Nadya!" I said in a low voice.
The sledge began moving more and more slowly, the roar of the wind
and the whirr of the runners was no longer so terrible, it was
easier to breathe, and at last we were at the bottom. Nadenka was
more dead than alive. She was pale and scarcely breathing. . . . I
helped her to get up.
"Nothing would induce me to go again," she said, looking at me with
wide eyes full of horror. "Nothing in the world! I almost died!"
A little later she recovered herself and looked enquiringly into
my eyes, wondering had I really uttered those four words or had she
fancied them in the roar of the hurricane. And I stood beside her
smoking and looking attentively at my glove.
She took my arm and we spent a long while walking near the ice-hill.
The riddle evidently would not let her rest. . . . Had those words
been uttered or not? . . . Yes or no? Yes or no? It was the question
of pride, or honour, of life--a very important question, the most
important question in the world. Nadenka kept impatiently, sorrowfully
looking into my face with a penetrating glance; she answered at
random, waiting to see whether I would not speak. Oh, the play of
feeling on that sweet face! I saw that she was struggling with
herself, that she wanted to say something, to ask some question,
but she could not find the words; she felt awkward and frightened
and troubled by her joy. . . .
"Do you know what," she said without looking at me.
"Well?" I asked.
"Let us . . . slide down again."
We clambered up the ice-hill by the steps again. I sat Nadenka,
pale and trembling, in the sledge; again we flew into the terrible
abyss, again the wind roared and the runners whirred, and again
when the flight of our sledge was at its swiftest and noisiest, I
said in a low voice:
"I love you, Nadenka!"
When the sledge stopped, Nadenka flung a glance at the hill down
which we had both slid, then bent a long look upon my face, listened
to my voice which was unconcerned and passionless, and the whole
of her little figure, every bit of it, even her muff and her hood
expressed the utmost bewilderment, and on her face was written:
"What does it mean? Who uttered _those_ words? Did he, or did I
only fancy it?"
The uncertainty worried her and drove her out of all patience. The
poor girl did not answer my questions, frowned, and was on the point
of tears.
"Hadn't we better go home?" I asked.
"Well, I . . . I like this tobogganning," she said, flushing. "Shall
we go down once more?"
She "liked" the tobogganning, and yet as she got into the sledge
she was, as both times before, pale, trembling, hardly able to
breathe for terror.
We went down for the third time, and I saw she was looking at my
face and watching my lips. But I put my handkerchief to my lips,
coughed, and when we reached the middle of the hill I succeeded in
bringing out:
"I love you, Nadya!"
And the mystery remained a mystery! Nadenka was silent, pondering
on something. . . . I saw her home, she tried to walk slowly,
slackened her pace and kept waiting to see whether I would not say
those words to her, and I saw how her soul was suffering, what
effort she was making not to say to herself:
"It cannot be that the wind said them! And I don't want it to be
the wind that said them!"
Next morning I got a little note:
"If you are tobogganning to-day, come for me.--N."
And from that time I began going every day tobogganning with Nadenka,
and as we flew down in the sledge, every time I pronounced in a low
voice the same words: "I love you, Nadya!"
Soon Nadenka grew used to that phrase as to alcohol or morphia. She
could not live without it. It is true that flying down the ice-hill
terrified her as before, but now the terror and danger gave a
peculiar fascination to words of love--words which as before were
a mystery and tantalized the soul. The same two--the wind and I
were still suspected. . . . Which of the two was making love to her
she did not know, but apparently by now she did not care; from which
goblet one drinks matters little if only the beverage is intoxicating.
It happened I went to the skating-ground alone at midday; mingling
with the crowd I saw Nadenka go up to the ice-hill and look about
for me . . . then she timidly mounted the steps. . . . She was
frightened of going alone--oh, how frightened! She was white as
the snow, she was trembling, she went as though to the scaffold,
but she went, she went without looking back, resolutely. She had
evidently determined to put it to the test at last: would those
sweet amazing words be heard when I was not there? I saw her, pale,
her lips parted with horror, get into the sledge, shut her eyes and
saying good-bye for ever to the earth, set off. . . . "Whrrr!"
whirred the runners. Whether Nadenka heard those words I do not
know. I only saw her getting up from the sledge looking faint and
exhausted. And one could tell from her face that she could not tell
herself whether she had heard anything or not. Her terror while she
had been flying down had deprived of her all power of hearing, of
discriminating sounds, of understanding.
But then the month of March arrived . . . the spring sunshine was
more kindly. . . . Our ice-hill turned dark, lost its brilliance
and finally melted. We gave up tobogganning. There was nowhere now
where poor Nadenka could hear those words, and indeed no one to
utter them, since there was no wind and I was going to
Petersburg--for long, perhaps for ever.
It happened two days before my departure I was sitting in the dusk
in the little garden which was separated from the yard of Nadenka's
house by a high fence with nails in it. . . . It was still pretty
cold, there was still snow by the manure heap, the trees looked
dead but there was already the scent of spring and the rooks were
cawing loudly as they settled for their night's rest. I went up to
the fence and stood for a long while peeping through a chink. I saw
Nadenka come out into the porch and fix a mournful yearning gaze
on the sky. . . . The spring wind was blowing straight into her
pale dejected face. . . . It reminded her of the wind which roared
at us on the ice-hill when she heard those four words, and her face
became very, very sorrowful, a tear trickled down her cheek, and
the poor child held out both arms as though begging the wind to
bring her those words once more. And waiting for the wind I said
in a low voice:
"I love you, Nadya!"
Mercy! The change that came over Nadenka! She uttered a cry, smiled
all over her face and looking joyful, happy and beautiful, held out
her arms to meet the wind.
And I went off to pack up. . . .
That was long ago. Now Nadenka is married; she married--whether
of her own choice or not does not matter--a secretary of the
Nobility Wardenship and now she has three children. That we once
went tobogganning together, and that the wind brought her the words
"I love you, Nadenka," is not forgotten; it is for her now the
happiest, most touching, and beautiful memory in her life. . . .
But now that I am older I cannot understand why I uttered those
words, what was my motive in that joke. . . .