It was noon of a bright winter’s day. The air was crisp with frost, and
Nadia, who was walking beside me, found her curls and the delicate down
on her upper lip silvered with her own breath. We stood at the summit of
a high hill. The ground fell away at our feet in a steep incline which
reflected the sun’s rays like a mirror. Near us lay a little sled
brightly upholstered with red.
“Let us coast down, Nadia!” I begged. “Just once! I promise you nothing
will happen.”
But Nadia was timid. The long slope, from where her little overshoes
were planted to the foot of the ice-clad hill, looked to her like the
wall of a terrible, yawning chasm. Her heart stopped beating, and she
held her breath as she gazed into that abyss while I urged her to take
her seat on the sled. What might not happen were she to risk a flight
over that precipice! She would die, she would go mad!
“Come, I implore you!” I urged her again. “Don’t be afraid! It is
cowardly to fear, to be timid.”
At last Nadia consented to go, but I could see from her face that she
did so, she thought, at the peril of her life. I seated her, all pale
and trembling, in the little sled, put my arm around her, and together
we plunged into the abyss.
The sled flew like a shot out of a gun. The riven wind lashed our faces;
it howled and whistled in our ears, and plucked furiously at us, trying
to wrench our heads from our shoulders; its pressure stifled us; we felt
as if the devil himself had seized us in his talons, and were snatching
us with a shriek down into the infernal regions. The objects on either
hand melted into a long and madly flying streak. Another second, and it
seemed we must be lost!
“I love you, Nadia!” I whispered.
And now the sled began to slacken its pace, the howling of the wind and
the swish of the runners sounded less terrible, we breathed again, and
found ourselves at the foot of the mountain at last. Nadia, more dead
than alive, was breathless and pale. I helped her to her feet.
“Not for anything in the world would I do that again!” she said, gazing
at me with wide, terror-stricken eyes. “Not for anything on earth. I
nearly died!”
In a few minutes, however, she was herself again, and already her
inquiring eyes were asking the question of mine:
“Had I really uttered those four words, or had she only fancied she
heard them in the tumult of the wind?”
I stood beside her smoking a cigarette and looking attentively at my
glove.
She took my arm and we strolled about for a long time at the foot of the
hill. It was obvious that the riddle gave her no peace. Had I spoken
those words or not? It was for her a question of pride, of honour, of
happiness, of life itself, a very important question, the most important
one in the whole world. Nadia looked at me now impatiently, now
sorrowfully, now searchingly; she answered my questions at random and
waited for me to speak. Oh, what a pretty play of expression flitted
across her sweet face! I saw that she was struggling with herself; she
longed to say something, to ask some question, but the words would not
come; she was terrified and embarrassed and happy.
“Let me tell you something,” she said, without looking at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Let us—let us slide down the hill again!”
We mounted the steps that led to the top of the hill. Once more I seated
Nadia, pale and trembling, in the little sled, once more we plunged into
that terrible abyss; once more the wind howled, and the runners hissed,
and once more, at the wildest and most tumultuous moment of our descent,
I whispered:
“I love you, Nadia!”
When the sleigh had come to a standstill, Nadia threw a backward look at
the hill down which we had just sped, and then gazed for a long time
into my face, listening to the calm, even tones of my voice. Every inch
of her, even her muff and her hood, every line of her little frame
expressed the utmost uncertainty. On her face was written the question:
“What can it have been? Who spoke those words? Was it he, or was it only
my fancy?”
The uncertainty of it was troubling her, and her patience was becoming
exhausted. The poor girl had stopped answering my questions, she was
pouting and ready to cry.
“Had we not better go home?” I asked.
“I—I love coasting!” she answered with a blush. “Shall we not slide down
once more?”
She “loved” coasting, and yet, as she took her seat on the sled, she was
as trembling and pale as before and scarcely could breathe for terror!
We coasted down for the third time and I saw her watching my face and
following the movements of my lips with her eyes. But I put my
handkerchief to my mouth and coughed, and when we were half-way down I
managed to say:
“I love you, Nadia!”
So the riddle remained unsolved! Nadia was left pensive and silent. I
escorted her home, and as she walked she shortened her steps and tried
to go slowly, waiting for me to say those words. I was aware of the
struggle going on in her breast, and of how she was forcing herself not
to exclaim:
“The wind could not have said those words! I don’t want to think that it
said them!”
Next day I received the following note:
“If you are going coasting, to-day, call for me. N.”
Thenceforth Nadia and I went coasting every day, and each time that we
sped down the hill on our little sled I whispered the words:
“I love you, Nadia!”
Nadia soon grew to crave this phrase as some people crave morphine or
wine. She could no longer live without hearing it! Though to fly down
the hill was as terrible to her as ever, danger and fear lent a strange
fascination to those words of love, words which remained a riddle to
torture her heart. Both the wind and I were suspected; which of us two
was confessing our love for her now seemed not to matter; let the
draught but be hers, and she cared not for the goblet that held it!
One day, at noon, I went to our hill alone. There I perceived Nadia. She
approached the hill, seeking me with her eyes, and at last I saw her
timidly mounting the steps that led to the summit. Oh, how fearful, how
terrifying she found it to make that journey alone! Her face was as
white as the snow, and she shook as if she were going to her doom, but
up she climbed, firmly, without one backward look. Clearly she had
determined to discover once for all whether those wondrously sweet words
would reach her ears if I were not there. I saw her seat herself on the
sled with a pale face and lips parted with horror, saw her shut her eyes
and push off, bidding farewell for ever to this world. “zzzzzzz!” hissed
the runners. What did she hear? I know not—I only saw her rise tired and
trembling from the sled, and it was clear from her expression that she
could not herself have said what she had heard; on her downward rush
terror had robbed her of the power of distinguishing the sounds that
came to her ears.
And now, with March, came the spring. The sun’s rays grew warmer and
brighter. Our snowy hillside grew darker and duller, and the ice crust
finally melted away. Our coasting came to an end.
Nowhere could poor Nadia now hear the beautiful words, for there was no
one to say them; the wind was silent and I was preparing to go to St.
Petersburg for a long time, perhaps for ever.
One evening, two days before my departure, I sat in the twilight in a
little garden separated from the garden where Nadia lived by a high
fence surmounted by iron spikes. It was cold and the snow was still on
the ground, the trees were lifeless, but the scent of spring was in the
air, and the rooks were cawing noisily as they settled themselves for
the night. I approached the fence, and for a long time peered through a
chink in the boards. I saw Nadia come out of the house and stand on the
door-step, gazing with anguish and longing at the sky. The spring wind
was blowing directly into her pale, sorrowful face. It reminded her of
the wind that had howled for us on the hillside when she had heard those
four words, and with that recollection her face grew very sad indeed,
and the tears rolled down her cheeks. The poor child held out her arms
as if to implore the wind to bring those words to her ears once more.
And I, waiting for a gust to carry them to her, said softly:
“I love you, Nadia!”
Heavens, what an effect my words had on Nadia! She cried out and
stretched forth her arms to the wind, blissful, radiant, beautiful....
And I went to pack up my things. All this happened a long time ago.
Nadia married, whether for love or not matters little. Her husband is an
official of the nobility, and she now has three children. But she has
not forgotten how we coasted together and how the wind whispered to her:
“I love you, Nadia!”
That memory is for her the happiest, the most touching, the most
beautiful one of her life.
But as for me, now that I have grown older, I can no longer understand
why I said those words and why I jested with Nadia.