With hesitating footsteps Sanin approached the house of Signora
Roselli. His heart was beating violently; he distinctly felt, and even
heard it thumping at his side. What should he say to Gemma, how should
he begin? He went into the house, not through the shop, but by the back
entrance. In the little outer room he met Frau Lenore. She was both
relieved and scared at the sight of him.
“I have been expecting you,” she said in a whisper, squeezing his hand
with each of hers in turn. “Go into the garden; she is there. Mind, I
rely on you!”
Sanin went into the garden.
Gemma was sitting on a garden-seat near the path, she was sorting a big
basket full of cherries, picking out the ripest, and putting them on a
dish. The sun was low—it was seven o’clock in the evening—and there was
more purple than gold in the full slanting light with which it flooded
the whole of Signora Roselli’s little garden. From time to time,
faintly audibly, and as it were deliberately, the leaves rustled, and
belated bees buzzed abruptly as they flew from one flower to the next,
and somewhere a dove was cooing a never-changing, unceasing note. Gemma
had on the same round hat in which she had driven to Soden. She peeped
at Sanin from under its turned-down brim, and again bent over the
basket.
Sanin went up to Gemma, unconsciously making each step shorter, and …
and … and nothing better could he find to say to her than to ask why
was she sorting the cherries.
Gemma was in no haste to reply.
“These are riper,” she observed at last, “they will go into jam, and
those are for tarts. You know the round sweet tarts we sell?”
As she said those words, Gemma bent her head still lower, and her right
hand with two cherries in her fingers was suspended in the air between
the basket and the dish.
“May I sit by you?” asked Sanin.
“Yes.” Gemma moved a little along on the seat. Sanin placed himself
beside her. “How am I to begin?” was his thought. But Gemma got him out
of his difficulty.
“You have fought a duel to-day,” she began eagerly, and she turned all
her lovely, bashfully flushing face to him—and what depths of gratitude
were shining in those eyes! “And you are so calm! I suppose for you
danger does not exist?”
“Oh, come! I have not been exposed to any danger. Everything went off
very satisfactorily and inoffensively.”
Gemma passed her finger to right and to left before her eyes … Also an
Italian gesture. “No! no! don’t say that! You won’t deceive me!
Pantaleone has told me everything!”
“He’s a trustworthy witness! Did he compare me to the statue of the
commander?”
“His expressions may be ridiculous, but his feeling is not ridiculous,
nor is what you have done to-day. And all that on my account … for me …
I shall never forget it.”
“I assure you, Fräulein Gemma …”
“I shall never forget it,” she said deliberately; once more she looked
intently at him, and turned away.
He could now see her delicate pure profile, and it seemed to him that
he had never seen anything like it, and had never known anything like
what he was feeling at that instant. His soul was on fire.
“And my promise!” flashed in among his thoughts.
“Fräulein Gemma …” he began after a momentary hesitation.
“What?”
She did not turn to him, she went on sorting the cherries, carefully
taking them by their stalks with her finger-tips, assiduously picking
out the leaves…. But what a confiding caress could be heard in that one
word, “What?”
“Has your mother said nothing to you … about …”
“About?”
“About me?”
Gemma suddenly flung back into the basket the cherries she had taken.
“Has she been talking to you?” she asked in her turn.
“Yes.”
“What has she been saying to you?”
“She told me that you … that you have suddenly decided to change … your
former intention.” Gemma’s head was bent again. She vanished altogether
under her hat; nothing could be seen but her neck, supple and tender as
the stalk of a big flower.
“What intentions?”
“Your intentions … relative to … the future arrangement of your life.”
“That is … you are speaking … of Herr Klüber?”
“Yes.”
“Mamma told you I don’t want to be Herr Klüber’s wife?”
“Yes.”
Gemma moved forward on the seat. The basket tottered, fell … a few
cherries rolled on to the path. A minute passed by … another.
“Why did she tell you so?” he heard her voice saying. Sanin as before
could only see Gemma’s neck. Her bosom rose and fell more rapidly than
before.
“Why? Your mother thought that as you and I, in a short time, have
become, so to say, friends, and you have some confidence in me, I am in
a position to give you good advice—and you would mind what I say.”
Gemma’s hands slowly slid on to her knees. She began plucking at the
folds of her dress.
“What advice will you give me, Monsieur Dimitri?” she asked, after a
short pause.
Sanin saw that Gemma’s fingers were trembling on her knees…. She was
only plucking at the folds of her dress to hide their trembling. He
softly laid his hand on those pale, shaking fingers.
“Gemma,” he said, “why don’t you look at me?” She instantly tossed her
hat back on to her shoulder, and bent her eyes upon him, confiding and
grateful as before. She waited for him to speak…. But the sight of her
face had bewildered, and, as it were, dazed him. The warm glow of the
evening sun lighted up her youthful head, and the expression of that
head was brighter, more radiant than its glow.
“I will mind what you say, Monsieur Dimitri,” she said, faintly
smiling, and faintly arching her brows; “but what advice do you give
me?”
“What advice?” repeated Sanin. “Well, you see, your mother considers
that to dismiss Herr Klüber simply because he did not show any special
courage the day before yesterday …”
“Simply because?” said Gemma. She bent down, picked up the basket, and
set it beside her on the garden seat.
“That … altogether … to dismiss him, would be, on your part …
unreasonable; that it is a step, all the consequences of which ought to
be thoroughly weighed; that in fact the very position of your affairs
imposes certain obligations on every member of your family …”
“All that is mamma’s opinion,” Gemma interposed; “those are her words;
but what is your opinion?”
“Mine?” Sanin was silent for a while. He felt a lump rising in his
throat and catching at his breath. “I too consider,” he began with an
effort …
Gemma drew herself up. “Too? You too?”
“Yes … that is …” Sanin was unable, positively unable to add a single
word more.
“Very well,” said Gemma. “If you, as a friend, advise me to change my
decision—that is, not to change my former decision—I will think it
over.” Not knowing what she was doing, she began to tip the cherries
back from the plate into the basket…. “Mamma hopes that I will mind
what you say. Well … perhaps I really will mind what you say.”
“But excuse me, Fräulein Gemma, I should like first to know what reason
impelled you …”
“I will mind what you say,” Gemma repeated, her face right up to her
brows was working, her cheeks were white, she was biting her lower lip.
“You have done so much for me, that I am bound to do as you wish; bound
to carry out your wishes. I will tell mamma … I will think again. Here
she is, by the way, coming here.”
Frau Lenore did in fact appear in the doorway leading from the house to
the garden. She was in an agony of impatience; she could not keep
still. According to her calculations, Sanin must long ago have finished
all he had to say to Gemma, though his conversation with her had not
lasted a quarter of an hour.
“No, no, no, for God’s sake, don’t tell her anything yet,” Sanin
articulated hurriedly, almost in alarm. “Wait a little … I will tell
you, I will write to you … and till then don’t decide on anything …
wait!”
He pressed Gemma’s hand, jumped up from the seat, and to Frau Lenore’s
great amazement, rushed past her, and raising his hat, muttered
something unintelligible—and vanished.
She went up to her daughter.
“Tell me, please, Gemma…”
The latter suddenly got up and hugged her. “Dear mamma, can you wait a
little, a tiny bit … till to-morrow? Can you? And till to-morrow not a
word?… Ah!…”
She burst into sudden happy tears, incomprehensible to herself. This
surprised Frau Lenore, the more as the expression of Gemma’s face was
far from sorrowful,—rather joyful in fact.
“What is it?” she asked. “You never cry and here, all at once …”
“Nothing, mamma, never mind! you only wait. We must both wait a little.
Don’t ask me anything till to-morrow—and let us sort the cherries
before the sun has set.”
“But you will be reasonable?”
“Oh, I’m very reasonable!” Gemma shook her head significantly. She
began to make up little bunches of cherries, holding them high above
her flushed face. She did not wipe away her tears; they had dried of
themselves.