No More Learning

She was wearing a very charming yellow hat and a jaunty
little black mantle. "She's a girl, and I am sure she is dark," I
thought. She did not seem to hear my footsteps, and did not even stir
when I passed by with bated breath and loudly throbbing heart.

"Strange," I thought; "she must be deeply absorbed in something," and
all at once I stopped as though petrified. I heard a muffled sob. Yes! I
was not mistaken, the girl was crying, and a minute later I heard sob
after sob. Good Heavens! My heart sank. And timid as I was with women,
yet this was such a moment! . . . I turned, took a step towards her, and
should certainly have pronounced the word "Madam! " if I had not known
that that exclamation has been uttered a thousand times in every Russian
society novel. It was only that reflection stopped me. But while I was
seeking for a word, the girl came to herself, looked round, started,
cast down her eyes and slipped by me along the embankment. I at once
followed her; but she, divining this, left the embankment, crossed the
road and walked along the pavement. I dared not cross the street after
her. My heart was fluttering like a captured bird. All at once a chance
came to my aid.

Along the same side of the pavement there suddenly came into sight, not
far from the girl, a gentleman in evening dress, of dignified years,
though by no means of dignified carriage; he was staggering and
cautiously leaning against the wall. The girl flew straight as an arrow,
with the timid haste one sees in all girls who do not want any one to
volunteer to accompany them home at night, and no doubt the staggering
gentleman would not have pursued her, if my good luck had not prompted
him.

Suddenly, without a word to any one, the gentleman set off and flew full
speed in pursuit of my unknown lady. She was racing like the wind, but
the staggering gentleman was overtaking--overtook her. The girl uttered
a shriek, and . . . I bless my luck for the excellent knotted stick, which
happened on that occasion to be in my right hand. In a flash I was on
the other side of the street; in a flash the obtrusive gentleman had
taken in the position, had grasped the irresistible argument, fallen
back without a word, and only when we were very far away protested
against my action in rather vigorous language. But his words hardly
reached us.

"Give me your arm," I said to the girl. "And he won't dare to annoy us
further. "

She took my arm without a word, still trembling with excitement and
terror. Oh, obtrusive gentleman! How I blessed you at that moment! I
stole a glance at her, she was very charming and dark--I had guessed
right.

On her black eyelashes there still glistened a tear--from her recent
terror or her former grief--I don't know. But there was already a gleam
of a smile on her lips. She too stole a glance at me, faintly blushed
and looked down.

"There, you see; why did you drive me away? If I had been here, nothing
would have happened. . . . "

"But I did not know you; I thought that you too. . . . "

"Why, do you know me now? "

"A little! Here, for instance, why are you trembling? "

"Oh, you are right at the first guess! " I answered, delighted that my
girl had intelligence; that is never out of place in company with
beauty. "Yes, from the first glance you have guessed the sort of man you
have to do with. Precisely; I am shy with women, I am agitated, I don't
deny it, as much so as you were a minute ago when that gentleman alarmed
you. I am in some alarm now. It's like a dream, and I never guessed even
in my sleep that I should ever talk with any woman. "

"What? Really? . . . "

"Yes; if my arm trembles, it is because it has never been held by a
pretty little hand like yours. I am a complete stranger to women; that
is, I have never been used to them. You see, I am alone. . . . I don't even
know how to talk to them. Here, I don't know now whether I have not said
something silly to you! Tell me frankly; I assure you beforehand that I
am not quick to take offence? . . . "

"No, nothing, nothing, quite the contrary. And if you insist on my
speaking frankly, I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if
you want to know more, I like it too, and I won't drive you away till I
get home. "

"You will make me," I said, breathless with delight, "lose my timidity,
and then farewell to all my chances. . . . "

"Chances! What chances--of what? That's not so nice. "

"I beg your pardon, I am sorry, it was a slip of the tongue; but how can
you expect one at such a moment to have no desire. . . . "

"To be liked, eh? "

"Well, yes; but do, for goodness' sake, be kind. Think what I am! Here,
I am twenty-six and I have never seen any one. How can I speak well,
tactfully, and to the point? It will seem better to you when I have told
you everything openly. . . . I don't know how to be silent when my heart is
speaking. Well, never mind. . . . Believe me, not one woman, never, never!
No acquaintance of any sort! And I do nothing but dream every day that
at last I shall meet some one. Oh, if only you knew how often I have
been in love in that way. . . . "

"How? With whom? . . . "

"Why, with no one, with an ideal, with the one I dream of in my sleep. I
make up regular romances in my dreams. Ah, you don't know me! It's true,
of course, I have met two or three women, but what sort of women were
they? They were all landladies, that. . . . But I shall make you laugh if I
tell you that I have several times thought of speaking, just simply
speaking, to some aristocratic lady in the street, when she is alone, I
need hardly say; speaking to her, of course, timidly, respectfully,
passionately; telling her that I am perishing in solitude, begging her
not to send me away; saying that I have no chance of making the
acquaintance of any woman; impressing upon her that it is a positive
duty for a woman not to repulse so timid a prayer from such a luckless
man as me. That, in fact, all I ask is, that she should say two or three
sisterly words with sympathy, should not repulse me at first sight;
should take me on trust and listen to what I say; should laugh at me if
she likes, encourage me, say two words to me, only two words, even
though we never meet again afterwards! . . . But you are laughing; however,
that is why I am telling you. . . . "

"Don't be vexed; I am only laughing at your being your own enemy, and if
you had tried you would have succeeded, perhaps, even though it had been
in the street; the simpler the better. . . . No kind-hearted woman, unless
she were stupid or, still more, vexed about something at the moment,
could bring herself to send you away without those two words which you
ask for so timidly. . . . But what am I saying? Of course she would take
you for a madman. I was judging by myself; I know a good deal about
other people's lives. "

"Oh, thank you," I cried; "you don't know what you have done for me
now! "

"I am glad! I am glad! But tell me how did you find out that I was the
sort of woman with whom . . . well, whom you think worthy . . . of attention
and friendship . . . in fact, not a landlady as you say? What made you
decide to come up to me? "

"What made me? . . . But you were alone; that gentleman was too insolent;
it's night. You must admit that it was a duty. . . . "

"No, no; I mean before, on the other side--you know you meant to come up
to me. "

"On the other side? Really I don't know how to answer; I am afraid
to. . . . Do you know I have been happy to-day? I walked along singing; I
went out into the country; I have never had such happy moments. You . . .
perhaps it was my fancy. . . . Forgive me for referring to it; I fancied
you were crying, and I . . . could not bear to hear it . . . it made my
heart ache. . . . Oh, my goodness! Surely I might be troubled about you?
Surely there was no harm in feeling brotherly compassion for you. . . . I
beg your pardon, I said compassion. . . .
Well, in short, surely you would
not be offended at my involuntary impulse to go up to you? . . . "

"Stop, that's enough, don't talk of it," said the girl, looking down,
and pressing my hand. "It's my fault for having spoken of it; but I am
glad I was not mistaken in you. . . . But here I am home; I must go down
this turning, it's two steps from here. . . . Good-bye, thank you! . . . "

"Surely . . . surely you don't mean . . . that we shall never see each other
again? . . . Surely this is not to be the end? "

"You see," said the girl, laughing, "at first you only wanted two words,
and now. . . . However, I won't say anything . . . perhaps we shall meet. . . . "

"I shall come here to-morrow," I said. "Oh, forgive me, I am already
making demands. . . . "

"Yes, you are not very patient . . . you are almost insisting. "

"Listen, listen! " I interrupted her. "Forgive me if I tell you something
else. . . . I tell you what, I can't help coming here to-morrow, I am a
dreamer; I have so little real life that I look upon such moments as
this now, as so rare, that I cannot help going over such moments again
in my dreams. I shall be dreaming of you all night, a whole week, a
whole year. I shall certainly come here to-morrow, just here to this
place, just at the same hour, and I shall be happy remembering to-day.
This place is dear to me already. I have already two or three such
places in Petersburg. I once shed tears over memories . . . like you. . . .
Who knows, perhaps you were weeping ten minutes ago over some memory. . . .
But, forgive me, I have forgotten myself again; perhaps you have once
been particularly happy here. . . . "

"Very good," said the girl, "perhaps I will come here to-morrow, too, at
ten o'clock. I see that I can't forbid you. . . . The fact is, I have to be
here; don't imagine that I am making an appointment with you; I tell you
beforehand that I have to be here on my own account. But . . . well, I
tell you straight out, I don't mind if you do come. To begin with,
something unpleasant might happen as it did to-day, but never mind
that. . . . In short, I should simply like to see you . . . to say two words
to you. Only, mind, you must not think the worse of me now! Don't think
I make appointments so lightly. . . . I shouldn't make it except that. . . .
But let that be my secret! Only a compact beforehand. . . . "

"A compact! Speak, tell me, tell me all beforehand; I agree to anything,
I am ready for anything," I cried delighted. "I answer for myself, I
will be obedient, respectful . . . you know me. . . . "

"It's just because I do know you that I ask you to come to-morrow," said
the girl, laughing. "I know you perfectly. But mind you will come on the
condition, in the first place (only be good, do what I ask--you see, I
speak frankly), you won't fall in love with me. . . . That's impossible, I
assure you. I am ready for friendship; here's my hand. . . . But you
mustn't fall in love with me, I beg you! "

"I swear," I cried, gripping her hand. . . .

"Hush, don't swear, I know you are ready to flare up like gunpowder.
Don't think ill of me for saying so. If only you knew. . . . I, too, have
no one to whom I can say a word, whose advice I can ask. Of course, one
does not look for an adviser in the street; but you are an exception. I
know you as though we had been friends for twenty years. . . . You won't
deceive me, will you? . . . "

"You will see . . . the only thing is, I don't know how I am going to
survive the next twenty-four hours. "

"Sleep soundly. Good-night, and remember that I have trusted you
already. But you exclaimed so nicely just now, 'Surely one can't be held
responsible for every feeling, even for brotherly sympathy! ' Do you
know, that was so nicely said, that the idea struck me at once, that I
might confide in you? "

"For God's sake do; but about what? What is it? "

"Wait till to-morrow. Meanwhile, let that be a secret. So much the
better for you; it will give it a faint flavour of romance. Perhaps I
will tell you to-morrow, and perhaps not. . . . I will talk to you a little
more beforehand; we will get to know each other better. . . . "

"Oh yes, I will tell you all about myself to-morrow! But what has
happened? It is as though a miracle had befallen me. . . . My God, where am
I? Come, tell me aren't you glad that you were not angry and did not
drive me away at the first moment, as any other woman would have done?
In two minutes you have made me happy for ever. Yes, happy; who knows,
perhaps, you have reconciled me with myself, solved my doubts! . . .
Perhaps such moments come upon me. . . . But there I will tell you all
about it to-morrow, you shall know everything, everything. . . . "

"Very well, I consent; you shall begin. . . . "

"Agreed. "

"Good-bye till to-morrow! "

"Till to-morrow! "

And we parted. I walked about all night; I could not make up my mind to
go home. I was so happy. . .