No More Learning

Good-bye. '

"'Well, good-bye,' he answered, and said nothing more.

"Only after dinner he came to see us; sat a long time talking to
grandmother; asked her whether she ever went out anywhere, whether she
had acquaintances, and suddenly said: 'I have taken a box at the opera
for this evening; they are giving _The Barber of Seville_. My friends
meant to go, but afterwards refused, so the ticket is left on my hands. '
'_The Barber of Seville_,' cried grandmother; 'why, the same they used
to act in old days? '

"'Yes, it's the same barber,' he said, and glanced at me. I saw what it
meant and turned crimson, and my heart began throbbing with suspense.

"'To be sure, I know it,' said grandmother; 'why, I took the part of
Rosina myself in old days, at a private performance! '

"'So wouldn't you like to go to-day? ' said the lodger. 'Or my ticket
will be wasted. '

"'By all means let us go,' said grandmother; why shouldn't we? And my
Nastenka here has never been to the theatre. '

"My goodness, what joy! We got ready at once, put on our best clothes,
and set off. Though grandmother was blind, still she wanted to hear the
music; besides, she is a kind old soul, what she cared most for was to
amuse me, we should never have gone of ourselves.

"What my impressions of _The Barber of Seville_ were I won't tell you;
but all that evening our lodger looked at me so nicely, talked so
nicely, that I saw at once that he had meant to test me in the morning
when he proposed that I should go with him alone. Well, it was joy! I
went to bed so proud, so gay, my heart beat so that I was a little
feverish, and all night I was raving about _The Barber of Seville_.

"I expected that he would come and see us more and more often after
that, but it wasn't so at all. He almost entirely gave up coming. He
would just come in about once a month, and then only to invite us to the
theatre. We went twice again. Only I wasn't at all pleased with that; I
saw that he was simply sorry for me because I was so hardly treated by
grandmother, and that was all. As time went on, I grew more and more
restless, I couldn't sit still, I couldn't read, I couldn't work;
sometimes I laughed and did something to annoy grandmother, at another
time I would cry. At last I grew thin and was very nearly ill. The opera
season was over, and our lodger had quite given up coming to see us;
whenever we met--always on the same staircase, of course--he would bow
so silently, so gravely, as though he did not want to speak, and go down
to the front door, while I went on standing in the middle of the stairs,
as red as a cherry, for all the blood rushed to my head at the sight of
him.

"Now the end is near. Just a year ago, in May, the lodger came to us and
said to grandmother that he had finished his business here, and that he
must go back to Moscow for a year. When I heard that, I sank into a
chair half dead; grandmother did not notice anything; and having
informed us that he should be leaving us, he bowed and went away.

"What was I to do? I thought and thought and fretted and fretted, and at
last I made up my mind. Next day he was to go away, and I made up my
mind to end it all that evening when grandmother went to bed. And so it
happened. I made up all my clothes in a parcel--all the linen I
needed--and with the parcel in my hand, more dead than alive, went
upstairs to our lodger. I believe I must have stayed an hour on the
staircase. When I opened his door he cried out as he looked at me. He
thought I was a ghost, and rushed to give me some water, for I could
hardly stand up. My heart beat so violently that my head ached, and I
did not know what I was doing. When I recovered I began by laying my
parcel on his bed, sat down beside it, hid my face in my hands and went
into floods of tears. I think he understood it all at once, and looked
at me so sadly that my heart was torn.

"'Listen,' he began, 'listen, Nastenka, I can't do anything; I am a poor
man, for I have nothing, not even a decent berth. How could we live, if
I were to marry you? '

"We talked a long time; but at last I got quite frantic, I said I could
not go on living with grandmother, that I should run away from her, that
I did not want to be pinned to her, and that I would go to Moscow if he
liked, because I could not live without him. Shame and pride and love
were all clamouring in me at once, and I fell on the bed almost in
convulsions, I was so afraid of a refusal.

"He sat for some minutes in silence, then got up, came up to me and took
me by the hand.

"'Listen, my dear good Nastenka, listen; I swear to you that if I am
ever in a position to marry, you shall make my happiness. I assure you
that now you are the only one who could make me happy. Listen, I am
going to Moscow and shall be there just a year; I hope to establish my
position. When I come back, if you still love me, I swear that we will
be happy. Now it is impossible, I am not able, I have not the right to
promise anything. Well, I repeat, if it is not within a year it will
certainly be some time; that is, of course, if you do not prefer any one
else, for I cannot and dare not bind you by any sort of promise. '

"That was what he said to me, and next day he went away. We agreed
together not to say a word to grandmother: that was his wish. Well, my
history is nearly finished now. Just a year has past. He has arrived; he
has been here three days, and, and----"

"And what? " I cried, impatient to hear the end.

"And up to now has not shown himself! " answered Nastenka, as though
screwing up all her courage. "There's no sign or sound of him. "

Here she stopped, paused for a minute, bent her head, and covering her
face with her hands broke into such sobs that it sent a pang to my heart
to hear them. I had not in the least expected such a _dénouement_.

"Nastenka," I began timidly in an ingratiating voice, "Nastenka! For
goodness' sake don't cry! How do you know? Perhaps he is not here
yet. . . . "

"He is, he is," Nastenka repeated. "He is here, and I know it. We _made
an agreement_ at the time, that evening, before he went away: when we
said all that I have told you, and had come to an understanding, then we
came out here for a walk on this embankment. It was ten o'clock; we sat
on this seat. I was not crying then; it was sweet to me to hear what he
said. . . . And he said that he would come to us directly he arrived, and
if I did not refuse him, then we would tell grandmother about it all.
Now he is here, I know it, and yet he does not come! "

And again she burst into tears.

"Good God, can I do nothing to help you in your sorrow? " I cried jumping
up from the seat in utter despair. "Tell me, Nastenka, wouldn't it be
possible for me to go to him? "

"Would that be possible? " she asked suddenly, raising her head.

"No, of course not," I said pulling myself up; "but I tell you what,
write a letter. "

"No, that's impossible, I can't do that," she answered with decision,
bending her head and not looking at me.

"How impossible--why is it impossible? " I went on, clinging to my idea.
"But, Nastenka, it depends what sort of letter; there are letters and
letters and. . . . Ah, Nastenka, I am right; trust to me, trust to me, I
will not give you bad advice. It can all be arranged! You took the first
step--why not now? "

"I can't. I can't! It would seem as though I were forcing myself on
him. . . . "

"Ah, my good little Nastenka," I said, hardly able to conceal a smile;
"no, no, you have a right to, in fact, because he made you a promise.
Besides, I can see from everything that he is a man of delicate feeling;
that he behaved very well," I went on, more and more carried away by the
logic of my own arguments and convictions. "How did he behave? He bound
himself by a promise: he said that if he married at all he would marry
no one but you; he gave you full liberty to refuse him at once. . . . Under
such circumstances you may take the first step; you have the right; you
are in the privileged position--if, for instance, you wanted to free him
from his promise. . . . "

"Listen; how would you write? "

"Write what? "

"This letter. "

"I tell you how I would write: 'Dear Sir. '. . . "

"Must I really begin like that, 'Dear Sir'? "

"You certainly must! Though, after all, I don't know, I imagine. . . . "

"Well, well, what next? "

"'Dear Sir,--I must apologize for----' But, no, there's no need to
apologize; the fact itself justifies everything. Write simply:--

"'I am writing to you. Forgive me my impatience; but I have
been happy for a whole year in hope; am I to blame for being
unable to endure a day of doubt now? Now that you have come,
perhaps you have changed your mind. If so, this letter is to
tell you that I do not repine, nor blame you. I do not blame
you because I have no power over your heart, such is my
fate!

"'You are an honourable man. You will not smile or be vexed
at these impatient lines. Remember they are written by a
poor girl; that she is alone; that she has no one to direct
her, no one to advise her, and that she herself could never
control her heart. But forgive me that a doubt has
stolen--if only for one instant--into my heart. You are not
capable of insulting, even in thought, her who so loved and
so loves you. '"

"Yes, yes; that's exactly what I was thinking! " cried Nastenka, and her
eyes beamed with delight. "Oh, you have solved my difficulties: God has
sent you to me! Thank you, thank you! "

"What for? What for? For God's sending me? " I answered, looking
delighted at her joyful little face. "Why, yes; for that too. "

"Ah, Nastenka! Why, one thanks some people for being alive at the same
time with one; I thank you for having met me, for my being able to
remember you all my life! "

"Well, enough, enough! But now I tell you what, listen: we made an
agreement then that as soon as he arrived he would let me know, by
leaving a letter with some good simple people of my acquaintance who
know nothing about it; or, if it were impossible to write a letter to
me, for a letter does not always tell everything, he would be here at
ten o'clock on the day he arrived, where we had arranged to meet. I know
he has arrived already; but now it's the third day, and there's no sign
of him and no letter. It's impossible for me to get away from
grandmother in the morning. Give my letter to-morrow to those kind
people I spoke to you about: they will send it on to him, and if there
is an answer you bring it to-morrow at ten o'clock. "

"But the letter, the letter! You see, you must write the letter first!
So perhaps it must all be the day after to-morrow. "

"The letter . . . " said Nastenka, a little confused, "the letter . . .
but. . . . "

But she did not finish. At first she turned her little face away from
me, flushed like a rose, and suddenly I felt in my hand a letter which
had evidently been written long before, all ready and sealed up. A
familiar sweet and charming reminiscence floated through my mind.

"R, o--Ro; s, i--si; n, a--na," I began.

"Rosina! " we both hummed together; I almost embracing her with delight,
while she blushed as only she could blush, and laughed through the tears
which gleamed like pearls on her black eyelashes.

"Come, enough, enough! Good-bye now," she said speaking rapidly. "Here
is the letter, here is the address to which you are to take it.
Good-bye, till we meet again! Till to-morrow! "

She pressed both my hands warmly, nodded her head, and flew like an
arrow down her side street. I stood still for a long time following her
with my eyes.

"Till to-morrow! till to-morrow! " was ringing in my ears as she vanished
from my sight.


THIRD NIGHT

To-day was a gloomy, rainy day without a glimmer of sunlight, like the
old age before me. I am oppressed by such strange thoughts, such gloomy
sensations; questions still so obscure to me are crowding into my
brain--and I seem to have neither power nor will to settle them. It's
not for me to settle all this!

To-day we shall not meet. Yesterday, when we said good-bye, the clouds
began gathering over the sky and a mist rose. I said that to-morrow it
would be a bad day; she made no answer, she did not want to speak
against her wishes; for her that day was bright and clear, not one cloud
should obscure her happiness.

"If it rains we shall not see each other," she said, "I shall not come. "

I thought that she would not notice to-day's rain, and yet she has not
come.

Yesterday was our third interview, our third white night. . . .

But how fine joy and happiness makes any one! How brimming over with
love the heart is! One seems longing to pour out one's whole heart; one
wants everything to be gay, everything to be laughing. And how
infectious that joy is!
There was such a softness in her words, such a
kindly feeling in her heart towards me yesterday. . . . How solicitous and
friendly she was; how tenderly she tried to give me courage! Oh, the
coquetry of happiness! While I . . . I took it all for the genuine thing,
I thought that she. . . .

But, my God, how could I have thought it? How could I have been so
blind, when everything had been taken by another already, when nothing
was mine; when, in fact, her very tenderness to me, her anxiety, her
love . . . yes, love for me, was nothing else but joy at the thought of
seeing another man so soon, desire to include me, too, in her
happiness? . . . When he did not come, when we waited in vain, she frowned,
she grew timid and discouraged. Her movements, her words, were no longer
so light, so playful, so gay; and, strange to say, she redoubled her
attentiveness to me, as though instinctively desiring to lavish on me
what she desired for herself so anxiously, if her wishes were not
accomplished. My Nastenka was so downcast, so dismayed, that I think she
realized at last that I loved her, and was sorry for my poor love. So
when we are unhappy we feel the unhappiness of others more; feeling is
not destroyed but concentrated. . . .

I went to meet her with a full heart, and was all impatience. I had no
presentiment that I should feel as I do now, that it would not all end
happily. She was beaming with pleasure; she was expecting an answer. The
answer was himself. He was to come, to run at her call. She arrived a
whole hour before I did. At first she giggled at everything, laughed at
every word I said. I began talking, but relapsed into silence.

"Do you know why I am so glad," she said, "so glad to look at you? --why
I like you so much to-day? "

"Well? " I asked, and my heart began throbbing.

"I like you because you have not fallen in love with me. You know that
some men in your place would have been pestering and worrying me, would
have been sighing and miserable, while you are so nice! "

Then she wrung my hand so hard that I almost cried out. She laughed.

"Goodness, what a friend you are! " she began gravely a minute later.
"God sent you to me. What would have happened to me if you had not been
with me now? How disinterested you are! How truly you care for me! When
I am married we will be great friends, more than brother and sister; I
shall care almost as I do for him. . . . "

I felt horribly sad at that moment, yet something like laughter was
stirring in my soul.

"You are very much upset," I said; "you are frightened; you think he
won't come. "

"Oh dear! " she answered; "if I were less happy, I believe I should cry
at your lack of faith, at your reproaches. However, you have made me
think and have given me a lot to think about; but I shall think later,
and now I will own that you are right. Yes, I am somehow not myself; I
am all suspense, and feel everything as it were too lightly. But hush!
that's enough about feelings. . . . "

At that moment we heard footsteps, and in the darkness we saw a figure
coming towards us. We both started; she almost cried out; I dropped her
hand and made a movement as though to walk away. But we were mistaken,
it was not he.

"What are you afraid of? Why did you let go of my hand? " she said,
giving it to me again. "Come, what is it? We will meet him together; I
want him to see how fond we are of each other. "

"How fond we are of each other! " I cried. ("Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka," I
thought, "how much you have told me in that saying! Such fondness at
_certain_ moments makes the heart cold and the soul heavy. Your hand is
cold, mine burns like fire. How blind you are, Nastenka! . . . Oh, how
unbearable a happy person is sometimes! But I could not be angry with
you! ")

At last my heart was too full.

"Listen, Nastenka! " I cried. "Do you know how it has been with me all
day. "

"Why, how, how? Tell me quickly! Why have you said nothing all this
time? "

"To begin with, Nastenka, when I had carried out all your commissions,
given the letter, gone to see your good friends, then . . . then I went
home and went to bed. "

"Is that all? " she interrupted, laughing.

"Yes, almost all," I answered restraining myself, for foolish tears were
already starting into my eyes. "I woke an hour before our appointment,
and yet, as it were, I had not been asleep. I don't know what happened
to me. I came to tell you all about it, feeling as though time were
standing still, feeling as though one sensation, one feeling must remain
with me from that time for ever; feeling as though one minute must go on
for all eternity, and as though all life had come to a standstill for
me. . . . When I woke up it seemed as though some musical motive long
familiar, heard somewhere in the past, forgotten and voluptuously sweet,
had come back to me now. It seemed to me that it had been clamouring at
my heart all my life, and only now. . . . "

"Oh my goodness, my goodness," Nastenka interrupted, "what does all that
mean? I don't understand a word. "

"Ah, Nastenka, I wanted somehow to convey to you that strange
impression. . . . " I began in a plaintive voice, in which there still lay
hid a hope, though a very faint one.

"Leave off. Hush! " she said, and in one instant the sly puss had
guessed.

Suddenly she became extraordinarily talkative, gay, mischievous; she
took my arm, laughed, wanted me to laugh too, and every confused word I
uttered evoked from her prolonged ringing laughter. . . . I began to feel
angry, she had suddenly begun flirting.

"Do you know," she began, "I feel a little vexed that you are not in
love with me? There's no understanding human nature! But all the same,
Mr. Unapproachable, you cannot blame me for being so simple; I tell you
everything, everything, whatever foolish thought comes into my head. "

"Listen! That's eleven, I believe," I said as the slow chime of a bell
rang out from a distant tower. She suddenly stopped, left off laughing
and began to count.

"Yes, it's eleven," she said at last in a timid, uncertain voice.

I regretted at once that I had frightened her, making her count the
strokes, and I cursed myself for my spiteful impulse; I felt sorry for
her, and did not know how to atone for what I had done.

I began comforting her, seeking for reasons for his not coming,
advancing various arguments, proofs. No one could have been easier to
deceive than she was at that moment; and, indeed, any one at such a
moment listens gladly to any consolation, whatever it may be, and is
overjoyed if a shadow of excuse can be found.

"And indeed it's an absurd thing," I began, warming to my task and
admiring the extraordinary clearness of my argument, "why, he could not
have come; you have muddled and confused me, Nastenka, so that I too,
have lost count of the time. . . . Only think: he can scarcely have
received the letter; suppose he is not able to come, suppose he is going
to answer the letter, could not come before to-morrow. I will go for it
as soon as it's light to-morrow and let you know at once. Consider,
there are thousands of possibilities; perhaps he was not at home when
the letter came, and may not have read it even now! Anything may happen,
you know. "

"Yes, yes! " said Nastenka. "I did not think of that. Of course anything
may happen? " she went on in a tone that offered no opposition, though
some other far-away thought could be heard like a vexatious discord in
it. "I tell you what you must do," she said, "you go as early as
possible to-morrow morning, and if you get anything let me know at once.
You know where I live, don't you? "

And she began repeating her address to me.

Then she suddenly became so tender, so solicitous with me. She seemed to
listen attentively to what I told her; but when I asked her some
question she was silent, was confused, and turned her head away. I
looked into her eyes--yes, she was crying.

"How can you? How can you? Oh, what a baby you are! what
childishness! . . . Come, come! "

She tried to smile, to calm herself, but her chin was quivering and her
bosom was still heaving.

"I was thinking about you," she said after a minute's silence. "You are
so kind that I should be a stone if I did not feel it. Do you know what
has occurred to me now? I was comparing you two. Why isn't he you? Why
isn't he like you? He is not as good as you, though I love him more than
you. "

I made no answer. She seemed to expect me to say something.

"Of course, it may be that I don't understand him fully yet. You know I
was always as it were afraid of him; he was always so grave, as it were
so proud. Of course I know it's only that he seems like that, I know
there is more tenderness in his heart than in mine. . . . I remember how he
looked at me when I went in to him--do you remember? --with my bundle;
but yet I respect him too much, and doesn't that show that we are not
equals? "

"No, Nastenka, no," I answered, "it shows that you love him more than
anything in the world, and far more than yourself. "

"Yes, supposing that is so," answered Nastenka naïvely. "But do you know
what strikes me now? Only I am not talking about him now, but speaking
generally; all this came into my mind some time ago. Tell me, how is it
that we can't all be like brothers together? Why is it that even the
best of men always seem to hide something from other people and to keep
something back? Why not say straight out what is in one's heart, when
one knows that one is not speaking idly? As it is every one seems
harsher than he really is, as though all were afraid of doing injustice
to their feelings, by being too quick to express them. "

"Oh, Nastenka, what you say is true; but there are many reasons for
that," I broke in suppressing my own feelings at that moment more than
ever.

"No, no! " she answered with deep feeling. "Here you, for instance, are
not like other people! I really don't know how to tell you what I feel;
but it seems to me that you, for instance . . . at the present moment . . .
it seems to me that you are sacrificing something for me," she added
timidly, with a fleeting glance at me. "Forgive me for saying so, I am a
simple girl you know. I have seen very little of life, and I really
sometimes don't know how to say things," she added in a voice that
quivered with some hidden feeling, while she tried to smile; "but I only
wanted to tell you that I am grateful, that I feel it all too.