No More Learning

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. . . . To-morrow!


SECOND NIGHT

"Well, so you have survived! " she said, pressing both my hands.

"I've been here for the last two hours; you don't know what a state I
have been in all day. "

"I know, I know. But to business. Do you know why I have come? Not to
talk nonsense, as I did yesterday. I tell you what, we must behave more
sensibly in future. I thought a great deal about it last night. "

"In what way--in what must we be more sensible? I am ready for my part;
but, really, nothing more sensible has happened to me in my life than
this, now. "

"Really? In the first place, I beg you not to squeeze my hands so;
secondly, I must tell you that I spent a long time thinking about you
and feeling doubtful to-day. "

"And how did it end? "

"How did it end? The upshot of it is that we must begin all over again,
because the conclusion I reached to-day was that I don't know you at
all; that I behaved like a baby last night, like a little girl; and, of
course, the fact of it is, that it's my soft heart that is to
blame--that is, I sang my own praises, as one always does in the end
when one analyses one's conduct. And therefore to correct my mistake,
I've made up my mind to find out all about you minutely. But as I have
no one from whom I can find out anything, you must tell me everything
fully yourself. Well, what sort of man are you? Come, make
haste--begin--tell me your whole history. "

"My history! " I cried in alarm. "My history! But who has told you I have
a history? I have no history. . . . "

"Then how have you lived, if you have no history? " she interrupted,
laughing.

"Absolutely without any history! I have lived, as they say, keeping
myself to myself, that is, utterly alone--alone, entirely alone. Do you
know what it means to be alone? "

"But how alone? Do you mean you never saw any one? "

"Oh no, I see people, of course; but still I am alone. "

"Why, do you never talk to any one? "

"Strictly speaking, with no one. "

"Who are you then? Explain yourself! Stay, I guess: most likely, like me
you have a grandmother. She is blind and will never let me go anywhere,
so that I have almost forgotten how to talk; and when I played some
pranks two years ago, and she saw there was no holding me in, she called
me up and pinned my dress to hers, and ever since we sit like that for
days together; she knits a stocking, though she's blind, and I sit
beside her, sew or read aloud to her--it's such a queer habit, here for
two years I've been pinned to her. . . . "

"Good Heavens! what misery! But no, I haven't a grandmother like that. "

"Well, if you haven't why do you sit at home? . . . "

"Listen, do you want to know the sort of man I am? "

"Yes, yes! "

"In the strict sense of the word? "

"In the very strictest sense of the word. "

"Very well, I am a type! "

"Type, type! What sort of type? " cried the girl, laughing, as though she
had not had a chance of laughing for a whole year. "Yes, it's very
amusing talking to you. Look, here's a seat, let us sit down. No one is
passing here, no one will hear us, and--begin your history. For it's no
good your telling me, I know you have a history; only you are concealing
it. To begin with, what is a type? "

"A type? A type is an original, it's an absurd person! " I said, infected
by her childish laughter. "It's a character. Listen; do you know what is
meant by a dreamer? "

"A dreamer! Indeed I should think I do know. I am a dreamer myself.
Sometimes, as I sit by grandmother, all sorts of things come into my
head. Why, when one begins dreaming one lets one's fancy run away with
one--why, I marry a Chinese Prince! . . . Though sometimes it is a good
thing to dream! But, goodness knows! Especially when one has something
to think of apart from dreams," added the girl, this time rather
seriously.