The Rendezvous | Page 4

from her shoulder and kissed it. "Well, yes, yes, you are indeed a good girl," he went on, with a self-satisfied smile; "but it can't be helped! Consider it yourself! My master and I can't stay here, can we? Winter is near, and to pass the winter in the country is simply nasty--you know it yourself. It's a different thing in St. Petersburg! There are such wonders over there that you could not imagine even in your dreams, you silly--What houses, what streets, and society, education--it's something wonderful!--" Akulina listened to him with close attention, slightly opening her lips like a child. "However," he added, wriggling on the ground, "why do I say all this to you? You can't understand it anyway!"
"Why not, Victor Alexandrich? I understood, I understood everything."
"Just think of her!"
Akulina cast down her eyes.
"You did not speak to me like this before, Victor Alexandrich," she said, without lifting her eyes.
"Before?--Before! Just think of her!--Before!" he remarked, indignantly.
Both grew silent.
"However, it's time for me to go," said Victor, and leaned on his elbow, about to rise.
"Wait a little," said Akulina in an imploring voice.
"What for? I have already said to you, Good-by!"
"Wait," repeated Akulina.
Victor again stretched himself on the ground and began to whistle. Akulina kept looking at him steadfastly. I could see that she was growing agitated by degrees--her lips twitched, her pale cheeks were reddening.
"Victor Alexandrich," she said at last in a broken voice, "it's a sin for you, it's a sin, Victor Alexandrich, by God!"
"What's a sin?" he asked, knitting his brows. He raised his head and turned to her.
"It's a sin, Victor Alexandrich. If you would only say a good word to me before leaving--if you would only say one word to me, miserable little orphan that I am:--"
"But what shall I say to you?"
"I don't know. You know better than I do, Victor Alexandrich. Here you are going away--if you would only say one word--What have I done to deserve this?"
"How strange you are! What can I say?"
"If only one word--"
"There she's firing away one and the same thing," he muttered with vexation, and got up.
"Don't be angry, Victor Alexandrich," she added hastily, unable to repress her tears.
"I'm not angry--only you are foolish--What do you want? I can't marry you! I can't, can I? Well, then, what do you want? What?" He stared at her, as if awaiting an answer, and opened his fingers wide.
"I want nothing--nothing," she replied, stammering, not daring to outstretch her trembling hands to him, "but simply so, at least one word, at parting--"
And the tears began to stream from her eyes.
"Well, there you are, she's started crying," said Victor indifferently, pulling the cap over his eyes.
"I don't want anything," she went on, sobbing and covering her face with her hands; "but how will I feel now at home, how will I feel? And what will become of me, what will become of me, wretched one that I am? They'll marry the poor little orphan off to a man she does not like. My poor little head!"
"Keep on singing, keep on singing," muttered Victor in a low voice, stirring restlessly.
"If you only said one word, just one: 'Akulina--I--'"
Sudden heartrending sobs interrupted her. She fell with her face upon the grass and cried bitterly, bitterly--All her body shook convulsively, the back of her neck seemed to rise--The long-suppressed sorrow at last burst forth in a stream of tears. Victor stood a while near her, then he shrugged his shoulders, turned around and walked off with large steps.
A few moments went by. She grew silent, lifted her head, looked around and clasped her hands; she was about to run after him, but her feet failed her--she fell down on her knees. I could not endure it any longer and rushed over to her; but before she had time to look at me, she suddenly seemed to have regained her strength--and with a faint cry she rose and disappeared behind the trees, leaving the scattered flowers on the ground.
I stood a while, picked up the bunch of cornflowers, and walked out of the grove to the field, The sun was low in the pale, clear sky; its rays seemed to have faded and turned cold; they did not shine now, they spread in an even, almost watery, light. There was only a half-hour left until evening, and twilight was setting in. A violent wind was blowing fast toward me across the yellow, dried-up stubble-field; the small withered leaves were carried quickly past me across the road; the side of the grove which stood like a wall by the field trembled and flashed clearly, but not brightly; everywhere on the reddish grass, on the blades, and the straw, innumerable autumn cobwebs flashed and trembled. I stopped. I began to feel sad; it seemed