Part 5
"You must be mistaken, it's impossible!" I stammered.
The servant looked at me vacantly, and began to sweep.
I opened the letter; it was from Gaguine. Not a line from Annouchka!
In beginning, he begged me to forgive him for this hasty departure. He added that when I was calmer I would approve, no doubt, of his determination. It was the only means of getting out of an embarrassing position, and one that might become dangerous.
"Yesterday evening," he said to me, "while we were waiting for Annouchka in silence, I was convinced of the necessity of a separation. There are prejudices that I respect; I can understand that you could not marry her. She has told me all, and for her sake I must yield to her urgent entreaties."
At the end of his letter he expressed regret at the breaking off of our friendly intercourse so soon; hoped that I would always be happy; pressed my hand, and begged me not to try and meet them again.
"A question of prejudices indeed!" I exclaimed, as if he could hear me. "Folly all that! What right has he to take her away from me?" I clutched my head wildly.
The servant began to scream for her mistress, and her fright brought me to my senses. I felt that I had but one object: to find them again; to find them again at any cost. To bear such a blow; to resign myself; to see things end in this way was truly beyond my strength! I learned from the landlady that they went at six o'clock to take the steamboat down the Rhine. I went to the office; they told me that they had taken places for Cologne. I returned to my house to pack up and immediately follow them.
As I passed Dame Louise's house I heard some one call me. I raised my head and perceived the burgomaster's widow at the window of the room where the previous evening I had seen Annouchka. Upon her lips hovered that disagreeable smile that I had noticed before. She beckoned to me. I turned away, and was about to go on, but she called out that she had something to give me. These words stopped me, and I entered the house. How can I express to you my emotion, when I found myself again in that little room.
"To tell the truth," began the old woman, showing me a note, "I should only have given you this if you had come to my house of your own accord; but you are such a fine young man--there!"
I took the note; I read upon a little piece of paper the following lines, traced in haste with a pencil:--
"Farewell! we shall see each other no more. It is not through pride that I go away; I cannot do otherwise. Yesterday, when I wept before you, if you had said to me but one _word_, a _single word_, I would have remained. You did not say it.--Who knows? Perhaps it is for the best that it is so. Farewell forever!"
She had expected but "_one word_!" Fool that I was! That _word_ I said the previous evening again and again with many tears; I threw it to the wind; I cried it out in the midst of lonely fields: but I did not say it to her; I did not tell her that I loved her! Yes, it was then impossible for me to pronounce that word. In this fatal room, where I found myself face to face with her, I was not yet fully conscious of my love; it did not awaken even then, when in a dull and gloomy silence I stood near her brother,--it only burst forth, sudden and irresistible, a few moments after, when, terrified by the thought of a misfortune, I began to seek her, calling aloud; but then already it was too late!--It is impossible, they will tell me;--I know not if it is impossible, but I know that it was so. Annouchka would not have gone if she had had the least coquetry, if she had not found herself in an essentially false position. An uncertain position that any other woman would have accepted she found intolerable. This did not occur to me. My evil genius, then, at my last interview with Gaguine, under his dark window, had checked that confession which was upon my lips, and thus the last thread that I could have seized had broken in my hands.
I returned the same day to L. with my traps, and started for Cologne. I often remember that at the moment when the steamboat left the shore, and when I said farewell to all those streets, to all those places that I should never forget, I perceived Hannchen, the little servant-maid.
She was seated upon a bench near the river bank: though yet pale, her face was no longer sorrowful. A handsome young fellow was by her side and laughing with her, whilst at the other side of the Rhine my little Madonna, concealed in the dark foliage of the old ash, followed me sadly with her glance.
XXII.
At Cologne I again came upon the track of Gaguine and his sister. I learned that they had gone to London. I immediately went to that city; all researches that I made there were in vain. For a long time I did not allow myself to be discouraged; for a long time I showed obstinate persistence, but finally was obliged to give up all hope of meeting them again.
I never saw them again! I never again saw Annouchka!--Later I heard some quite vague rumors of her brother; but as to her I have never heard her spoken of; I do not even know if she still lives.
Some years ago, while travelling, I caught sight for an instant, at the door of a railway-carriage, of a woman whose face had a little resemblance to those features that I shall never forget; but this resemblance was doubtless the result of chance. Annouchka lived in my memory as the young girl whom I saw at our last interview, pale and trembling, leaning upon the back of a wooden chair in the dark corner of a lonely room.
Besides, I must confess that the course of my grief was not of long duration. Soon I persuaded myself that fate had been favorable to me in preventing my marriage with her, and that a woman with such a disposition would certainly not make me happy. I was still young at this period, and that time so short and limited that they call the future appeared to me infinite. "That which has happened once to me upon my travels," I said to myself, "can I not meet it again, more charming and more delightful?" Since then I have known other women; but that feeling so tender that Annouchka had once awakened was never again aroused. No--no glance has ever replaced the glance of those eyes fastened upon mine; I have never again clasped to my breast a heart to whose throbbing mine has responded with an ecstacy so joyful. Condemned to the solitary existence of a wandering man, without a home, I regard those days the saddest of my life; but I still preserve as a relic two little notes and a withered sprig of geranium that she once threw me from the window; it breathes even now a slight fragrance, whilst the hand that gave it to me, that hand that I pressed upon my lips only once, has, perhaps, long since returned to dust. And I, what have I become? What is there left in me of the man of former days, of the restlessness of youth, of my plans, of my ambitious hopes?--Thus the slight perfume of a blade of grass outlives all joys, all human griefs,--outlives even man himself.
* * * * *
BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE GREEN HAND"
The Deserted Ship.
A STORY OF THE ATLANTIC.
BY GEORGE CUPPLES.
Author of "The Green Hand," "The Sunken Rock," etc.
* * * * *
THE WORKS OF MRS. H. B. GOODWIN.
"There is nothing sensational or dramatic about the writings of Mrs. H. B. GOODWIN. Her books are natural, heartfelt, and a true mirror of this not altogether unromantic life of ours," says a distinguished critic.
ONE AMONG MANY.
A spirited and fascinating New Work by this gifted and popular author.
CHRISTINE'S FORTUNE.
_Like a pearl on the sands of the sea-shore is the story of Christine among the average novels of the day. The incidents are few, and the charm of the story lies in the unfolding of a pure and noble character, and in the sketches of German life and scenery which form its harmonious background. The interest though quiet is sustained, and no one who begins the book will lay it down until he has finished reading it, and will rise from it with the feeling that he has been in excellent company. The style, the sentiments, and the teachings are faultless and ennobling._
DR. HOWELL'S FAMILY.
"_Of the merits of this work it is difficult to speak too highly. It is written in a style as near perfection as it is possible to conceive. Better books a parent cannot put into the hands of a son or daughter._"--WATCHMAN.
* * * * *
Sly Ballades in Harvard China.
By E. S. M.
Dainty and unique in style, it will provide bright and amusing Summer reading, appealing to the taste of cultivated people of society. The papers are quite unconventional, and are treated with a rare sense of humor. The versification has the genuine ring. The volume will undoubtedly make a hit.--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette._
Bright and full of fun.--_Boston Globe._
Graceful in fancy, and bright in wit and spirit. The author's drollery is irresistible, and we should think young ladies would enjoy the book as much as the beings of the opposite sex.--_Quebec Chronicle._
The author is anonymous--as usual, now-a-days--but he is known as one of the foremost of a band of clever young writers.--_Springfield Republican._
Writes always like a gentleman.--_N. Y. Mail._
The volume is of a high order.--_Boston Herald._
Suggests Hood at his best.--_Boston Journal._
One of the most charming of Summer books.--_St. Louis Globe-Democrat._
Written in the approved modern _Vers de Societie_ style, with a singular mixture of wit and deep feeling. Many of the verses would not be disowned by Praed, the master-genius of witty verse, or by Calverly, who wrote "Fly Leaves," a few years back.--_Boston Advertiser._
Bret Harte created quite a sensation in London society by reading these verses in manuscript.--_N. Y. Pub. Weekly._
The books contain some of the lightest and brightest bits of verse it has lately been our good fortune to lead.--_The Critic._
* * * * *
_WHENCE, WHAT, WHERE?_
_A VIEW OF THE ORIGIN, NATURE, AND DESTINY OF MAN._
BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D., A.M.
EXTRACTS FROM NOTICES BY THE PRESS.
_From Forney's Philadelphia Press._
"Dr. Nichols' essays will be found stimulating reading. No one can take up the book without feeling the inclination to read further and to ponder on the all-important subjects which they present. Though it is not a religious book in the technical sense of the word, it is a book which calls for the exercise of the religious nature, and it is a book which in diffusing many sensible ideas will be good."
_From Boston Commonwealth._
"The great value of the little book, 'Whence, What, Where?' by Dr. James R. Nichols, is in its suggestiveness. It is eminently provocative of thought. Its value is not to be tested by its bulk. It is full of clear thinking, and of accurate statement. Dr. Nichols is severely scientific, and, at the same time, devoutly spiritual. Its philosophy is largely that of Swedenborg, without Swedenborg's terrible diffusiveness. We have in it, concisely and clearly stated, all that the strictest scientific research warrants us in believing of man's origin, nature, and spiritual destiny. Science is shown to be not necessarily opposed to religion and to spirituality."
_From Boston Christian Register._
"The book is written in a clear style, and the author's opinions are readily understood. It is refreshing to have such a work from a scientific layman, on topics which too many treat with a supercilious disdain, unbecoming both themselves and the subject."
_From Boston Congregationalist._
"The topics discussed are handled with a good degree of candor, and give in a small space much interesting information and perhaps some profitable speculation."
_From the Lowell Mail._
"Its truths may be received as a new revelation from which consolation and happiness may be derived by those who have been troubled with doubts and misgivings."
End of Project Gutenberg's Annouchka, by Ivan Sergheievitch Turgenef