Sketches from a Hunter's Album by Ivan Turgenev Page A

literally overjoyed. Her face became so happy I was frightened. “Don’t be frightened, don’t be frightened, death doesn’t worry me at all.” She suddenly raised herself and leant on one elbow. “Now… well, now I can tell you that I’m grateful to you from the bottom of my heart, that you’re a good, kind man and I love you…” I stared at her like an idiot and I felt real fright, you know… “Do you hear what I’m saying, I love you…” “Alexandra Andreyevna, I’m not worth it!” “No, no, you don’t understand me, you don’t understand…” And suddenly she stretched out her arms and seized me by the head and kissed me. Believe you me, I almost cried out. I flung myself on to my knees and buried my head in the pillows. She fell silent, her fingers quivering in my hair. I could hear her crying. I began comfortingher, trying to assure her – oh, I don’t know what it was I said to her! I said: “You’ll wake up the maid, Alexandra Andreyevna… Thank you, thank you, believe me… now be quiet.” “That’s enough of that, enough,” she went on saying. “God be with them, let them all wake up, let them all come in here, I don’t care, after all I’m going to die… What’s wrong with you, why d’you look so scared? Lift your head up… Or maybe you don’t love me, maybe I’ve made a mistake?… In that case forgive me.” “Alexandra Andreyevna, what’re you saying?… I love you, Alexandra Andreyevna.” She looked me straight in the eyes and opened her arms. “Hold me, then.” I’ll tell you in all honesty I don’t know how I didn’t go mad that night. I felt that my sick girl was driving herself crazy. I could see she wasn’t in her right mind and I realized that if she hadn’t thought herself about to die she wouldn’t have given me a single thought. You know, like it or not, it’s horrible to be dying at twenty-five years of age without ever having loved someone – and that’s what was driving her crazy, that’s why, out of desperation, she’d chosen me… Do you see now what I mean? Well, she wouldn’t let me out of her arms. “Have pity on me, Alexandra Andreyevna, and have pity on yourself,” I said. “Why?” she said. “What’s pity got to do with it? After all I’m going to die.” She repeated this again and again. “If I knew I’d be alive and again be a proper young lady, I’d be ashamed, really ashamed… but it’s not like that, is it?” “But who said you’re going to die?” “Oh, no, enough’s enough, you can’t fool me, you’re a poor liar, you’ve only got to look at yourself to see that.” “You will live, Alexandra Andreyevna, I’ll cure you. We’ll ask your mother’s permission… and we’ll get married and live happily ever after.” “No, no, I’ve got your word for it, I’ve got to die… you promised me… you told me…” It was a bitter thing for me, bitter for many reasons. You know how it is, sometimes little things happen which seem nothing at all, but they hurt. It occurred to her to ask me my name, not my surname but my forename. As bad luck would have it, I’d been given the name Tripthong. Yes, yes, Tripthong, Tripthong Ivanych. In that household they all called me “doctor”. There was nothing to be done about it, so I said: “Tripthong, milady.” She screwed up her eyes, shook her head and whispered something in French – oh, something impolite – and then laughed, which was also bad. Sothat’s how I spent practically the whole night with her. In the morning I left her room half out of my mind. I went back to her room in the afternoon, after tea. Oh, my God, oh, my God! I