When her father was on friendly terms with mine, we
used to see her continually. She would sit with
us for hours at a time, either sewing, or spinning
with her delicate, rapid, clever fingers. She
was a well-made, rather thin girl, with intelligent
brown eyes and a long, white, oval face. She
talked little but sensibly in a soft, musical voice,
barely opening her mouth and not showing her teeth.
When she laughed—which happened rarely
and never lasted long—they were all suddenly
displayed, big and white as almonds. I remember
her gait, too, light, elastic, with a little skip
at each step. It always seemed to me that she
was going down a flight of steps, even when she was
walking on level ground. She held herself erect
with her arms folded tightly over her bosom.
And whatever she was doing, whatever she undertook,
if she were only threading a needle or ironing a petticoat—the
effect was always beautiful and somehow—you
may not believe it—touching. Her Christian
name was Raissa, but we used to call her Black-lip:
she had on her upper lip a birthmark; a little dark-bluish
spot, as though she had been eating blackberries;
but that did not spoil her: on the contrary.
She was just a year older than David. I cherished
for her a feeling akin to respect, but we were not
great friends. But between her and David a friendship
had sprung up, a strange, unchildlike but good friendship.
They somehow suited each other.
Sometimes they did not exchange a word for hours together,
but both felt that they were happy and happy because
they were together. I had never met a girl like
her, really. There was something attentive and
resolute about her, something honest and mournful and
charming. I never heard her say anything very
intelligent, but I never heard her say anything commonplace,
and I have never seen more intelligent eyes.
After the rupture between her family and mine I saw
her less frequently: my father sternly forbade
my visiting the Latkins, and she did not appear in
our house again. But I met her in the street,
in church and Black-lip always aroused in me the same
feeling—respect and even some wonder, rather
than pity. She bore her misfortunes very well
indeed. “The girl is flint,” even
coarse-witted, Trankvillitatin said about her once,
but really she ought to have been pitied: her
face acquired a careworn, exhausted expression, her
eyes were hollow and sunken, a burden beyond her strength
lay on her young shoulders. David saw her much
oftener than I did; he used to go to their house.
My father gave him up in despair: he knew that
David would not obey him, anyway. And from time
to time Raissa would appear at the hurdle fence of
our garden which looked into a lane and there have
an interview with David; she did not come for the
sake of conversation, but told him of some new difficulty
or trouble and asked his advice. The paralysis
that had attacked Latkin was of a rather peculiar kind.
Copyrights
Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
