against a background of black, and then was swallowed up in the darkness again. . . But my thoughts were far away. I kept thinking of Vera Nikolaevna, of what she would say to me when she had read Faust herself, I thought of her tears, remembered how she had listened. . . .
The storm had long passed away, the stars came out, all was hushed around. Some bird I did not know sang different notes, several times in succession repeating the same phrase. Its clear, solitary voice rang out strangely in the deep stillness; and still I did not go to bed. . . .
Next morning, earlier than all the rest, I was down in the drawing-room. I stood before the portrait of Madame Eltsov. «Aha,» I thought, with a secret feeling of ironical triumph, «after all, I have read your daughter a forbidden book!» All at once I fancied—you have most likely noticed that eyes en face always seem fixed straight on any one looking at a picture—but this time I positively fancied the old lady moved them with a reproachful look on me.
I turned round, went to the window, and caught sight of Vera Nikolaevna. With a parasol on her shoulder and a light white kerchief on her head, she was walking about the garden. I went out at once and said good-morning to her.
«I didn’t sleep all night,» she said; «my head aches; I came out into the air—it may go off.»
«Can that be the result of yesterday’s reading?» I asked.
«Of course; I am not used to it. There are things in your book I can’t get out of my mind; I feel as though they were simply turning my head,» she added, putting her hand to her forehead.
«That’s splendid,» I commented; «but I tell you what I don’t like—I’m afraid this sleeplessness and headache may turn you against reading such things.»
«You think so?» she responded, and she picked a sprig of wild jasmine as she passed. «God knows! I fancy if one has once entered on that path, there is no turning back.»
She suddenly flung away the spray.
«Come, let us sit down in this arbour,» she went on; «and please, until I talk of it of my own accord, don’t remind me—of that book.» (She seemed afraid to utter the name Faust.)
We went into the arbour and sat down.
«I won’t talk to you about Faust,» I began; «but you will let me congratulate you and tell you that I envy you.»
«You envy me?»
«Yes; you, as I know you now, with your soul, have such delights awaiting you! There are great poets besides Goethe; Shakespeare, Schiller—and, indeed, our own Pushkin, and you must get to know him too.»
She did not speak, and drew in the sand with her parasol.
O, my friend, Semyon Nikolaitch! if you could have seen how sweet she was at that instant; pale almost to transparency, stooping forward a little, weary, inwardly perturbed—and yet serene as the sky! I talked, talked a long while, then ceased, and sat in silence watching her. . . . She did not raise her eyes, and went on drawing with her parasol and rubbing it out again. Suddenly we heard quick, childish steps; Natasha ran into the arbour. Vera Nikolaevna drew herself up, rose, and to my surprise she embraced her daughter with a sort of passionate tenderness. . . . That was not one of her ways. Then Priemkov made his appearance. Schimmel, that grey-haired but punctual innocent, had left before daybreak so as not to miss a lesson. We went in to morning tea.
But I am tired; it’s high time to finish this letter. It’s sure to strike you as foolish and confused. I feel confused myself. I’m not myself. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I am continually haunted by a little room with bare walls, a lamp, an open door, the fragrance and freshness of the night, and there, near the door, an intent youthful face, light white garments. . . . I understand now why I wanted to marry her: I was not so stupid, it seems, before my stay in Berlin as I had hitherto supposed. Yes, Semyon Nikolaitch, your friend is in a curious frame of mind. All this I know will pass off. . . and if it doesn’t pass off—well, what then? it won’t pass off and that’s all. But any way I am well satisfied with myself; in the first place, I have spent an exquisite evening; and secondly, if I have awakened that soul, who can blame me? Old Madame Eltsov is nailed up on the wall, and must hold her peace. The old thing! . . . I don’t know all the details of her life; but I know she ran away from her father’s house; she was not half Italian for nothing, it seems. She wanted to keep her daughter secure . . . we shall see.
I must put down my pen. You, jeering person, pray think what you like of me, only don’t jeer at me in writing. You and I are old friends, and ought to spare each other. Good-bye!—Yours
P. B.
FIFTH LETTER
From the SAME to the SAME
M—- VILLAGE, July 26, 1850.
IT’S a long time since I wrote to you, dear Semyon Nicolaitch; more than a month, I think. I had enough to write about but I was overcome by laziness. To tell the truth, I have hardly thought of you all this time. But from your last letter to me I gather that you are drawing conclusions in regard to me, which are unjust, that is to say, not altogether just. You imagine I have fallen in love with Vera (I feel it awkward, somehow, to call her Vera Nikolaevna); you are wrong. Of course I see her often, I like her extremely . . . indeed, who wouldn’t like her? I should like to see you in my place. She’s an exquisite creature! Rapid intuition, together with the inexperience of a child, clear common-sense, and an innate feeling for beauty, a continual striving towards the true and the lofty, and a comprehension of everything, even of the vicious, even of the ridiculous, a soft womanly charm brooding over all this like an angel’s white wings But what’s the use of words! We have read a great deal, we have talked a great deal together during this month. Reading with her is a delight such as I had never experienced before. You seem to be discovering new worlds. She never goes into ecstasies over anything; anything boisterous is distasteful to her; she is softly radiant all over when she likes anything, and her face wears such a noble and good—yes, good expression. From her earliest childhood Vera has not known what deceit was; she is accustomed to truth, it is the breath of her being, and so in poetry too, only what is true strikes her as natural; at once, without effort or difficulty, she recognises it as a familiar face . . . a great privilege and happiness. One must give her mother credit for it. How many times have I thought, as I watched Vera—yes, Goethe was right, «the good even in their obscure striving feel always where the true path lies.» There is only one thing annoying—her husband is always about the place. (Please don’t laugh a senseless guffaw, don’t sully our pure friendship, even in thought). He is about as capable of understanding poetry as I am of playing the flute, but he does not like to lag behind his wife, he wants to improve himself too. Sometimes she puts me out of patience herself; all of a sudden a mood comes over her; she won’t read or talk, she works at her embroidery frame, busies herself with Natasha, or with the housekeeper, runs off all at once into the kitchen, or simply sits with her hands folded looking out of the window, or sets to playing «fools» with the nurse . . . I have noticed at these times it doesn’t do to bother her; it’s better to bide one’s time till she comes up, begins to talk or takes up a book. She has a great deal of independence, and I am very glad of it. In the days of our youth, do you remember, young girls would sometimes repeat one’s own words to one, as they so well knew how, and one would be in ecstasies over the echo, and possibly quite impressed by it, till one realised what it meant? but this woman’s . . . not so; she thinks for herself. She takes nothing on trust; there’s no overawing her with authority; she won’t begin arguing; but she won’t give in either. We have discussed Faust more than once; but, strange to say, Gretchen she never speaks of, herself, she only listens to what I say of her. Mephistopheles terrifies her, not as the devil, but as «something which may exist in every man.» . . . These are her own words. I began trying to convince her that this «something» is what we call reflection; but she does not understand the word reflection in its German sense; she only knows the French «refléction,» and is accustomed to regarding it as useful. Our relations are marvellous! From a certain point of view I can say that I have a great influence over her, and am, as it were, educating her; but she too, though she is unaware of it herself is changing me for the better in many ways. It’s only
