there, dropped his eyes, and shook his head, as though in confirmation of her words. I began questioning her, but soon noticed that this conversation was disagreeable to her. We began talking of imagination, of the power of imagination. I told them that in my youth I used to dream a great deal about happiness (the common occupation of people, who have not had or are not having good luck in life). Among other dreams, I used to brood over the bliss it would be to spend a few weeks, with the woman I loved, in Venice. I so often mused over this, especially at night, that gradually there grew up in my head a whole picture, which I could call up at will: I had only to close my eyes. This is what I imagined—night, a moon, the moonlight white and soft, a scent—of lemon, do you suppose? no, of vanilla, a scent of cactus, a wide expanse of water, a flat island overgrown with olives; on the island, at the edge of the shore, a small marble house, with open windows; music audible, coming from I know not where; in the house trees with dark leaves, and the light of a half-shaded lamp; from one window, a heavy velvet cloak, with gold fringe, hangs out with one end falling in the water; and with their arms on the cloak, sit he and she, gazing into the distance where Venice can be seen. All this rose as clearly before my mind as though I had seen it all with my own eyes. She listened to my nonsense, and said that she too often dreamed, but that her day-dreams were of a different sort: she fancied herself in the deserts of Africa, with some explorer, or seeking the traces of Franklin in the frozen Arctic Ocean. She vividly imagined all the hardships she had to endure, all the difficulties she had to contend with. . . .
«You have read a lot of travels,» observed her husband.
«Perhaps,» she responded; «but if one must dream, why need one dream of the unattainable?»
«And why not?» I retorted. «Why is the poor unattainable to be condemned?»
«I did not say that,» she said; «I meant to say, what need is there to dream of oneself, of one’s own happiness? It’s useless thinking of that; it does not come—why pursue it? It is like health; when you don’t think of it, it means that it’s there.»
These words astonished me. There’s a great soul in this woman, believe me. . . . From Venice the conversation passed to Italy, to the Italians. Priemkov went away, Vera and I were left alone.
«You have Italian blood in your veins too,» I observed.
«Yes,» she responded; «shall I show you the portrait of my grandmother?»
«Please do.»
She went to her own sitting-room, and brought out a rather large gold locket. Opening this locket, I saw excellently painted miniature portraits of Madame Eltsov’s father and his wife—the peasant woman from Albano. Vera’s grandfather struck me by his likeness to his daughter. Only his features, set in a white cloud of powder, seemed even more severe, sharp, and hard, and in his little yellow eyes there was a gleam of a sort of sullen obstinacy. But what a face the Italian woman had, voluptuous, open like a full-blown rose, with prominent, large, liquid eyes, and complacently smiling red lips! Her delicate sensual nostrils seemed dilating and quivering as after recent kisses. The dark cheeks seemed fragrant of glowing heat and health, the luxuriance of youth and womanly power . . . That brow had never done any thinking, and, thank God, she had been depicted in her Albanian dress! The artist (a master) had put a vine in her hair, which was black as pitch with bright grey high lights; this Bacchic ornament was in marvellous keeping with the expression of her face. And do you know of whom the face reminded me? My Manon Lescaut in the black frame. And what is most wonderful of all, as I looked at the portrait, I recalled that in Vera too, in spite of the utter dissimilarity of the features, there is at times a gleam of something like that smile, that look. . . .
Yes, I tell you again; neither she herself nor any one else in the world knows as yet all that is latent in her. . . .
By the way—Madame Eltsov, before her daughter’s marriage, told he r all her life, her mother’s death, and so on, probably with a view to her edification. What specially affected Vera was what she heard about her grandfather, the mysterious Ladanov. Isn’t it owing to that that she believes in apparitions? It’s strange! She is so pure and bright herself, and yet is afraid of everything dark and underground, and believes in it. . . .
But enough. Why write all this? However, as it is written, it may be sent off to you.—Yours,
P. B. SEVENTH LETTER
From the SAME to the SAME
M—- VILLAGE, August 22, 1850.
I TAKE up my pen ten days after my last letter . . . Oh my dear fellow, I can’t hide my feelings any longer! . . . How wretched I am! How I love her! You can imagine with what a thrill of bitterness I write that fatal word. I am not a boy, not a young man even; I am no longer at that stage when to deceive another is almost impossible, but to deceive oneself costs no effort. I know all, and see clearly. I know that I am just on forty, that she’s another man’s wife, that she loves her husband; I know very well that the unhappy feeling which has gained possession of me can lead to nothing but secret torture and an utter waste of vital energy—I know all that, I expect nothing, and I wish for nothing; but I am not the better off for that. As long as a month ago I began to notice that the attraction she has for me was growing stronger and stronger. This partly troubled me, and partly even delighted me . . . But how could I dream that everything would be repeated with me, which you would have thought could no more come again than youth can? What am I saying! I never loved like this, no, never! Manon Lescauts, Fritilions, these were my idols—such idols can easily be broken; but now . . . only now, I have found out what it is to love a woman. I feel ashamed even to speak of it; but it’s so. I’m ashamed . . . Love is egoism any way; and at my years it’s not permissible to be an egoist; at thirty-seven one cannot live for oneself; one must live to some purpose, with the aim of doing one’s duty, one’s work on earth. And I had begun to set to work. . . . And here everything is scattered to the winds again, as by a hurricane! Now I understand what I wrote to you in my first letter; I understand now what was the experience I had missed. How suddenly this blow has fallen upon me! I stand and look senselessly forward; a black veil hangs before my eyes; my heart is full of heaviness and dread! I can control myself, I am outwardly calm not only before others, but even in solitude. I can’t really rave like a boy! But the worm has crept into my heart, and gnaws it night and day. How will it end? Hitherto I have fretted and suffered when away from her, and in her presence was at peace again at once— now I have no rest even when I am with her, that is what alarms me. Oh my friend, how hard it is to be ashamed of one’s tears, to hide them! Only youth may weep; tears are only fitting for the young. . . .
I cannot read over this letter; it has been wrung from me involuntarily, like a groan. I can add nothing, tell you nothing . . . Give me time; I will come to myself, and possess my soul again; I will talk to you like a man, but now I am longing to lay my head on your breast and—-
Oh Mephistopheles! you too are no help to me! I stopped short of set purpose, of set purpose I called up what irony is in me, I told myself how ludicrous and mawkish these laments, these outbursts will seem to me in a year, in half a year . . . No, Mephistopheles is powerless, his tooth has lost its edge. . . . Farewell.—Yours,
P. B. EIGHTH LETTER
From the SAME to the SAME
M—- VILLAGE, September 8, 1850.
MY DEAR SEMYON NIKOLAITCH,—You have taken my last letter too much to heart. You know I have always been given to exaggerating my sensations. It’s done as it were unconsciously in me; a womanish nature! In the process of years this will pass away of course; but I admit with a sigh I have not corrected the failing so far. So set your mind at rest. I am not going to deny the impression made on me by Vera, but I say again, in all this there is nothing out of the way. For you to come here, as you write of doing, would be out of the question, quite. Post over a thousand versts, God knows with what object—why, it would be madness! But I am very grateful for this fresh proof of your affection,
