Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (158 page)

“And does your wife remember me?” I inquired.

“Yes, she remembers you,” he replied, with some slight hesitation. “Of course, she was a child, one may say, in those days; but her mother always spoke very highly of you, and you know how precious every word of her poor mother’s is to her.”

I recalled Madame Eltsov’s words, that I was not suitable for her Vera. . . . “I suppose
you
were suitable,” I thought, with a sidelong look at Priemkov. He spent some hours with me. He is a very nice, dear, good fellow, speaks so modestly, and looks at me so good - naturedly. One can’t help liking him . . . but his intellectual powers have not developed since we used to know him. I shall certainly go and see him, possibly to - morrow. I am exceedingly curious to see how Vera Nikolaevna has turned out.

You, spiteful fellow, are most likely laughing at me as you read this, sitting at your directors’ table. But I shall write and tell you, all the same, the impression she makes on me. Goodbye -
 
- till my next. -
 
- Yours,

P. B.

THIRD LETTER

From the SAME to the SAME

M -
 
-
 
-
 
- VILLAGE,
June
16, 1850.

WELL, my dear boy, I have been to her house; I have seen her. First of all I must tell you one astonishing fact: you may believe me or not as you like, but she has scarcely changed at all either in face or in figure. When she came to meet me, I almost cried out in amazement; it was simply a little girl of seventeen! Only her eyes are not a little girl’s; but then her eyes were never like a child’s, even in her young days, -
 
- they were too clear. But the same composure, the same serenity, the same voice, not one line on her brow, as though she had been laid in the snow all these years. And she’s twenty - eight now, and has had three children. . . . It’s incomprehensible! Don’t imagine, please, that I had some preconceived preference, and so am exaggerating; quite the other way; I don’t like this absence of change in her a bit.

A woman of eight - and - twenty, a wife and a mother, ought not to be like a little girl; she should have gained something from life. She gave me a very cordial welcome; but Priemkov was simply overjoyed at my arrival; the dear fellow seems on the look - out for some one to make much of. Their house is very cosy and clean. Vera Nikolaevna was dressed, too, like a girl; all in white, with a blue sash, and a slender gold chain on her neck. Her daughter is very sweet and not at all like her. She reminds one of her grandmother. In the drawing - room, just over a sofa, there hangs a portrait of that strange woman, a striking likeness. It caught my eye directly I went into the room. It seemed as though she were gazing sternly and earnestly at me. We sat down, spoke of old times, and by degrees got into conversation. I could not help continually glancing at the gloomy portrait of Madame Eltsov. Vera Nikolaevna was sitting just under it; it is her favourite place. Imagine my amazement: Vera Nikolaevna has never yet read a single novel, a single poem -
 
- in fact, not a single invented work, as she expresses it! This incomprehensible indifference to the highest pleasures of the intellect irritated me. In a woman of intelligence, and as far as I can judge, of sensibility, it’s simply unpardonable.

“What? do you make it a principle,” I asked, “never to read books of that sort?”

“I have never happened to,” she answered; “I haven’t had time!”

“Not time! You surprise me! I should have thought,” I went on, addressing Priemkov, “you would have interested your wife in poetry.”

“I should have been delighted -
 
-
 
-
 
- “ Priemkov was beginning, but Vera Nikolaevna interrupted him -
 
- “Don’t pretend; you’ve no great love for poetry yourself.”

“Poetry; well, no,” he began; “I’m not very fond of it; but novels, now. . . .”

“But what do you do, how do you spend your evenings?” I queried; “do you play cards?”

“We sometimes play,” she answered; “but there’s always plenty to do. We read, too; there are good books to read besides poetry.”

“Why are you so set against poetry?”

“I’m not set against it; I have been used to not reading these invented works from a child. That was my mother’s wish, and the longer I live the more I am convinced that everything my mother did, everything she said, was right, sacredly right.”

“Well, as you will, but I can’t agree with you; I am certain you are depriving yourself quite needlessly of the purest, the most legitimate pleasure. Why, you’re not opposed to music and painting, I suppose; why be opposed to poetry?”

“I’m not opposed to it; I have never got to know anything of it -
 
- that’s all.”

“Well, then, I will see to that! Your mother did not, I suppose, wish to prevent your knowing anything of the works of creative, poetic art all your life?”

“No; when I was married, my mother removed every restriction; it never occurred to me to read -
 
- what did you call them? well, anyway, to read novels.”

I listened to Vera Nikolaevna in astonishment. I had not expected this.

She looked at me with her serene glance. Birds look so when they are not frightened.

“I’ll bring you a book!” I cried. (I thought of
Faust,
which I had just been reading.)

Vera Nikolaevna gave a gentle sigh.

“It -
 
-
 
-
 
- it won’t be Georges -
 
- Sand?” she questioned with some timidity.

“Ah! then you’ve heard of her? Well, if it were, where’s the harm? . . . No, I’ll bring you another author. You’ve not forgotten German, have you?”

“No.”

“She speaks it like a German,” put in Priemkov.

“Well, that’s splendid! I will bring you -
 
- but there, you shall see what a wonderful thing I will bring you.”

“Very good, we shall see. But now let us go into the garden, or there’ll be no keeping Natasha still.”

She put on a round straw hat, a child’s hat, just such a one as her daughter was wearing, only a little larger, and we went into the garden. I walked beside her. In the fresh air, in the shade of the tall limes, I thought her face looked sweeter than ever, especially when she turned a little and threw back her head so as to look up at me from under the brim of her hat. If it had not been for Priemkov walking behind us, and the little girl skipping about in front of us, I could really have fancied I was three - and - twenty, instead of thirty - five; and that I was just on the point of starting for Berlin, especially as the garden we were walking in was very much like the garden in Madame Eltsov’s estate. I could not help expressing my feelings to Vera Nikolaevna.

“Every one tells me that I am very little changed externally,” she answered, “though indeed I have remained just the same inwardly too.”

We came up to a little Chinese summer - house.

“We had no summer - house like this at Osinovka,” she said; “but you mustn’t mind its being so tumbledown and discoloured: it’s very nice and cool inside.”

We went into the house. I looked round.

“I tell you what,Vera Nikolaevna,” I observed, “you let them bring a table and some chairs in here. Here it is really delicious. I will read you here Goethe’s
Faust
-
 
- that’s the thing I am going to read you.”

“Yes, there are no flies here,” she observed simply. “When will you come?”

“The day after to - morrow.”

“Very well,” she answered. “I will arrange it.”

Natasha, who had come into the summer - house with us, suddenly gave a shriek and jumped back, quite pale.

“What is it?” inquired Vera Nikolaevna.

“O mammy,” said the little girl, pointing into the corner, “look, what a dreadful spider!”

Vera Nikolaevna looked into the corner: a fat mottled spider was crawling slowly along the wall.

“What is there to fear in that?” she said. “It won’t bite, look.”

And before I had time to stop her, she took up the hideous insect, let it run over her hand, and threw it away.

“Well, you are brave!” I cried.

“Where is the bravery in that? It wasn’t a venomous spider.”

“One can see you are as well up in Natural History as ever, but I couldn’t have held it in my hand.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of!” repeated Vera Nikolaevna.

Natasha looked at us both in silence, and laughed.

“How like your mother she is!” I remarked.

“Yes,” rejoined Vera Nikolaevna with a smile of pleasure, “it is a great happiness to me. God grant she may be like her, not in face only!”

We were called in to dinner, and after dinner I went away.

N.B.
-
 
- The dinner was very good and well - cooked, an observation in parenthesis for you, you gourmand!

To - morrow I shall take them
Faust.
I’m afraid old Goethe and I may not come off very well. I will write and tell you all about it most exactly.

Well, and what do you think of all these proceedings? No doubt, that she has made a great impression on me, that I’m on the point of falling in love, and all the rest of it? Rubbish, my dear boy! There’s a limit to everything. I’ve been fool enough. No more! One can’t begin life over again at my age. Besides, I never did care for women of that sort. . . . Nice sort of women I did care for, if you come to that!!

“I shudder -
 
- my heart is sick -
 
-

I am ashamed of my idols.”

Any way, I am very glad of such neighbours, glad of the opportunity of seeing something of an intelligent, simple, bright creature. And as to what comes of it later on, you shall hear in due time -
 
- Yours,

P. B.

FOURTH LETTER

From the SAME to the SAME

M -
 
-
 
-
 
- VILLAGE,
June
20, 1850.

THE reading took place yesterday, dear friend, and here follows the manner thereof. First of all, I hasten to tell you: a success quite beyond all expectation -
 
- success, in fact, is not the word. . . . Well, I’ll tell you. I arrived to dinner. We sat down a party of six to dinner: she, Priemkov, their little girl, the governess (an uninteresting colourless figure), I, and an old German in a short cinnamon - coloured frock - coat, very clean, well - shaved and brushed; he had the meekest, most honest face, and a toothless smile, and smelled of coffee mixed with chicory . . . all old Germans have that peculiar odour about them. I was introduced to him; he was one Schimmel, a German tutor, living with the princes H., neighbours of the Priemkovs. Vera Nikolaevna, it appeared, had a liking for him, and had invited him to be present at the reading. We dined late, and sat a long while at table, and afterwards went a walk. The weather was exquisite. In the morning there had been rain and a blustering wind, but towards evening all was calm again. We came out on to an open meadow. Directly over the meadow a great rosy cloud poised lightly, high up in the sky; streaks of grey stretched like smoke over it; on its very edge, continually peeping out and vanishing again, quivered a little star, while a little further off the crescent of the moon shone white upon a background of azure, faintly flushed with red. I drew Vera Nikolaevna’s attention to the cloud.

“Yes,” she said, “that is lovely; but look in this direction.” I looked round. An immense dark - blue storm - cloud rose up, hiding the setting sun; it reared a crest like a thick sheaf flung upwards against the sky; it was surrounded by a bright rim of menacing purple, which in one place, in the very middle, broke right through its mighty mass, like fire from a burning crater. . . .

“There’ll be a storm,” remarked Priemkov.

But I am wandering from the main point.

I forgot to tell you in my last letter that when I got home from the Priemkovs’ I felt sorry I had mentioned
Faust;
Schiller would have been a great deal better for the first time, if it was to be something German. I felt especially afraid of the first scenes, before the meeting with Gretchen. I was not quite easy about Mephistopheles either. But I was under the spell of
Faust,
and there was nothing else I could have read with zest. It was quite dark when we went into the summer - house; it had been made ready for us the day before. Just opposite the door, before a little sofa, stood a round table covered with a cloth; easy - chairs and seats were placed round it; there was a lamp alight on the table. I sat down on the little sofa, and took out the book. Vera Nikolaevna settled herself in an easy - chair, a little way off, close to the door. In the darkness, through the door, a green branch of acacia stood out in the lamplight, swaying lightly; from time to time a flood of night air flowed into the room. Priemkov sat near me at the table, the German beside him. The governess had remained in the house with Natasha. I made a brief, introductory speech. I touched on the old legend of doctor Faust, the significance of Mephistopheles, and Goethe himself, and asked them to stop me if anything struck them as obscure. Then I cleared my throat. . . . Priemkov asked me if I wouldn’t have some sugar water, and one could perceive that he was very well satisfied with himself for having put this question to me. I refused. Profound silence reigned. I began to read, without raising my eyes. I felt ill at ease; my heart beat, and my voice shook. The first exclamation of sympathy came from the German, and he was the only one to break the silence all the while I was reading. . . . “Wonderful! sublime!” he repeated, adding now and then, “Ah! that’s profound.” Priemkov, as far as I could observe, was bored; he did not know German very well, and had himself admitted he did not care for poetry! . . . Well, it was his own doing! I had wanted to hint at dinner that his company could be dispensed with at the reading, but I felt a delicacy about saying so. Vera Nikolaevna did not stir; twice I stole a glance at her. Her eyes were fixed directly and intently upon me; her face struck me as pale. After the first meeting of Faust with Gretchen she bent forward in her low chair, clasped her hands, and remained motionless in that position till the end. I felt that Priemkov was thoroughly sick of it, and at first that depressed me, but gradually I forgot him, warmed up, and read with fire, with enthusiasm. . . . I was reading for Vera Nikolaevna alone; an inner voice told me that
Faust
was affecting her. When I finished (the intermezzo I omitted: that bit belongs in style to the second part, and I skipped part, too, of the “Night on the Brocken”) . . . when I finished, when that last “Heinrich!” was heard, the German with much feeling commented -
 
- “My God! how splendid!” Priemkov, apparently overjoyed (poor chap!), leaped up, gave a sigh, and began thanking me for the treat I had given them. . . . But I made him no reply; I looked towards Vera Nikolaevna. . . . I wanted to hear what she would say. She got up, walked irresolutely towards the door, stood a moment in the doorway, and softly went out into the garden. I rushed after her. She was already some paces off; her dress was just visible, a white patch in the thick shadow.

“Well?” I called -
 
- “didn’t you like it?”

She stopped.

“Can you leave me that book?” I heard her voice saying.

“I will present it you, Vera Nikolaevna, if you care to have it.”

“Thank you!” she answered, and disappeared.

Priemkov and the German came up to me.

“How wonderfully warm it is!” observed Priemkov; “it’s positively stifling. But where has my wife gone?”

“Home, I think,” I answered.

“I suppose it will soon be time for supper,” he rejoined. “You read splendidly,” he added, after a short pause.

“Vera Nikolaevna liked
Faust,
I think,” said I.

“No doubt of it!” cried Priemkov.

“Oh, of course!” chimed in Schimmel.

We went into the house.

“Where’s your mistress?” Priemkov inquired of a maid who happened to meet us.

“She has gone to her bedroom.”

Priemkov went off to her bedroom.

I went out on to the terrace with Schimmel. The old man raised his eyes towards the sky.

“How many stars!” he said slowly, taking a pinch of snuff; “and all are worlds,” he added, and he took another pinch.

I did not feel it necessary to answer him, and simply gazed upwards in silence. A secret uncertainty weighed upon my heart. . . . The stars, I fancied, looked down seriously at us. Five minutes later Priemkov appeared and called us into the dining - room. Vera Nikolaevna came in soon after. We sat down.

“Look at Verotchka,” Priemkov said to me.

I glanced at her.

“Well? don’t you notice anything?”

I certainly did notice a change in her face, but I answered, I don’t know why -
 
-

“No, nothing.”

“Her eyes are red,” Priemkov went on.

I was silent.

“Only fancy! I went upstairs to her and found her crying. It’s a long while since such a thing has happened to her. I can tell you the last time she cried; it was when our Sasha died. You see what you have done with your
Faust!
” he added, with a smile.

“So you see now, Vera Nikolaevna,” I began, “that I was right when -
 
-
 
-
 
- “

“I did not expect this,” she interrupted me; “but God knows whether you are right. Perhaps that was the very reason my mother forbade my reading such books, -
 
- she knew -
 
-
 
-
 
- “

Vera Nikolaevna stopped.

“What did she know?” I asked. “Tell me.”

“What for? I’m ashamed of myself as it is; what did I cry for? But we’ll talk about it another time. There was a great deal I did not quite understand.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I understood all the words, and the meaning of them, but -
 
-
 
-
 
- “

She did not finish her sentence, and looked away dreamily. At that instant there came from the garden the sound of rustling leaves, suddenly fluttering in the rising wind. Vera Nikolaevna started and looked round towards the open window.

“I told you there would be a storm!” cried Priemkov. “But what made you start like that, Verotchka?”

She glanced at him without speaking. A faint, far - off flash of lightning threw a mysterious light on her motionless face.

“It’s all due to your
Faust,
” Priemkov went on. “After supper we must all go to by - by. . . . Mustn’t we, Herr Schimmel?”

“After intellectual enjoyment physical repose is as grateful as it is beneficial,” responded the kind - hearted German, and he drank a wine - glass of vodka.

Immediately after supper we separated. As I said good - night to Vera Nikolaevna I pressed her hand; her hand was cold. I went up to the room assigned to me, and stood a long while at the window before I undressed and got into bed. Priemkov’s prediction was fulfilled; the storm came close, and broke. I listened to the roar of the wind, the patter and splash of the rain, and watched how the church, built close by, above the lake, at each flash of lightning stood out, at one moment black against a background of white, at the next white 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.