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.