‘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.
‘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.