M---- VILLAGE, _August 10, 1850_.
Confess you are expecting a letter from me of despair or of rapture!…
Nothing of the sort. My letter will be like any other letter. Nothing
new has happened, and nothing, I imagine, possibly can happen. The
other day we went out in a boat on the lake. I will tell you about this
boating expedition. We were three: she, Schimmel, and I. I don’t know
what induces her to invite the old fellow so often. The H----s, I hear,
are annoyed with him for neglecting his lessons. This time, though, he
was entertaining. Priemkov did not come with us; he had a headache. The
weather was splendid, brilliant; great white clouds that seemed torn
to shreds over a blue sky, everywhere glitter, a rustle in the trees,
the plash and lapping of water on the bank, running coils of gold on
the waves, freshness and sunlight! At first the German and I rowed;
then we hoisted a sail and flew before the wind. The boat’s bow almost
dipped in the water, and a constant hissing and foaming followed the
helm. She sat at the rudder and steered; she tied a kerchief over her
head; she could not have kept a hat on; her curls strayed from under
it and fluttered in the air. She held the rudder firmly in her little
sunburnt hand, and smiled at the spray which flew at times in her face.
I was curled up at the bottom of the boat; not far from her feet. The
German brought out a pipe, smoked his shag, and, only fancy, began
singing in a rather pleasing bass. First he sang the old-fashioned
song: ‘Freut euch des Lebens,’ then an air from the ‘Magic Flute,’
then a song called the ‘A B C of Love.’ In this song all the letters
of the alphabet--with additions of course--are sung through in order,
beginning with ‘A B C D--Wenn ich dich seh!’ and ending with ‘U V W
X--Mach einen Knicks!’ He sang all the couplets with much expression;
but you should have seen how slily he winked with his left eye at the
word ‘Knicks!’ Vera laughed and shook her finger at him. I observed
that, as far as I could judge, Mr. Schimmel had been a redoubtable
fellow in his day. ‘Oh yes, I could take my own part!’ he rejoined
with dignity; and he knocked the ash out of his pipe on to his open
hand, and, with a knowing air, held the mouth-piece on one side in his
teeth, while he felt in the tobacco-pouch. ‘When I was a student,’ he
added, ‘o-oh-oh!’ He said nothing more. But what an o-oh-oh! it was!
Vera begged him to sing some students’ song, and he sang her: ‘Knaster,
den gelben,’ but broke down on the last note. Altogether he was quite
jovial and expansive. Meanwhile the wind had blown up, the waves began
to be rather large, and the boat heeled a little over on one side;
swallows began flitting above the water all about us. We made the sail
loose and began to tack about. The wind suddenly blew a cross squall,
we had not time to right the sail, a wave splashed over the boat’s
edge and flung a lot of water into the boat. And now the German proved
himself a man of spirit; he snatched the cord from me, and set the sail
right, saying as he did so--‘So macht man ins Kuxhaven!’
Vera was most likely frightened, for she turned pale, but as her way
is, she did not utter a word, but picked up her skirt, and put her feet
upon the crosspiece of the boat. I was suddenly reminded of the poem
of Goethe’s (I have been simply steeped in him for some time past) …
you remember?--‘On the waves glitter a thousand dancing stars,’ and I
repeated it aloud. When I reached the line: ‘My eyes, why do you look
down?’ she slightly raised her eyes (I was sitting lower than she; her
gaze had rested on me from above) and looked a long while away into the
distance, screwing up her eyes from the wind.… A light rain came on in
an instant, and pattered, making bubbles on the water. I offered her
my overcoat; she put it over her shoulders. We got to the bank--not at
the landing-place--and walked home. I gave her my arm. I kept feeling
that I wanted to tell her something; but I did not speak. I asked her,
though, I remember, why she always sat, when she was at home, under the
portrait of Madame Eltsov, like a little bird under its mother’s wing.
‘Your comparison is a very true one,’ she responded, ‘I never want to
come out from under her wing.’ ‘Shouldn’t you like to come out into
freedom?’ I asked again. She made no answer.
I don’t know why I have described this expedition--perhaps, because it
has remained in my memory as one of the brightest events of the past
days, though, in reality, how can one call it an event? I had such a
sense of comfort and unspeakable gladness of heart, and tears, light,
happy tears were on the point of bursting from my eyes.
Oh! fancy, the next day, as I was walking in the garden by the arbour,
I suddenly heard a pleasing, musical, woman’s voice singing--‘Freut
euch des Lebens!…’ I glanced into the arbour: it was Vera. ‘Bravo!’ I
cried; ‘I didn’t know you had such a splendid voice.’ She was rather
abashed, and did not speak. Joking apart, she has a fine, strong
soprano. And I do believe she has never even suspected that she has a
good voice. What treasures of untouched wealth lie hid in her! She does
not know herself. But am I not right in saying such a woman is a rarity
in our time?
_August 12._
We had a very strange conversation yesterday. We touched first upon
apparitions. Fancy, she believes in them, and says she has her
own reasons for it. Priemkov, who was sitting 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 her
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.