P---- VILLAGE, _March 10, 1853_.
I have been a long while without answering your letter; I have been all
these days thinking about it. I felt that it was not idle curiosity
but real friendship that prompted you, and yet I hesitated whether to
follow your advice, whether to act on your desire. I have made up my
mind at last; I will tell you everything. Whether my confession will
ease my heart as you suppose, I don’t know; but it seems to me I have
no right to hide from you what has changed my life for ever; it seems
to me, indeed, that I should be wronging--alas! even more wronging--the
dear being ever in my thoughts, if I did not confide our mournful
secret to the one heart still dear to me. You alone, perhaps, on earth,
remember Vera, and you judge of her lightly and falsely; that I cannot
endure. You shall know all. Alas! it can all be told in a couple
of words. All there was between us flashed by in an instant, like
lightning, and like lightning, brought death and ruin.… Over two years
have passed since she died; since I took up my abode in this remote
spot, which I shall not leave till the end of my days, and everything
is still as vivid in my memory, my wounds are still as fresh, my grief
as bitter.… I will not complain. Complaints rouse up sorrow and so ease
it, but not mine. I will begin my story.
Do you remember my last letter--the letter in which I tried to allay
your fears and dissuaded you from coming from Petersburg? You suspected
its assumed lightness of tone, you put no faith in our seeing each
other soon; you were right. On the day before I wrote to you, I had
learnt that I was loved. As I write these words, I realise how hard
it would be for me to tell my story to the end. The ever insistent
thought of her death will torture me with redoubled force, I shall
be consumed by these memories.… But I will try to master myself, and
will either throw aside the pen, or will say not a word more than is
necessary. This is how I learnt that Vera loved me. First of all I must
tell you (and you will believe me) that up to that day I had absolutely
no suspicion. It is true she had grown pensive at times, which had
never been the way with her before; but I did not know why this change
had come upon her. At last, one day, the seventh of September--a day
memorable for me--this is what happened. You know how I loved her
and how wretched I was. I wandered about like an uneasy spirit, and
could find no rest. I tried to keep at home, but I could not control
myself, and went off to her. I found her alone in her own sitting-room.
Priemkov was not at home, he had gone out shooting. When I went in to
Vera, she looked intently at me and did not respond to my bow. She
was sitting at the window; on her knees lay a book I recognised at
once; it was my _Faust_. Her face showed traces of weariness. I sat
down opposite her. She asked me to read aloud the scene of Faust with
Gretchen, when she asks him if he believes in God. I took the book and
began reading. When I had finished, I glanced at her. Her head leaning
on the back of her low chair and her arms crossed on her bosom, she was
still looking as intently at me.