Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  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.

  FIFTH LETTER

  From the SAME to the SAME

  M - - - - VILLAGE, July 26, 1850.

  IT’S a long time since I wrote to you, dear Semyon Nicolaitch; more than a month, I think. I had enough to write about but I was overcome by laziness. To tell the truth, I have hardly thought of you all this time. But from your last letter to me I gather that you are drawing conclusions in regard to me, which are unjust, that is to say, not altogether just. You imagine I have fallen in love with Vera (I feel it awkward, somehow, to call her Vera Nikolaevna); you are wrong. Of course I see her often, I like her extremely . . . indeed, who wouldn’t like her? I should like to see you in my place. She’s an exquisite creature! Rapid intuition, together with the inexperience of a child, clear common - sense, and an innate feeling for beauty, a continual striving towards the true and the lofty, and a comprehension of everything, even of the vicious, even of the ridiculous, a soft womanly charm brooding over all this like an angel’s white wings But what’s the use of words! We have read a great deal, we have talked a great deal together during this month. Reading with her is a delight such as I had never experienced before. You seem to be discovering new worlds. She never goes into ecstasies over anything; anything boisterous is distasteful to her; she is softly radiant all over when she likes anything, and her face wears such a noble and good - - yes, good expression. From her earliest childhood Vera has not known what deceit was; she is accustomed to truth, it is the breath of her being, and so in poetry too, only what is true strikes her as natural; at once, without effort or difficulty, she recognises it as a familiar face . . . a great privilege and happiness. One must give her mother credit for it. How many times have I thought, as I watched Vera - - yes, Goethe was right, “the good even in their obscure striving feel always where the true path lies.” There is only one thing annoying - - her husband is always about the place. (Please don’t laugh a senseless guffaw, don’t sully our pure friendship, even in thought). He is about as capable of understanding poetry as I am of playing the flute, but he does not like to lag behind his wife, he wants to improve himself too. Sometimes she puts me out of patience herself; all of a sudden a mood comes over her; she won’t read or talk, she works at her embroidery frame, busies herself with Natasha, or with the housekeeper, runs off all at once into the kitchen, or simply sits with her hands folded looking out of the window, or sets to playing “fools” with the nurse . . . I have noticed at these times it doesn’t do to bother her; it’s better to bide one’s time till she comes up, begins to talk or takes up a book. She has a great deal of independence, and I am very glad of it. In the days of our youth, do you remember, young girls would sometimes repeat one’s own words to one, as they so well knew how, and one would be in ecstasies over the echo, and possibly quite impressed by it, till one realised what it meant? but this woman’s . . . not so; she thinks for herself. She takes nothing on trust; there’s no overawing her with authority; she won’t begin arguing; but she won’t give in either. We have discussed Faust more than once; but, strange to say, Gretchen she never speaks of, herself, she only listens to what I say of her. Mephistopheles terrifies her, not as the devil, but as “something which may exist in every man.” . . . These are her own words. I began trying to convince her that this “something” is what we call reflection; but she does not understand the word reflection in its German sense; she only knows the French “refléction,” and is accustomed to regarding it as useful. Our relations are marvellous! From a certain point of view I can say that I have a great influence over her, and am, as it were, educating her; but she too, though she is unaware of it herself is changing me for the better in many ways. It’s only lately, for instance - - thanks to her - - that I have discovered what an immense amount of conventional, rhetorical stuff there is in many fine and celebrated poetical works. What leaves her cold is at once suspect in my eyes. Yes, I have grown better, serener. One can’t be near her, see her, and remain the man one was.

  What will come of all this? you ask. I really believe - - nothing. I shall pass my time very delightfully till September and then go away. Life will seem dark and dreary to me for the first months . . . I shall get used to it. I know how full of danger is any tie whatever between a man and a young woman, how imperceptibly one feeling passes into another . . . I should have had the strength to break it off, if I had not been sure that we were both perfectly undisturbed. It is true one day something queer passed between us. I don’t know how or from what - - I remember we had been reading Oniegin - - I kissed her hand. She turned a little away, bent her eyes upon me (I have never seen such a look, except in her; there is dreaminess and intent attention in it, and a sort of sternness), . . . suddenly flushed, got up and went away. I did not succeed in being alone with her that day. She avoided me, and for four mortal hours she played cards with her husband, the nurse, and the governess! Next morning she proposed a walk in the garden to me. We walked all through it, down to the lake. Suddenly without turning towards me, she softly whispered - - “Please don’t do that again!” and instantly began telling me about something else. . . . I was very much ashamed.

  I must admit that her image is never out of my mind, and indeed I may almost say I have begun writing a letter to you with the object of having a reason for thinking and talking about her. I hear the tramp and neighing of horses; it’s my carriage being got ready. I am going to see them. My coachman has given up asking me where to drive to, when I get into my carriage - - he takes me straight off to the Priemkovs’. A mile and a half from their village, at an abrupt turn in the road, their house suddenly peeps out from behind a birch copse . . . Each time I feel a thrill of joy in my heart directly I catch the glimmer of its windows in the distance. Schimmel (the harmless old man comes to see them from time to time; the princes H - - - - , thank God, have only called once) . . . Schimmel, with the modest solemnity characteristic of him, said very aptly, pointing to the house where Vera lives: “That is the abode
of peace!” In that house dwells an angel of peace. . . .

  Cover me with thy wing,

  Still the throbbing of my heart,

  And grateful will be the shade

  To the enraptured soul. . . .

  But enough of this; or you’ll be fancying all sorts of things. Till next time . . . What shall I write to you next time, I wonder? - - Good - bye! By the way, she never says “Goodbye,” but always, “So, good - bye!” - - I like that tremendously. - - Yours, P. B.

  P.S. - - I can’t recollect whether I told you that she knows I wanted to marry her.

  SIXTH LETTER

  From the SAME to the SAME

  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.

&nbs
p; “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 he r 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. . . .