A Lear of the Steppes and Other Stories

And before I had time to stop her, she took up the hideous insect, let it run over her hand, and threw it away.

'Well, you are brave!' I cried.

'Where is the bravery in that? It wasn't a venomous spider.'

'One can see you are as well up in Natural History as ever, but I couldn't have held it in my hand.'

'There's nothing to be afraid of!' repeated Vera Nikolaevna.

Natasha looked at us both in silence, and laughed.

'How like your mother she is!' I remarked.

'Yes,' rejoined Vera Nikolaevna with a smile of pleasure, 'it is a great happiness to me. God grant she may be like her, not in face only!'

We were called in to dinner, and after dinner I went away.

N.B.--The dinner was very good and well-cooked, an observation in parenthesis for you, you gourmand!

To-morrow I shall take them Faust. I'm afraid old Goethe and I may not come off very well. I will write and tell you all about it most exactly.

Well, and what do you think of all these proceedings? No doubt, that she has made a great impression on me, that I'm on the point of falling in love, and all the rest of it? Rubbish, my dear boy! There's a limit to everything. I've been fool enough. No more! One can't begin life over again at my age. Besides, I never did care for women of that sort. . . . Nice sort of women I did care for, if you come to that!! 'I shudder--my heart is sick--

I am ashamed of my idols.'

Any way, I am very glad of such neighbours, glad of the opportunity of seeing something of an intelligent, simple, bright creature. And as to what comes of it later on, you shall hear in due time--Yours,

P. B. FOURTH LETTER

From the SAME to the SAME

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