A Lear of the Steppes and Other Stories

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 'reflection,' 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.