Ivan Turgenev..........................................................................................................................................1

I ARRIVED here three days ago, my dear friend, and, in accordance with my promise, I take up my pen to

write to thee. A fine rain has been drizzling down ever since morning; it is impossible to go out; and besides,

I want to have a chat with thee. Here I am again, in my old nest, in which I have not beendreadful to

sayfor nine whole years. Really, when one comes to think of it, I have become altogether another man.

Yes, actually, another man. Dost thou remember in the drawingroom the small, dark mirror of my

greatgrandmother, with those queer scrolls at the corners? Thou wert always meditating on what it had

beheld a hundred years ago. As soon as I arrived, I went to it, and was involuntarily disconcerted. I suddenly

perceived how I had aged and changed of late. However, I am not the only one who has grown old. My tiny

house, which was in a state of decrepitude long since, hardly holds itself upright now, and has sagged down,

and sunk into the ground. My good Vasílievna, the housekeeper (thou hast not forgotten her, I am sure: she

used to regale thee with such splendid preserves), has quite dried up and bent together. At sight of me, she

could not cry out, and she did not fall to weeping, but merely grunted and coughed, sat down exhausted on a

chair, and waved her hand in despair. Old Terénty is still alert, holds himself erect as of old, and as he walks

turns out his feet clad in the same yellow nankeen trousers, and shod with the same squeaking goat'sleather

shoes, with high instep and knots of ribbon, which evoked your emotions more than once.... But great

heavens!how loose those trousers now hang on his thin legs! how white his hair has grown! And his face

has all shrivelled up to the size of your fist; and when he talked with me, when he began to make

arrangements and issue orders in the adjoining room, I found him ridiculous, and yet I was sorry for him. All

On the other hand, the park has grown wonderfully beautiful: the little modest bushes of lilac, acacia, and

honeysuckle (you and I set them out, dost remember?) have grown up into magnificent, dense thickets; the

birches and maples have all spread upward and outward; the linden alleys in particular, have become very

fine. I love those alleys, I love their tender greygreen hue, and the delicate fragrance of the air beneath their

arches; I love the mottled network of circles of light on the dark earthI have no sand, as thou knowest. My

favourite oaksapling has already become a young oaktree. Yesterday, in the middle of the day, I sat for

more than an hour in its shade, on a bench. I felt greatly at my ease. Round about the grass gleamed so

merrily green; over all lay a golden light, strong and soft; it even penetrated into the shade .... and how many

birds I heard! Thou hast not forgotten, I trust, that birds are my passion! The turtledoves cooed incessantly,

now and then an oriole whistled, a chaffinch executed its charming song, thrushes waxed angry and chattered,

a cuckoo answered from afar; suddenly, like a madman, a woodpecker uttered a piercing scream. I listened,

listened to all this soft, commingled din, and did not want to move, and in my heart was something which

And the park is not the only thing that has grown up; sturdy, robust lads, in whom I should never have

recognised the little urchins whom I used to know, are constantly coming under my eye. And thy favourite,

Timósha, has now become such a Timofyéi as thou canst not picture to thyself. Thou hadst fears for his

health then, and predicted consumption for him; but thou shouldst take a look now at his huge, red hands, and

the way they stick out from the tight sleeves of his nankeen coat, and what round, thick muscles stand out all

over him! The nape of his neck is like that of a bull, and his head is all covered with round, blond curls,a

regular Farnese Hercules! His face has undergone less change, however, than the faces of the others have; it

has not even increased greatly in size, and his cheery, "gaping" smile, as thou wert wont to express it, has

remained the same as of yore. I have taken him for my valet; I discarded my Petersburg valet in Moscow: he

was altogether too fond of putting me to shame, and making me feel his superiority in the usages of the

I have not found a single one of my dogs; they are all dead. Néfta alone outlived the restand even she did

not survive till my arrival, as Argos waited for Ulysses; she was not fated to behold her former master and

comrade of the hunt with her dimmed eyes. But Shávka is still sound, and still barks hoarsely, and one ear is

I have established myself in thy former chamber. The sun strikes on it, it is true, and there are a great many

flies in it; but, on the other hand, it has less of the odour of an old house about it than the other rooms. 'T is

strange! that musty, somewhat sour and withered odour acts powerfully on my imagination. I will not say that

it is disagreeable to meon the contrary; but it evokes in me sadness, and, eventually, dejection. Like

thyself, I am very fond of the potbellied chests of drawers with their brass fastenings, the white armchairs

with oval backs and curved legs, the glass chandeliers covered with flyspecks, with the huge egg of purple

tinsel in the middle,in a word, all sorts of furniture belonging to our grandfathers; but I cannot look at all

this constantly: a sort of perturbed tedium (precisely that!) takes possession of me. In the room where I have

settled myself, the furniture is of the most ordinary description, homemade; but I have left in one corner a

tall, narrow cupboard with shelves, on which, athwart the dust are barely visible divers oldfashioned,

potbellied vessels, of blue and green glass. And I have given orders that there shall be hung on the

wall,thou wilt recall it,that portrait of a woman, in the black frame, which thou wert wont to call the

portrait of Manon Lescaut. It has grown a little darker in these nine years; but the eyes look forth as

pensively, slily, and tenderly as ever, and the lips smile in the same frivolous and mournful way as of old, and

the halfstripped rose dangles as softly as ever from the slender fingers. The windowshades in my room

amuse me greatly. Once upon a time they used to be green, but have grown yellow in the sunlight. Upon

them, in black, are painted scenes from d'Arlincourt's "Hermit." On one shade, this hermit, with the biggest

sort of a beard, staringlyprominent eyes, and in sandals, is dragging off to the mountains some dishevelled

young lady or other; on the other shade, a fierce combat is in progress between four knights in skullcaps,

and with puffs on their shoulders; one is lying, en raccourci, slainin short, all the horrors are depicted, and

all around reigns such undisturbed tranquillity, and such gentle reflections are cast on the ceiling from the

shades themselves.... A sort of spiritual quietude has descended upon me since I have established myself here.

I do not want to do anything; I do not want to see any one, to meditate about anything. I am too indolent to

speculate; but not too indolent to think; but thinking is not indolence; they are two separate things, as thou art

At first the memories of my childhood invaded me.... Wheresoever I went, whatsoever I looked at, they

surged up from every direction, clear, clear to the most minute details, and motionless, as it were, in their

distinct definiteness...Then those memories were succeeded by others; then . . . then I softly turned away from

the past, and there remained nothing in my breast save a sort of dreamy burden. Just imagine! As I sat on the

dam, under the willow, I suddenly fell to weeping, quite unexpectedly; and would have wept for a long time,

in spite of my advanced age, had I not been mortified by a passing peasantwife, who stared at me with

curiosity, then, without turning her head toward me, made a straight, low obeisance, and walked past. I

should have liked greatly to remain in that frame of mind (I shall not weep any more, of course) until my

departure hence, that is to say, until the month of September; and I shall be very much chagrined, if any one

of the neighbours should take it into his head to call on me. However, apparently, there is nothing to fear in

that quarter; for I have no near neighbours. Thou wilt understand me, I am convinced; thou knowest, from

thine own experience, how beneficial solitude often is.... I need it now, after all sorts of wanderings.

But I shall not be bored. I have brought with me several books, and I have a very fair library here. Yesterday I

opened the cases, and rummaged for a long time among the musty books. I found many curious things, which

I had not noticed before: "Candide," in a manuscript translation of the '70s; newspapers and journals of the

same period; "The Triumphant Chameleon" (that is to say, Mirabeau); "Le Paysan Perverti," and so forth. I

came upon some children's books, my own, and those of my father, and my grandmother, and, evenjust

fancy!of my greatgrandmother. On one very, very ancient French grammar, in a gay binding, was written

in large letters: "Ce livre appartient a Mlle Eudoxie de Lavrine," and the year was added1741. I saw

books which I had brought from abroad some time or other; among others, Goethe's "Faust." Perhaps thou art

not aware that there was a time when I knew "Faust" by heart (the first part, of course), word for word; I

could not read it enough to satisfy myself.... But, other times, other dreams, and in the course of the last nine

years I don't believe I have taken Goethe in my hand a single time. With what an inexpressible feeling did I

behold the little book, but too familiar to me (a bad edition of 1828). I carried it off with me, lay down on my

bed, and began to read. What an effect the whole magnificent first scene had upon me! The appearance of the

Spirit of Earth, his words; thou rememberest: "On the billows of life, in the whirlwind of action," aroused

within me the trepidation and chill of rapture which I have not experienced for many a day. I recalled

everything: Berlin, and my student days, and Fräulein Klara Schtik, and Zeidelmann, in the part of

Mephistopheles, and everything and every one.... For a long time I could not get to sleep; my youth came and

stood before me, like a ghost; like a fire, like a poison, it coursed through my veins; my heart expanded and

refused to contract; something swept across its strings, and desires began to seethe.....

Such were the reveries to which thy friend, aged almost forty, surrendered himself as he sat solitary, in his

isolated little house! What if some one had seen me? Well,what if they had? I should not have been in the

least ashamed. To feel ashamed is also a sign of youth; but I have begun to notice that I am growing old, and

knowest thou why? This is the reason. I now try to magnify to myself my cheerful sensations, and to belittle

the mournful ones, while in the days of youth I proceeded on the diametrically opposite plan. One goes about

then hoarding his sorrow as though it were a treasure, and is ashamed of a cheerful impulse....

And nevertheless, it seems to me that, notwithstanding all my experience of life, there is still something more

in the world, friend Horatio, that I have not experienced, and that that "something" is about the most

Ekh, how I have run on! Farewell! until another time. What art thou doing in Petersburg? By the way: Savély,

my rustic cook, asks to be remembered to thee. He also has grown old, but not too much so, has waxed fat

and somewhat potbellied. He makes just as well as of old, chicken soup with boiled onions, curdcakes with

fancy edges, and pigus,(1) the famous dish of the steppes, which made thy tongue turn white, gave thee

indigestion, and stood like a stake through thee for fourandtwenty hours. On the other hand, he dries up the

roasts, as of old, to such a point, that you might bang them against the platethey are regular cardboard. But

I HAVE a rather important bit of news to communicate to thee, my dear friend.Listen! Yesterday, before

dinner, I took a fancy for a stroll,only not in the park; I walked along the road leading to town. It is very

pleasant to walk on a long, straight road, without any object, and with long strides. One seems to be engaged

in business, hastening somewhere or other.I look: a calash is driving to meet me. "Is n't it coming to my

But, no; in the calash sits a gentleman with a moustache, a stranger to me. I recover my equanimity. But

suddenly this gentleman, on coming alongside of me, orders his coachman to stop the horses, courteously

lifts his cap, and with still greater courtesy asks me: "Am not I soandso?" calling me by name. I, in turn,

come to a halt, and with the animation of a criminal being conducted to his trial, reply: "I am soandso,"

and stare the while, like a sheep, at the gentleman with the moustache, thinking to myself: "Why, I certainly

"You do not recognise me?"he enunciates, alighting in the meantime, from the calash.

One word follows another; it turns out that he is Priímkoff,dost thou remember? Our old comrade in the

university. "What important bit of news is this?" thou art thinking at this moment, my dear Semyón

Nikoláitch."Priímkoff, so far as I recollect, was a rather frivolous fellow, although neither malicious nor

stupid."All that is so, my dear friend; but listen to the continuation of my tale.

"I was greatly delighted," says he, "when I heard that you had come to your village, to our neighbourhood.

So this is that same important piece of news, of which I spoke to thee at the beginning of my letter.

But perhaps thou wilt not discern anything important about it.....I must narrate to thee somewhat of my

When we, thou and I, came out of the university, I was twentytwo years of age. Thou didst enter the

government service; I, as thou art aware, decided to betake myself to Berlin. But there was nothing to do in

Berlin before October. I wanted to spend the summer in Russia, in the country, to have my fill of lounging for

the last time; and then to set to work in sober earnest. As to how far this last project was executed, I will not

dilate at present.... "But where shall I spend the summer?" I asked myself. I did not wish to go to my own

countryplace: my father had recently died, I had no near relatives, I dreaded solitude, tedium.... And

therefore, I joyfully accepted the suggestion of one of my relatives, my greatuncle, that I should visit him on

his estate, in the T*** Government. He was a wealthy man, kindhearted and simple, lived in fine style, and

had a manor worthy of a nobleman. I established myself in his house. My uncle had a large family: two sons

and five daughters. In addition to these, there dwelt in his house a throng of people. Guests were incessantly

arriving,and, nevertheless, things were not cheerful. The days flowed by noisily; there was no possibility

of isolating one's self. Everything was done in company; everybody tried to divert themselves in some way,

to devise something, and by the end of the day everybody was frightfully tired. This life had a commonplace

savour. I had already begun to meditate departure, and was only waiting until my uncle's Nameday should

arrive; but on that very daythe NamedayI saw Vyéra Nikoláevna Éltzoff at the ball,and remained.

She was then sixteen. She lived with her mother on a tiny estate, about five versts from my uncle's. Her

fathera remarkable man, they sayhad speedily attained to the rank of colonel, and would have risen still

higher, but perished while yet a young man, accidentally shot in hunting by a comrade. Vyéra Nikoláevna

was a child when he died. Her mother, also, was a remarkable woman: she spoke several languages, she knew

a great deal. She was seven or eight years older than her husband, whom she had married for love; he had

secretly carried her off from her father's house. She barely survived his loss, and until her own death

(according to Priímkoff's statement, she died soon after her daughter's marriage) she wore black garments

only. I vividly recall her face: expressive, dark, with thick hair sprinkled with grey, large stern eyes which

seemed extinguished, and a straight, delicate nose. Her fatherhis surname was Ladánoffhad lived for

fifteen years in Italy. Vyéra Nikoláevna's mother had ben born the daughter of a plain peasantwoman of

Albano, who had been killed on the day after the birth of her child, by a man of Transtevere, her betrothed,

from whom Ladánoff had stolen her.... This story had made a great noise in its day. On his return to Russia,

Ladánoff not only did not step out of his house, but even out of his study, busied himself with chemistry,

anatomy, the cabalistic art; tried to lengthen the life of mankind, and imagined that he could enter into

relations with spirits, and call up the dead.... The neighbours looked on him as a wizard. He was extremely

fond of his daughter, taught her everything himself; but did not forgive her for her elopement with Éltzoff,

would not admit her to his presence, either her or her husband, foretold a sorrowful life for both of them, and

died alone. On being left a widow, Madame Éltzoff consecrated her leisure to the education of her daughter,

and received almost no one. When I made the acquaintance of Vyéra Nikoláevna,just imagine it!she had

Vyéra Nikoláevna did not resemble the ordinary young Russian gentlewoman; a sort of special stamp lay

upon her. What instantly impressed me in her was the wonderful repose of all her movements and remarks.

Apparently, she did not worry about anything, did not get excited, answered simply and sensibly, and listened

attentively. The expression of her face was sincere and upright, as that of a child, but somewhat cold and

monotonous, although not pensive. She was rarely merry, and then not like other people: the clarity of an

innocent soul, more delightful than merriment, glowed in all her being. She was short of stature, very well

made, rather thin; she had regular and tender features, a very handsome, smooth brow, goldenchestnut hair,

a straight nose, like her mother, and quite full lips; her grey eyes, with a tinge of black, looked out somewhat

too directly from beneath her thick, upwardcurling lashes. Her hands were small, but not very pretty; people

who possess talent do not have such hands .... and, as a matter of fact, Vyéra Nikoláevna had no particular

talents. Her voice was as ringing as that of a sevenyearold girl. At my uncle's ball I was introduced to her

Madame Éltzoff was a very strange woman, with a great deal of character, persistent and concentrated. She

exerted a strong influence on me: I both respected and feared her. With her everything was done on a system;

and she had reared her daughter on a system, but did not restrain her of her liberty. Her daughter loved her

and believed in her blindly. It sufficed for Madame Éltzoff to give her a book, and to say: "Here, don't read

this page,"and she would, probably, skip the preceding page, but would not even glance at the forbidden

one. But Madame Éltzoff had also her idées fixes, her hobbies. For example, she feared everything which

might act on the imagination, as she did fire; and therefore her daughter, up to the age of seventeen, had not

read a single poem, while in geography, history, and even natural history, she frequently nonplussed me, a

university graduate, and not one who had stood low in his class either, as thou wilt, perhaps, remember. I

once undertook to argue with Madame Éltzoff about her hobby, although it was difficult to draw her into

"You say,"she remarked at last,"that it is both useful and agreeable to read poetical productions.... I

think that one should, as early as possible, make a choice in life either of the useful or of the agreeable, and so

make up one's mind once for all. I, also, once upon a time, tried to combine the two things.... It is impossible

Yes, a wonderful being was that woman, an honourable, proud being, not devoid of fanaticism and

superstition of a certain sort. "I fear life,"she said to me one day.And, in fact, she did fear it,she

feared those secret forces upon which life is erected, and which rarely but suddenly make their way to the

surface. Woe to the person over whose head they break! These forces had made themselves felt by Madame

Éltzoff in a terrible manner: remember the death of her mother, her husband, her father.... It was enough to

terrify any one. I never saw her smile. She seemed to have locked herself up, and flung the key into the water.

She must have gone through a great deal of sorrow in her day, and she never shared it with any one

whomsoever. She had trained herself not to give way to her feelings to such a degree, that she was even

ashamed to display her passionate love for her daughter; she never once kissed her in my presence, never

called her by a pet name, but always "Vyéra." I remember one remark of hers. I happened to say to her that

all we people of the present day were halfbroken.... "There 's no use in breaking one's self so,"she

Very few persons called at Madame Éltzoff's; but I visited her frequently. I was secretly conscious that she

felt kindly toward me; and I liked Vyéra Nikoláevna very much. She and I chatted and strolled together....

Her mother did not interfere with us; the daughter herself did not like to be apart from her mother, and I, on

my side, did not feel any need of solitary conversations.... Vyéra Nikoláevna had a strange habit of thinking

aloud; at night she talked loudly and intelligibly in her sleep of what had impressed her during the day.One

day, after scanning me attentively, and, according to her wont, softly propping her chin on her hand, she said:

"It strikes me that B*** is a good man; but one cannot rely on him." Our relations were of the most friendly

and even character; only one day it seemed to me that I noticed far away, somewhere in the depths of her

bright eyes, a strange something, a sort of softness and tenderness.... But perhaps I was mistaken.

In the meanwhile, time passed on, and the day came when I was obliged to make preparations for departure.

But still I tarried. As I recall it, I persisted in thinking that I should not soon see again that charming girl, to

whom I had grown so attachedand I should feel uncomfortable.... Berlin began to lose its power of

attraction. I did not dare to admit to myself what had taken place in me,and I did not understand what it

was that had taken place in me,it was as though a mist were roving about in my soul. At last, one morning,

everything suddenly became clear to me. "What 's the use of seeking further?"I thought. "Why should I

strive onward? For the truth will not surrender itself into my hands, all the same. Would it not be better to

remain here? Ought not I to marry?" and, just imagine, this thought of marriage did not alarm me in the least

then. On the contrary, I was delighted at it. More than that; that very same day, I avowed my intentions, only

"No,"said she:"my dear fellow, go to Berlin, and break yourself a little more. You are good; but you are

I cast down my eyes, flushed scarlet, andwhat will probably amaze thee still moreI inwardly agreed

with Madame Éltzoff on the spot. A week later I took my departure, and have never seen either her or Vyéra

I have described to thee my adventure in brief, because I know that thou dost not like anything "

longdrawnout." On arriving in Berlin, I very promptly forgot Vyéra Nikoláevna.... But, I must confess, that

the unexpected news of her has agitated me. I have been impressed by the thought that she is so near, that she

is my neighbour, that I shall see her in a few days. The past has suddenly started up before me, as though it

had sprung out of the earth, and were fairly swooping down on me. Priímkoff informed me that he had called

upon me with the express purpose of renewing our ancient acquaintance, and that he hoped to see me at his

house very shortly. He informed me that he had served in the cavalry, had retired with the rank of lieutenant,

purchased an estate eight versts distant from mine, and was intending to occupy himself with farming, that he

had had three children, but two of them had died, and only a fiveyearold daughter was left.

"Yes, she does,"he replied with a slight hesitation."Of course, she was then a child, so to speak; but her

mother always praised you highly, and you know how she prizes every word of the deceased."

Madame :Éltzoff's words, that I was not a suitable husband for Vyéra, recurred to my memory.... "So thou

wert suitable,"I thought, darting a sidelong glance at Priímkoff. He spent several hours at my house. He is

a very good, nice fellow, he talks very modestly, has a very goodnatured gaze; one cannot help liking him

.... but his intellectual faculties have not developed since the period of our acquaintance with him. I shall go

to see him without fail, tomorrow, perhaps. I shall find it extremely interesting to see how Vyéra

Thou art, probably, laughing at me now, thou rascal, as thou sittest at thy director's table; but nevertheless, I

shall write to thee what impression she makes on me. Farewell! Until the next letter.

WELL, my dear fellow, I have been at her house, I have seen her. First of all, I must communicate to thee a

remarkable circumstance: believe me or not, as thou wilt, but she has hardly changed at all, either in face or

in figure. When she came out to greet me, I almost exclaimed aloud: a young girl of seventeen, and that 's all

there is to be said! Only, her eyes are not like those of a little girl; however, even in her youth she did not

have childish eyes, they were too bright. But there is the same composure, the same serenity, the same voice,

not a single wrinkle on her brow, just as though she had been lying somewhere in the snow all these years.

And now she is twentyeight years old, and has had three children. . . 'T is incomprehensible! Pray, do not

think that I am exaggerating out of prejudice; on the contrary, this immutability in her does not please me. A

woman of eightandtwenty, a wife and a mother, ought not to look like a young girl; for she has not lived in

vain. She greeted me very cordially; but my arrival simply enraptured Priímkoff; that good fellow looks as

though he would like to get attached to some one. Their house is very comfortable and clean. Vyéra

Nikoláevna was dressed like a young girl, also; all in white, with a skyblue sash, and a slender gold chain on

her neck. Her little daughter is very charming, and does not resemble her in the least; she reminds one of her

grandmother. In the drawingroom, over the divan, hangs a portrait of that strange woman, a striking

likeness. It caught my eye the moment I entered. She seemed to be staring sternly and attentively at me. We

sat down, recalled old times, and gradually got into conversation. I kept involuntarily glancing at the gloomy

portrait of Madame Éltzoff. Vyéra Nikoláevna was sitting directly under it; it is her favourite place. Fancy my

amazement! To this day, Vyéra Nikoláevna has not read a single romance, a single poemin short, as she

expresses it, a single work of fiction! This incredible indifference to the loftiest joys of the mind enraged me.

In a sensible woman, and one who, so far as I can judge, possesses delicate feelings, this is simply

"Not had the time! I am astonished! You might at least have inspired your wife with a wish to do so,"I

"It would have given me great pleasure ...." Priímkoff began, but Vyéra Nikoláevna interrupted him.

"But what do you do, how do you occupy yourselves evenings?"I inquired."Do you play cards?"

"Sometimes we do,"she replied:"but is n't there plenty to occupy us? We read, also; there are good

"I don't attack it; I have been accustomed from my childhood not to read works of fiction; my mother thought

that was proper, and the longer I live, the more convinced do I become that everything which my mother did,

"Well, as you like; but I cannot agree with you. I am convinced that you do wrong in depriving yourself of

the purest, the most lawful enjoyment. Surely, you do not reject music, painting; then why should you reject

"I do not reject it. Up to the present time I have not made acquaintance with itthat is all."

"Then I shall take the matter in hand! Surely, your mother did not forbid you to acquaint yourself with the

"No; when I married, my mother removed all restrictions from me; it has never entered my head to read ....

She gazed at me with her tranquil look. That is the way birds gaze, when they are not afraid.

"I will bring you a book!"I exclaimed. (The thought of "Faust," which I had recently read, flashed through

"Ah! so you have heard of her? Well, and what if it were she, where 's the harm? . . . No; I shall bring you

"Well, that 's fine! I shall bring you . . . but there now, you shall see what a marvellous thing I shall bring

"Well, very good, I shall see. And now let us go into the garden, for Natásha will not be able to sit quietly

She put on a round straw hat, a child's hat, exactly like the one which her daughter donned, only a little

larger, and we betook ourselves to the garden. I walked by her side. In the fresh air, in the shadow of the lofty

lindens, her face seemed to me more charming than ever, especially when she turned slightly and threw back

her head in order to look up at me from under the brim of her hat. Had it not been for Priímkoff, had it not

been for the little girl who was skipping on in front of us, I really might have thought that I was not

thirtyfive years of age, but threeandtwenty; that I was only just making ready to set out for Berlin; the

more so, as the garden in which we were greatly resembled the garden on Madame Éltzoff's estate. I could

"Everybody tells me that I have changed very little in outward appearance,"she replied:"moreover, I

"There, we did not have such a little house at Ósinovko,"she said:"but you must not mind its being so

"Do you know what, Vyéra Nikoláevna,"I said:"order a table and a few chairs to be brought hither

before I come. It really is extraordinarily nice here. I will read aloud to you here.... Goethe's 'Faust' .... that is

"Yes; there are no flies here,"she remarked ingenuously;"but when shall you come?"

Natásha, who had entered the house in company with us, suddenly uttered a scream, and sprang back, all

"Akh, mamma,"said the little girl, pointing at one corner,"look, what a dreadful spider! . . . ."

Vyéra Nikoláevna glanced at the corner; a huge, mottled spider was crawling quietly along the wall.

And before I could stop her, she took the hideous insect in her hand, let it run about on her palm, and flung it

"Evidently, as of old, you are strong in natural history. I would n't have taken it in my hand."

"Yes,"replied Vyéra Nikoláevna, with a smile of satisfaction;"that delights me greatly. God grant that

We were summoned to dinner, and after dinner I took my departure. N.B. The dinner was very good and

savoury.I make this remark in parenthesis, for thy benefit, thou sponger! Tomorrow I shall carry "Faust"

to them. I 'm afraid that old Goethe and I shall suffer defeat. I will describe everything to thee in detail.

Come now, what thinkest thou about all "these events"? Probably, that she has made a powerful impression

on me, that I am ready to fall in love, and so forth? Nonsense, my dear fellow! It is high time for me to

exercise moderation. I have played the fool long enough; finis! One cannot begin life over again at my age.

Moreover, even in former days, I never liked women of that sort.... But what women I did like!!

In any case, I am very glad of these neighbours, I am glad of the possibility of meeting a sensible, simple,

THE reading took place yesterday, my dear friend, and as to the precise manner of it, details follow. First of

all, I make haste to say, it was an unexpected success .... that is, "success" is not the word for it.... Come,

listen. I arrived for dinner. There were six of us at table: she, Priímkoff, her little daughter, the governess (an

insignificant little white figure), I, and some old German or other, in a short, lightbrown frockcoat, neat,

wellshaven, experienced, with the most peaceable and honest of faces, a toothless smile, and an odour of

chicory coffee .... all old Germans smell like that. He was introduced to me; he was a certain Schimmel, a

teacher of the German language in the family of Prince X***, a neighbour of Priímkoff. It appears that he is a

favourite of Vyéra Nikoláevna's, and she had invited him to be present at the reading. We dined late and did

not leave the table for a long time; then we went for a stroll. The weather was magnificent. It had rained in

the morning, and the wind had been blowing; but toward evening everything had quieted down. She and I

emerged into an open glade. Directly above this glade, a large, rosy cloud hung high and light; grey streaks,

like smoke, stretched across it; on its extreme edge twinkled a tiny star, now appearing, now disappearing,

while a little further off the white sickle of the moon was visible against the faintly crimsoned azure. I

"Yes,"she said:"it is very beautiful; but look yonder."I looked. A huge, darkblue stormcloud was

ascending like smoke, and concealing the setting sun; in aspect, it presented the likeness of a mountain

spouting fire; its crest was spread athwart the sky in a broad sheaf; an ominous crimson glow surrounded it

with a brilliant border, and in one spot, at the very centre of it, forced its way through the heavy mass, as

But I am getting away from the main point.In my last letter I forgot to tell thee that on my return home

from the Priímkoffs', I repented of having named "Faust" in particular; Schiller would have been much more

suitable for a first reading, if it must be a German. I was particularly alarmed by the first scene, before the

acquaintance with Gretchen; I was uneasy on the score of Mephistopheles also. But I was under the influence

of "Faust," and could not have read anything else with good will. It was already perfectly dark when we

betook ourselves to the little Chinese house; it had been put in order the day before. Directly opposite the

door, in front of a small divan, stood a round table, covered with a cloth; chairs and armchairs were set

round about; on the table burned a lamp. I seated myself on the divan, and got my book. Vyéra Nikoláevna

placed herself in an armchair at some distance, not far from the door. Beyond the door, in the darkness, a

green branch of acacia, illuminated by the lamp, displayed itself, swaying gently; now and then a current of

night air diffused itself through the room. Priímkoff sat down near me, at the table, the German by his side.

The governess had remained in the house with Natásha. I made a little introductory speech; I alluded to the

ancient legend of Dr. Faustus, to the significance of Mephistopheles, to Goethe himself, and begged that they

would stop me if anything should seem to them unintelligible. Then I cleared my throat.... Priímkoff asked

me whether I did not need some sugar and water, and, so far as I was able to observe, was greatly pleased

with himself for having put that question to me. I declined. Profound silence reigned. I began to read, without

raising my eyes; I felt awkward, my heart beat violently and my voice trembled. The first exclamation of

sympathy burst from the German, and he alone, during the course of the reading, broke the silence....

"Wonderful! Sublime!"he kept repeating, now and then adding: "Here it is deep." Priímkoff was bored, as

I could plainly see; he understood German imperfectly, and confessed that he was not fond of poetry! .... It

was his own fault.At table, I had wanted to hint that the reading could proceed without him, but had been

ashamed to do so. Vyéra Nikoláevna did not stir; a couple of times I shot a stealthy glance at her; her eyes

were fixed straight and attentively on me; her face seemed to me to be pale. After Faust's first meeting with

Gretchen, she separated herself from the back of her chair, clasped her hands, and remained motionless in

that attitude until the end. I felt conscious that Priímkoff found it disgusting, and at first this chilled me; but

gradually I forgot all about him, warmed up, and read with fervour, with enthusiasm.... I was reading for

Vyéra Nikoláevna alone; an inward voice told me that "Faust" was taking effect on her. When I had finished

(I skipped the intermezzo; that bit, by its style, belongs to the second part; and I also omitted portions from

the "Night on the Brocken ") .... when I had finished, when the last "Heinrich!" had rung out,the German

ejaculated with emotion: "Heavens! how beautiful!" Priímkoff sprang to his feet as though delighted (poor

fellow!), heaved a sigh, and began to thank me for the pleasure I had given them.... But I did not answer him;

I glanced at Vyéra Nikoláevna.... I wanted to hear what she would say. She rose, walked to the door with

wavering steps, stood awhile on the threshold, and then quietly went out into the garden. I rushed after her.

She had already succeeded in getting several paces away; her white gown was barely visible in the dense

"How wonderfully warm it is!"remarked Priímkoff;"even sultry. But where has my wife gone?"

"I think it will soon be suppertime,"he responded."You read capitally, capitally,"he added, after a

I went out on the terrace with Schimmel. The old man raised his eyes to the sky.

"How many stars there are!"he said slowly, as he took a pinch of snuff;"and all of them are

I did not consider it necessary to answer him, and only gazed upward in silence. A secret perplexity was

weighing on my soul.... The stars seemed to me to be gazing seriously at us. Five minutes later, Priímkoff

made his appearance and summoned us to the diningroom. Vyéra Nikoláevna soon came also. We sat down.

"Just fancy, I went to her upstairs, and found her; she was crying. It is a long time since that has happened

with her. I can tell you the last time she cried: it was when our Sasha died. So that 's what you have done with

"I had not expected that,"she interrupted me;"but God knows whether you are right. Perhaps the reason

"What is the use? I am ashamed of myself as it is; what was I crying about? However, you and I will discuss

She did not finish her phrase, and became pensive. At that moment, the noise of the foliage, suddenly stirred

by the rising wind, swept through the garden. Vyéra Nikoláevna started, and turned her face toward the open

"I told you that there would be a thunderstorm!"cried Priímkoff."But what makes thee tremble so,

She glanced at him in silence. The lightning, flashing faintly far away, was reflected on her impassive face.

"After supper, we must go immediately to byebye, .... must n't we, Herr Schimmel?"

"After moral pleasure physical repose is as beneficial as it is useful,"replied the good German, drinking off

We parted immediately after supper. As I bade Vyéra Nikoláevna good night, I shook hands with her; her

hand was cold. I reached the chamber assigned to me, and stood for a long time at the window before

Priímkoff's prediction was fulfilled; a thunderstorm gathered and broke. I listened to the roar of the wind,

the clatter and beating of the rain, I saw how, at every flash of lightning, the church, built close at hand, near

the lake, now suddenly was revealed in black against a white ground, then as white against a black ground,

then again was swallowed up in the gloom.... But my thoughts were far away. I was thinking of Vyéra

Nikoláevna: I was thinking of what she would say to me when she should have read "Faust" herself; I was

The thunderstorm had long since passed off,the stars were beaming, everything had fallen silent round

about. Some bird with which I was not familiar was singing in various tones, repeating the same phrase

several times in succession. Its resonant, solitary voice rang out oddly amid the profound silence; and still I

On the following morning I entered the drawingroom earlier than all the rest, and halted in front of Madame

Éltzoff's portrait."What didst thou make by it?"I thought, with a secret feeling of jeering triumph,"for

here, seest thou, I have read to thy daughter a forbidden book!" All at once, it seemed to me .... probably thou

hast noticed that eyes painted en face always seem to be riveted straight on the spectator? . . . But on this

occasion, it really did seem to me as though the old lady had turned them on me reproachfully.

I turned away, walked to the window, and beheld Vyéra Nikoláevna. With a parasol on her shoulder, and a

thin white kerchief on her head, she was strolling in the garden. I immediately went out and bade her good

"I have not slept all night,"she said to me;"I have a headache; I have come out into the air to see if it

"Of course it was; I am not used to that. There are things in that book of yours which I cannot get rid of; it

seems to me that they are fairly searing my brain,"she added, laying her hand on her brow.

"Very good indeed,"said I:"but this is the bad thing about it: I 'm afraid this sleeplessness and headache

"Do you think so?"she returned, breaking off a spray of wild jasmine as she passed."God knows! It

"Let us go and sit in that arbour,"she went on,"and until I speak to you of it myself, please do not

remind me .... of that book." (She seemed to be afraid to pronounce the name "Faust.")

"I will not talk to you about 'Faust,'" I began;"but you must allow me to congratulate you, and to tell you

"Yes; as I know you now, with your soul, how much enjoyment you have in store! There are other great poets

besides Goethe: Shakespeare, Schiller .... yes, and our own Púshkin .... and you must make acquaintance with

Oh, my friend, Semyón Nikoláitch! if thou couldst but have seen how charming she was at that moment! Pale

almost to transparency, slightly bent forward, weary, inwardly distraught,and nevertheless serene as the

sky! I talked, talked a long time, then fell silentand sat there silently watching her....

She did not raise her eyes, and continued now to sketch with her parasol, now to erase what she had drawn.

Suddenly the sound of brisk, childish footsteps resounded: Natásha ran into the arbour. Vyéra Nikoláevna

straightened herself up, rose, and, to my amazement, embraced her daughter with a sort of impulsive

tenderness. .... This was not her habit. Then Priímkoff made his appearance. That greyhaired but punctual,

fine fellow Schimmel had gone away before daybreak, in order not to miss his lesson. We went to drink tea.

But I am tired; it is time to bring this letter to an end. It must seem silly, confused to thee. I feel confused

myself. I am out of sorts. I don't know what ails me. There is constantly flitting before my vision a tiny room

with bare walls, a lamp, an open door, the scent and freshness of night, and there, near the door, an attentive

young face, thin, white garments.... I understand now why I wanted to marry her; evidently, I was not so

stupid before my trip to Berlin as I have hitherto thought. Yes, Semyón Nikoláaitch, your friend is in a

strange frame of mind. All this will pass off, I know . . . but what if it should not pass offwell, what then? I

am satisfied with myself, nevertheless; in the first place, I have spent a wonderful evening; and in the second

place, if I have awakened that soul, who can blame me? Old Madame Éltzoff is nailed to the wall and must

hold her peace. The old lady! .... I do not know all the particulars of her life; but I do know that she eloped

from her father's house; evidently, she was not born of an Italian mother for nothing. She wanted to insure her

I fling aside my pen. Thou, jeering man, please to think of me as thou wilt, but don't make fun of me by letter.

I HAVE not written to thee for a long time, my dear Semyón Nikoláitch; not for more than a month, I think.

There has been plenty to write about; but I have been too lazy. To tell the truth, I have hardly thought of thee

during the whole of that time. Put I may deduce from thy last letter to me that thou art making assumptions

about me which are unjust; that is to say, not quite just. Thou thinkest that I am carried away by Vyéra

(somehow, I find it awkward to call her Vyéra Nikoláevna); thou art mistaken. Of course, I see her

frequently; I like her extremely .... and who would not like her? I should just like to see thee in my place. She

's a wonderful creature! Instantaneous penetration hand in hand with the inexperience of a baby; clear, sound

sense and innate feeling for beauty, a constant striving for the truth, for the lofty, and a comprehension of

everything, even of the vicious, even of the ridiculousand, over all this, like the white wings of an angel,

gentle feminine charm. . . . But what 's the use of talking! We have read a great deal, discussed a great deal,

she and I, in the course of this month. To read with her is a delight such as I have not hitherto experienced. It

is as though one were opening fresh pages. She never goes into raptures over anything; everything noisy is

alien to her; she quietly beams all over when anything pleases her, and her face assumes such a noble, good

.... precisely that, good expression. From her earliest childhood Vyéra has never known what it is to lie; she

has become accustomed to the truth, she is redolent of it, and therefore in poetry the truth alone appears

natural to her; she immediately recognises it, without difficulty, as a familiar face .... a great advantage and

happiness! It is impossible not to hold her mother in kindly memory for that. How many times have I

thought, as I looked at Vyéra: "Yes, Goethe is right:'a good man in his obscure aspirations always feels

where the true road lies.'"(2) One thing is vexatious; her husband is always hanging around. (Please don't

indulge in your stupid laugh, don't sully our friendship by even so much as a thought.) He is as capable of

understanding poetry as I am of playing the flute, and he won't leave his wife; he wants to be enlightened

also. Sometimes she herself puts me out of patience: a queer sort of mood will suddenly come over her; she

will neither read nor converse; she works at her embroideryframe, and fusses with Natásha, with the

housekeeper, suddenly runs off to the kitchen, or simply sits with folded hands and stares out of the window,

or sets to playing "fool"(3) with the nurse.... I have observed that on such occasions I must not worry her, but

that it is best to wait until she herself approaches me, and starts a conversation, or takes up a book. She has a

great deal of independence, and I am very glad of that. Dost thou remember how, in the days of our youth,

some young girl or other would repeat to thee thy own words, to the best of her ability, and thou wouldst go

into raptures over that echo and, probably, bow down before it, until thou didst get an inkling of the real state

of the case? But this woman . . . no; she thinks for herself. She will accept nothing on faith; one cannot

frighten her by authority; she will not dispute; but she will not give in. She and I have argued over "Faust"

more than once; butstrange to say!she never says anything about Gretchen herself, but merely listens to

what I say of her. Mephistopheles alarms her, not as the devil, but as "something which may exist in every

man...." Those are her very words. I undertook to explain to her that we called that "something" reflex action;

but she did not understand the words "reflex action" in the German sense; she knows only the French

Our relations are remarkable! From a certain point of view I may say that I have great influence over her, and

am educating her, as it were; but without herself being aware of the fact, she is transforming many things in

me for the better. For example, it is solely due to her that I have recently discovered what an immense

amount of the conventional, the rhetorical there is in the finest, the most famous poetical productions. That to

which she remains cold becomes at once suspicious in my eyes. Yes, I have grown better, more serene. To be

intimate with her, to meet her, and remain the same man as before is an impossibility.

"What is to be the upshot of all this?" thou wilt ask. Why, really, nothing, I think. I am passing my time very

agreeably until September, and then I shall go away. Life will seem dark and tedious to me during the first

months.... But I shall get used to it. I know how dangerous is any sort of a tie between a man and a young

woman, how imperceptibly one feeling is replaced by another.... I would have managed to wrench myself

away, had I not known that both of us are perfectly calm. Truth to tell, one day something strange happened

with us. I know not how, and as a result of whatI remember that we were reading "Onyégin"(4)and I

kissed her hand. She recoiled slightly, riveted a glance upon me (I have never beheld such a glance in any one

but her; it contains both pensiveness and attention, and a sort of severity) .... suddenly blushed, rose, and left

the room. I did not succeed in being alone with her again that day. She avoided me, and for four mortal hours

played with her husband, the nurse, and the governess at "Trumps." The next morning she suggested that we

should go into the garden. We walked the whole length of it, clear to the lake. Suddenly she whispered softly,

without turning toward me: "Please don't do that again!"and immediately began to narrate something to

I must confess that her image never leaves my mind, and I probably have begun to write this letter to thee

more with the object of securing the possibility of thinking and talking about her, than anything else. I hear

the neighing and trampling of horses: it is my calash being brought round. I am going to their house. My

coachman no longer asks me whither he shall drive when I take my seat in the equipage,he drives straight

to the Priímkoffs'. Two versts distant from their village, at a sharp turn of the road, their manorhouse

suddenly peers forth from behind a birchgrove.... Every time my heart leaps with joy as soon as the

windows of her house gleam forth. Schimmel (that harmless old man comes to them occasionally; they have

seen the family of Prince X*** only once, thank God!) . . . . Schimmel says, not without cause, with the

modest triumph peculiar to him, as he points to the house where Vyéra dwells: "That is the abode of peace!"

Cover me with thy pinions, My heart's emotion allay, And blessed shall be that shadow For my enchanted

But come, enough of this,or God knows what thou wilt think,until the next time.... What shall I write

the next time?Goodbye!By the way, she will never say "goodbye," but always: "Well,

P. S.I don't remember whether I have told thee that she knows I proposed for her hand.

CONFESS that thou art expecting either a despairing or a rapturous letter from me.... Nothing of the sort. My

letter will be like all letters. Nothing new has happened, and nothing can happen, I think. The other day we

were rowing in a boat on the lake. I will describe that jaunt to thee. There were three of us: she, Schimmel

and I. I cannot understand what possesses her to invite that old man so often. The X***s are put out with him,

they say, because he has begun to neglect his lessons. But on this occasion he was amusing. Priímkoff did not

go with us: he had a headache. The weather was magnificent, cheerful; there were huge white

raggedlooking stormclouds all over the blue sky; everywhere there was a gleam, a rustling in the trees, a

plashing and rippling of the water on the shores; on the waves darting golden serpents of light, coolness and

sunshine!At first I and the German rowed; then we raised the sail and dashed headlong onward. The bow

of the boat fairly dived through the waves, and the wake behind the stern hissed and foamed. She sat at the

helm and steered; she had tied a kerchief over her head: a hat would have blown off; her curls burst forth

from beneath it, and floated softly on the breeze. She held the helm firmly with her sunburned little hand,

and smiled at the splashes of water which flew in her face from time to time. I curled myself up in the bottom

of the boat, not far from her feet, the German pulled out his pipe, lighted up his coarse tobacco, andjust

fancy!began to sing in a fairly agreeable bass voice. First he sang the old ballad: "Freut' euch des Lebens,"

then an aria from "The Magic Flute," then a romance entitled "Love's Alphabet""Das ABC der Liebe."

In this romance the whole alphabet is recited,with appropriate quaint sayings, of course,beginning with:

"Ah, Bay, Say, Day,Wenn ich dich seh!" and ending with "Oo, Fau, Vay, Eeks,Mach einen Knicks!" He

sang all the couplets through with tender expression; but thou shouldst have seen how roguishly he screwed

up his left eye at the word "Knicks"!Vyéra burst out laughing and shook her finger at him. I remarked that

it struck me Herr Schimmel had been no fool in his day. "Oh, yes, I could stand up for myself!" he replied

pompously, knocking the ashes out of his pipe into his palm; and thrusting his fingers into his

tobaccopouch, he gripped the mouthpiece of his pipe swaggeringly, on one side, with his teeth. "When I was

a student,"he added,"ohoho!" He said no more. But what an "ohoho!" that was!Vyéra requested

him to sing some student song, and he sang to her "Knaster, den gelben," but got out of tune on the last note.

In the meantime, the wind had increased, the waves had begun to run rather high, the boat careened over

somewhat; swallows were darting low around us. We put the sail over and began to jibe. The wind suddenly

veered about; we had not succeeded in completing the manuvre, when a wave dashed over the side, and the

boat took in a quantity of water. Here, also, the German showed himself to be a fine fellow; he snatched the

sheetrope from my hand, and jibed in proper fashion, remarking, as he did so: "That 's the way they do at

Vyéra was probably frightened, for she turned pale; but, according to her wont, she did not utter a word, but

gathered up her gown and placed her feet on the thwart of the boat. Suddenly there flashed across my mind

Goethe's poem (I have been thoroughly infected by him for some time past) .... dost thou remember it? "On

the waves twinkle thousands of quivering stars"; and I recited it aloud. When I reached the line: "Mine eyes,

why do ye droop?" she raised her eyes a little (I was sitting lower than she: her glance fell upon me from

above) and gazed for a long time into the far distance, narrowing her eyes to protect them from the wind.... A

light rain came up in an instant, and pattered in bubbles on the water. I offered her my overcoat; she threw it

over her shoulders. We landed on the shore,not at the wharf,and went to the house on foot. I walked arm

in arm with her. All the time I felt like saying something to her; but I held my peace. But I remember asking

her why, when she was at home, she always sat under the portrait of Madame Éltzoff, just like a birdling

under its mother's wing."Your comparison is very accurate,"she replied:"I should never wish to

emerge from beneath her wing.""Would n't you like to emerge into freedom?"I asked another question.

I do not know why I have told thee about this expedition,perhaps because it has lingered in my memory as

one of the brightest events of recent days, although, in reality, how can it be called an event? I was so

delighted and speechlessly happy, and tearslight, happy tearsfairly gushed from my eyes.

Yes; just fancy! On the following day, as I was strolling through the garden, past the arbour, I suddenly heard

an agreeable, ringing, feminine voice singing, "Freut' euch des Lebens." . . . I glanced into the arbour:it

"Bravo!"I exclaimed;"I was not aware that you had such a fine voice!"She was abashed, and stopped

singing. Seriously, she has an excellent, strong soprano voice. But I don't believe she even suspected that she

had a good voice. How many untouched treasures are still concealed in her! She does not know herself. But

WE had a very strange conversation yesterday. First we talked about visions. Just imagine; she believes in

them, and says that she has her reasons for so doing. Priímkoff, who was sitting with us, dropped his eyes and

shook his head, as though in confirmation of her words. I tried to interrogate her; but speedily perceived that

the conversation was disagreeable to her. We began to talk about imagination, about the force of imagination.

I narrated how, in my youth, being in the habit of dreaming a great deal about happiness (the customary

occupation of people who have not had, or will not have luck in life), I had, among other things, dreamed of

what bliss it would be to pass a few weeks in Venice with the woman I loved. I thought of this so often,

especially at night, that I gradually formed in my mind a complete picture, which I could summon up before

me at will: all I had to do was to shut my eyes. This is what presented itself to me:Night, the moon, white

and tender moonlight, fragrance .... the fragrance of the orangeflower, thinkest thou? No, of vanilla, the

fragrance of the cactus, a broad watery expanse, a flat island overgrown with olivetrees; on the island, on the

very shore, a small marble house, with wideopen windows; music is audiblewhence, God knows; in the

house are trees with dark foliage, and the light of a halfveiled lamp; a heavy velvet mantle with golden

fringe has been thrown over one windowsill, and one end of it is trailing in the water; while, side by side,

with their arms resting on the mantle, sit he and she, gazing far away to the spot where Venice is

visible.All this presented itself to me as plainly as though I had beheld it all with my own eyes.

She listened to my nonsense, and said that she also often indulged in reverie, but that her dreams were of a

different nature: she either imagined herself on the plains of Africa, with some traveller or other, or hunting

for the traces of Franklin in the Arctic Ocean; she vividly pictured to herself all the hardships which she must

"Perhaps so,"she rejoined. " But if one is to dream, what possesses one to dream of the impossible?"

"I did not express myself correctly,"said she:"I meant to say, what possesses a person to dream of

himself, of his own happiness? There is no use in thinking about it; if it does not come,why pursue it? It is

These words amazed me. That woman has a great soul, believe me.... From Venice the conversation passed to

Italy, to the Italians. Priímkoff left the room, and Vyéra and I were left alone.

"Yes,"she responded:"I will show you the portrait of my grandmother, if you wish."

She went into her boudoir and brought thence a rather large gold locket. On opening this locket, I beheld a

splendidlypainted miniature portrait of Madame Éltzoff's father and his wife,that peasant from Albano.

Vyéra's grandfather surprised me by his likeness to his daughter. Only his features, rimmed with a white

cloud of powder, appeared still more severe, still more sharp and pointed, and in his little, yellow eyes

gleamed a sort of surly stubbornness. But what a face the Italian girl had! sensual, open like a fullblown

rose, with big, prominent, humid eyes, and conceitedlysmiling, rosy lips! The thin, sensitive nostrils seemed

to be quivering, and inflating, as after recent kisses; from her darkskinned cheeks sultry heat and health

seemed to emanate, and the splendour of youth, and feminine force.... That brow had never thought, and God

be thanked for that! She was depicted in her Albanian costume; the artist (a master) had placed a spray of

vineleaves in her hair, which was black as pitch, with brightgrey reflections. Nothing could have been

better suited to the expression of her face than that bacchantic decoration. And knowest thou, of whom that

face reminded me? Of my Manon Lescaut in the black frame. And, what is most astonishing of all: as I gazed

at that portrait, I recalled the fact that something resembling that smile, that glance, sometimes flits over

Yes, I repeat it: neither she herself nor any one else in all the world knows what lies hidden within her....

By the way! Madame Éltzoff, before her daughter's marriage, related to her the story of her whole life, the

death of her mother, and so forth, probably with the object of edification. That which had a particular effect

upon Vyéra, was what she heard about her grandfather, about that mysterious Ladánoff. Is it not from him

that she inherits her faith in visions? Strange! she herself is so pure and bright, yet she is afraid of everything

But enough. Why write all this? However, since it is already written, I 'll just send it off to thee.

I TAKE up my pen ten days after the date of my last letter.... Oh, my friend, I can no longer dissimulate. . . .

How painful it is to me! How I love her! Thou canst imagine with what a bitter shudder I write this fateful

word. I am no boy, not even a stripling; I am no longer at the age when it is almost impossible to deceive

another person, while it costs no effort at all to deceive one's self. I know everything, and I see clearly. I

know that I am close on forty years of age, that she is the wife of another, that she loves her husband, I know

very well that I have nothing to expect from the unfortunate sentiment which has taken possession of me,

save secret torments and definitive waste of my vital forces,I know all this, I hope for nothing and I desire

A month ago I began to notice that my attachment for her was becoming stronger and stronger. That partly

disconcerted me, partly delighted me.... But could I have expected that all that would be repeated in me from

which, as in youth, there is no return? But what am I saying! I never have loved thus, no, never! Manon

Lescaut, the Frétillonsthose were my idols. It is easy to shatter such idols; but now .... and only now have I

learned what it means to love a woman. I am ashamed even to speak of it; but so it is. I am ashamed.... Love

is egoism, nevertheless; but at my age, egoism would be unpardonable: one cannot live for himself at

sevenandthirty; one must live usefully, with the object of fulfilling one's duty, doing one's business. And I

have tried to set to work.... And lo, everything has been dissipated again, as by a hurricane! Now I understand

what I wrote to thee in my first letter; I understand what trial I lacked. How suddenly this blow has descended

upon my head! I stand and gaze irrationally ahead: a black curtain hangs just in front of my eyes; my soul

aches and is affrighted! I can restrain myself, I am outwardly calm, not only in the presence of others, but

even when I am alone; really, I cannot go into a rage, like a boy! But the worm has crawled into my heart,

and is gnawing it day and night. How is this thing going to end? Hitherto I have languished and been agitated

in her absence, while in her presence I have instantly calmed down.... Now I am uneasy in her presencethat

is what alarms me. Oh, my friend, how painful a thing it is to be ashamed of one's tears, to conceal them!....

I cannot read over this letter; it has burst from me like a groan. I can add nothing, narrate nothing.... Give me

time: I shall come to myself. I shall regain control of my soul, I shall talk with thee like a man, but now I

O Mephistopheles! Even thou wilt not help me! I have intentionally lingered over, I have intentionally

irritated the ironical vein in myself; I have reminded myself how ridiculous and hypocritical these

complaints, these effusions, will appear to me a year, half a year hence.... No, Mephistopheles is powerless,

Thou hast taken my last letter too much to heart. Thou knowest how much inclined I have always been to

exaggerate my feelings; I do it quite involuntarily: a feminine nature ! That will pass off, with years, it is true;

but I must admit, with a sigh, that up to the present time, I have not corrected myself. And, therefore, reassure

thyself. I will not deny the impression which Vyéra has made upon me; but, nevertheless, I will say: there

was nothing remarkable in all that. It is not in the least necessary that thou shouldst come hither, as thou

writest that thou art intending to do. To gallop more than a thousand miles, God knows for whatwhy, that

would be madness! But I am very grateful to thee for this new proof of thy friendship, and, believe me, I shall

never forget it. Thy journey hither is illjudged also because I myself intend soon to set off for Petersburg.

Seated on thy divan, I will relate to thee many things; but now, really, I do not feel like it: the first thing you

know, I shall get to chattering too much, and become entangled again. I will write to thee again before my

departure. So then, farewell until we meet shortly. May health be thine, and cheerfulness, and do not worry

I HAVE answered thy letter for a long time; I have been thinking of thee all these days. I have felt that thou

wert prompted not by idle curiosity, but by genuine friendly sympathy; but still I have hesitated: whether I

ought to follow thy advice, whether I ought to comply with thy wish. At last I have reached a decision; I will

tell thee all. Whether my confession will relieve me, as thou assumest, I do not know; but it seems to me that

I should remain culpable even if . . . . alas! still more culpable toward that unforgettable, charming spirit, if I

did not confide our sad secret to the only heart which I still prize. Thou alone, possibly, on earth dost

remember Vyéra, and that thou shouldst judge of her lightmindedly and falsely, is what I cannot permit.

Then know all! Alas! it can all be imparted in two words; that which existed between us flashed for a

moment, like the lightning, and, like the lightning, carried death and destruction with it....

Since her death, since I settled down in this remote nook, which I shall never leave again to the end of my

days, more than two years have passed, and everything is as clear in my memory, my wounds are still as

I will not complain. Complaints, by irritating, alleviate sorrow, but not mine. I will begin my narration.

Dost thou remember my last letterthat letter in which I undertook to dissipate thy fears and dissuade thee

from leaving Petersburg? Thou wert suspicious of its constrained ease, thou hadst no faith that we should

soon see each other: thou wert right. On the eve of the day when I wrote to thee, I had learned that I was

As I trace these words I discover how difficult it will be for me to pursue my narration to the end. The

importunate thought of her death will torture me with redoubled force, these memories will sear me.... But I

shall try to control myself, and I will either discard my pen, or I will not utter a superfluous word.

This is how I learned that Vyéra loved me. First of all, I must tell thee (and thou wilt believe me), that up to

that day I positively had not had a suspicion. She had, it is true, begun to be pensive at times, which had

never been the case with her previously; but I did not understand why this happened to her. At last, one day,

the seventh of September,a memorable day for me,this is what occurred. Thou knowest how I loved her,

how I was suffering. I wandered like a ghost, I could find no place of rest. I tried to remain at home, but could

not endure it, and went to her. I found her alone in her boudoir Priímkoff was not at home: he had gone off

hunting. When I entered Vyéra's room, she looked intently at me, and did not respond to my greeting. She

was sitting by the window; on her lap lay a book: it was my "Faust." Her face expressed weariness. She

requested me to read aloud the scene between Faust and Gretchen, where she asks him whether he believes in

God. I took the book and began to read. With her head leaning against the back of her chair, and her hands

clasped on her breast, she continued to gaze at me in the same intent manner as before.

She went away, and shut the door behind her. I will not describe to thee what went on in me then. I remember

that I went out into the garden, made my way into its thickets, and leaned against a tree. How long I stood

there I know not. It was as though I had swooned; the feeling of bliss surged across my heart in a billow,

from time to time.... No, I will not talk about that. Priímkoff's voice aroused me from my stupor; they had

sent to tell him that I had arrived. He had returned from the chase, and had hunted me up. He was surprised at

finding me in the garden alone, without a hat, and he led me to the house. "My wife is in the

drawingroom,"he said:"let us go to her." Thou canst conjecture with what emotions I crossed the

threshold of the drawingroom. Vyéra was sitting in one corner, at her embroideryframe. I darted a covert

glance at her, and for a long time thereafter, did not raise my eyes. To my amazement, she appeared to be

calm; there was no tremor perceptible in what she said, in the sound of her voice. At last, I brought myself to

look at her. Our glances met.... She blushed almost imperceptibly, and bent over her canvas. I began to watch

her. She seemed perplexed, somehow; a cheerless smile now and then flitted across her lips.

Priímkoff left the room. She suddenly raised her head and asked me in quite a loud tone:

I was disconcerted, and hastily, in a dull voice, I replied that I intended to fulfil the duty of an honourable

manto go away, "because,"I added,"I love you, Vyéra Nikoláevna, as you have, probably, long since

"I must have a talk with you,"said she:"come tomorrow evening, after tea, to our little house . . . you

She said this so distinctly that even now I cannot understand how Priímkoff, who entered the room at that

moment, failed to hear anything. Slowly, with painful slowness did that day pass. Vyéra gazed about her from

time to time, with an expression as though she were asking herself: "Was not she dreaming?" And, at the

same time, decision was written on her countenance. While I .... I could not recover my composure. Vyéra

loves me! These words gyrated incessantly in my mind; but I did not understand them,I understood neither

myself nor her. I did not believe in such unexpected, such souldisturbing happiness; with an effort I recalled

After tea, when I had already begun to meditate how I might slip unperceived out of the house, she herself

suddenly announced that she wished to take a stroll, and proposed to me that I should accompany her. I dared

not begin the conversation, I could barely draw my breath, I waited for her first word, I waited for an

explanation; but she maintained silence. In silence we reached the little Chinese house, in silence we entered

it, and thereto this day I do not know, I cannot comprehend how it came aboutbut we suddenly found

ourselves in each other's arms. Some invisible force dashed me to her, and her to me. By the dying light of

day, her face, with its curls tossed back, was illuminated for a moment by a smile of selfforgetfulness and

Vyéra suddenly tore herself from my arms, and, with an expression of horror in her widelyopened eyes,

I also shivered, as though a chill had seized me. I suddenly felt alarmed, like a criminal. And was not I a

"No, for God's sake, no!"she interrupted, clutching her head." This is madness.... I shall go out of my

"Stay one moment, for God's sake,"I cried in an involuntary transport. I did not know what to say, and

"Tomorrow, tomorrow evening,"she said:"not today, I beg of you.... Go away today .... Come

tomorrow evening to the wicketgate in the garden, near the lake. I shall be there, I will come.... I swear to

thee that I will come,"she added, with an effort, and her eyes flashed."No matter who may seek to stop

Shaken to the very foundations, I remained rooted to the spot. My head was reeling. A feeling of anguish

crept through the mad joy which filled my being. I glanced about me. The chamber in which I was standing,

I went out and betook myself with hasty steps to the house. Vyéra was waiting for me on the terrace; she

went into the house as soon as I approached, and immediately retired to her bedroom.

How I spent that night and the following day until the evening, I cannot describe. I remember only that I lay

prone, with my face hidden in my hands, recalling her smile which had preceded the kiss, and whispering:

I recalled also Madame Éltzoff's words, which Vyéra had repeated to me. She had said to her one day: "Thou

art like ice: until thou salt melt, thou art strong as a rock, but when thou meltest, there will not remain a trace

And here is another thing which recurred to my memory: Vyéra and I had, somehow, got into a discussion as

"But what is the meaning of her fright?"I asked myself.... "Did she really see Madame Éltzoff?

Imagination!"I thought, and again surrendered myself to the emotions of anticipation.

That same day I wrote to theewith what thoughts I shudder to recallthat artful letter.

In the evening, before the sun had set, I was standing at a distance of fifty paces from the garden gate, in a

tall, thick mass of vines, on the shore of the lake. I had come from home on foot. I confess it, to my shame:

terror, the most pusillanimous terror filled my breast, I kept trembling incessantly .... but I felt no remorse.

Concealing myself among the branches, I stared fixedly at the gate. It did not open. The sun set, darkness

descended: the stars had already come out, and the sky had grown black. No one appeared. Fever seized upon

me. Night came. I could endure it no longer, and cautiously emerging from the vines, I crept up to the gate.

Everything was quiet in the garden. I called Vyéra in a whisper, I called a second time, a third.... No voice

responded. Another half hour, an hour elapsed; it had grown perfectly dark. Anticipation had exhausted me; I

pulled the gate toward me, opened it at one movement and directed my way on tiptoe, like a thief, toward the

house. I halted in the shadow of the lindens. Almost all the windows in the house were lighted: people were

moving to and fro in the rooms. This astonished me: my watch, so far as I could make out by the dim light of

the stars, indicated halfpast eleven. Suddenly a rumbling resounded on the other side of the house: an

"Evidently, there are visitors,"I thought. Abandoning all hope of seeing Vyéra, I made my way out of the

garden, and strode homeward with hasty steps. It was a dark September night, warm but starless. A feeling

not so much of vexation as of grief, which was on the point of taking possession of me, was dissipated to a

certain degree, and I arrived at my own house somewhat fatigued from my brisk walk, but soothed by the

tranquillity of the night, happy and almost merry. I entered my bedroom, dismissed Timofyéi, threw myself

At first my musings were cheerful; but I speedily noticed a strange change in myself. I began to feel a sort of

mysterious, gnawing grief, a sort of profound, inward uneasiness. I could not understand whence it

proceeded; but I became alarmed, and oppressed, as though an impending misfortune were menacing me, as

though some one dear to me were suffering at that moment, and were appealing to me for help. On the table a

wax taper was burning with a small, motionless flame, the pendulum of the clock was ticking heavily and

regularly. I leaned my head on my hand, and sat to staring into the empty, semidarkness of my solitary

chamber. I thought of Vyéra, and my soul ached within me: everything in which I had delighted appeared to

me in its proper light, as a calamity, as ruin from which there was no escape. The feeling of anguish kept

augmenting within me; I could no longer lie down; again it suddenly seemed to me as though some one were

calling me with an appealing voice. . ... I raised my head and shuddered. I was not mistaken: a wailing shriek

swept from afar, and clung, faintly quivering, to the windowpanes. I was terrified: I sprang from the bed,

and threw open the window. A plainlyaudible groan burst into the room, and seemed to hover over me. It

seemed as though some one's throat were being cut at a distance, and the unhappy person were entreating, in

vain, for mercy. I did not stop, at the time, to consider whether it might not be an owl hooting in the grove, or

whether some other creature had emitted that groan, but as Mazeppa answered Kotchubéy, I replied with a

"Vyéra, Vyéra!"I cried:"is it thou who art calling me?"Timofyéi, sleepy and dumbfounded, appeared

I came to my senses, drank a glass of water, and went into another room; but sleep did not visit me. My heart

beat painfully, although not frequently. I could no longer give myself up to dreams, to happiness. I no longer

On the following day, before dinner, I set off to see Priímkoff. He greeted me with a careworn face.

"I don't understand. Yesterday evening she started to go into the garden, but suddenly came back, beside

herself, thoroughly frightened. Her maid ran for me. I came, and asked my wife, 'What ails thee?' She made

no reply, and instantly took to her bed; during the night, delirium set in. God knows what she said in her

delirium; she mentioned you. The maid told me an astonishing thing: it seems that Vyérotchka saw her dead

mother in the garden; her mother seemed to be coming toward her with open arms."

"Of course, it is nonsense,"pursued Priímkoff:"but I must confess that remarkable things have happened

I CANNOT continue as I have begun, my dear friend: it costs me too much effort and irritates my wounds too

greatly. The malady declared itself, to use the doctor's words, and Vyéra died of it. She did not survive a

fortnight after that fatal day of our momentary tryst. I saw her once more before her end. I possess no more

cruel memory. I had already learned from the doctor that there was no hope. Late at night, when every one in

the house was in bed, I crept to the door of her chamber and looked at her. Vyéra was lying in bed, with

closed eyes, emaciated, tiny, with the glow of fever on her cheeks. I stared at her as though I had been

petrified. Suddenly she opened her eyes, fixed them on me, took a closer look, and stretching out her

she articulated in a voice so terrible, that I fled at full speed. She raved of "Faust" almost continuously during

her illness, and of her mother, whom she called now Martha, now Gretchen's mother.

Vyéra died. I was at her funeral. Since that day I have abandoned everything, and have settled down here

Reflect now on what I have told thee; think of her, of that being who perished so early. How this came about,

how that incomprehensible interposition of the dead in the affairs of the living is to be explained, I know not,

and I shall never know; but thou must agree with me that it is no fit of capricious hypochondria, as thou

expressest it, which has made me withdraw from society. All this time I have thought so much about that

unhappy woman (I came near saying, "young girl"), about her origin, the mysterious play of Fate which we,

blind that we are, designate as blind chance. Who knows how much seed is left by each person who lives on

the earth, which is destined to spring up only after his death? Who can say to what mysterious end the fate of

a man is bound up with the fate of his children, his posterity, and how his aspirations will be reflected in

them, his mistakes visited on them? We must all submit and bow our heads before the Unknowable.

Yes, Vyéra perished, and I have remained whole. I remember, when I was still a child, there was in our house

a beautiful vase of transparent alabaster. Not a fleck sullied its virgin whiteness. One day, when I was left

alone, I began to rock the pedestal on which it stood .... The vase suddenly fell to the floor, and was shattered

to atoms. I nearly swooned with fright, and stood motionless before the fragments. My father entered the

room, saw me, and said: "Just see what thou hast done! We shall never have our beautiful vase again; there is

no way to mend it now." I burst out sobbing. It seemed to me that I had committed a crime.

I have become a manand have heedlessly shattered a vessel which was a thousand times more precious. In

vain do I tell myself that I could not have anticipated this instantaneous catastrophe, that it startled even me

by its unexpectedness, that I had no suspicion as to the sort of woman Vyéra was. She really did know how to

hold her peace to the last minute. I ought to have fled as soon as I felt that I loved her,loved a married

woman; but I remained,and have shattered in fragments a very beautiful creature, and with dumb despair I

now gaze upon the work of my hands. Yes; Madame Éltzoff jealously guarded her daughter. She guarded her

to the end, and at her first unwary step, she bore her off with her into the tomb.

It is time for me to make an end.... I have not told thee the hundredth part of what I should: but this has been

quite enough for me. Let everything which has flashed up in my soul sink once more into its depths.... In

ending, I will tell thee: I have brought one conviction out of the experiences of the recent years; life is not

even enjoyment, .... life is a heavy toil. Renunciation, constant renunciation,that is its secret meaning, its

solution; not the fulfilment of cherished ideas and dreams, no matter how lofty they may be,but the

fulfilment of duty,that is what man must take heed to; not unless he imposes upon himself chains, the iron

chains of duty, can he attain to the end of his course without falling; but in youth we think: "The freer the

better; the further one can go." It is permissible for youth to think thus; but it is disgraceful to console one's

self with an illusion, when the stern face of the truth has at last looked thee full in the eye.

Farewell! Formerly I would have added: "Be happy." Now I say to thee: Endeavour to live, it is not as easy as

it seems. Remember me, not in hours of sadness, but in hours of thoughtfulness, and preserve in thy soul the