But enough. Why write all this? However, as it is written, it may be sent off to you. - - Yours,
P. B.
SEVENTH LETTER
From the SAME to the SAME
M - - - - VILLAGE, August 22, 1850.
I TAKE up my pen ten days after my last letter . . . Oh my dear fellow, I can’t hide my feelings any longer! . . . How wretched I am! How I love her! You can imagine with what a thrill of bitterness I write that fatal word. I am not a boy, not a young man even; I am no longer at that stage when to deceive another is almost impossible, but to deceive oneself costs no effort. I know all, and see clearly. I know that I am just on forty, that she’s another man’s wife, that she loves her husband; I know very well that the unhappy feeling which has gained possession of me can lead to nothing but secret torture and an utter waste of vital energy - - I know all that, I expect nothing, and I wish for nothing; but I am not the better off for that. As long as a month ago I began to notice that the attraction she has for me was growing stronger and stronger. This partly troubled me, and partly even delighted me . . . But how could I dream that everything would be repeated with me, which you would have thought could no more come again than youth can? What am I saying! I never loved like this, no, never! Manon Lescauts, Fritilions, these were my idols - - such idols can easily be broken; but now . . . only now, I have found out what it is to love a woman. I feel ashamed even to speak of it; but it’s so. I’m ashamed . . . Love is egoism any way; and at my years it’s not permissible to be an egoist; at thirty - seven one cannot live for oneself; one must live to some purpose, with the aim of doing one’s duty, one’s work on earth. And I had begun to set to work. . . . And here everything is scattered to the winds again, as by a hurricane! Now I understand what I wrote to you in my first letter; I understand now what was the experience I had missed. How suddenly this blow has fallen upon me! I stand and look senselessly forward; a black veil hangs before my eyes; my heart is full of heaviness and dread! I can control myself, I am outwardly calm not only before others, but even in solitude. I can’t really rave like a boy! But the worm has crept into my heart, and gnaws it night and day. How will it end? Hitherto I have fretted and suffered when away from her, and in her presence was at peace again at once - - now I have no rest even when I am with her, that is what alarms me. Oh my friend, how hard it is to be ashamed of one’s tears, to hide them! Only youth may weep; tears are only fitting for the young. . . .
I cannot read over this letter; it has been wrung from me involuntarily, like a groan. I can add nothing, tell you nothing . . . Give me time; I will come to myself, and possess my soul again; I will talk to you like a man, but now I am longing to lay my head on your breast and - - - -
Oh Mephistopheles! you too are no help to me! I stopped short of set purpose, of set purpose I called up what irony is in me, I told myself how ludicrous and mawkish these laments, these outbursts will seem to me in a year, in half a year . . . No, Mephistopheles is powerless, his tooth has lost its edge. . . . Farewell. - - Yours,
P. B.
EIGHTH LETTER
From the SAME to the SAME
M - - - - VILLAGE, September 8, 1850.
MY DEAR SEMYON NIKOLAITCH, - - You have taken my last letter too much to heart. You know I have always been given to exaggerating my sensations. It’s done as it were unconsciously in me; a womanish nature! In the process of years this will pass away of course; but I admit with a sigh I have not corrected the failing so far. So set your mind at rest. I am not going to deny the impression made on me by Vera, but I say again, in all this there is nothing out of the way. For you to come here, as you write of doing, would be out of the question, quite. Post over a thousand versts, God knows with what object - - why, it would be madness! But I am very grateful for this fresh proof of your affection, and believe me, I shall never forget it. Your journey here would be the more out of place as I mean to come to Petersburg shortly myself. When I am sitting on your sofa, I shall have a great deal to tell you, but now I really don’t want to; what’s the use? I shall only talk nonsense, I dare say, and muddle things up. I will write to you again before I start. And so good - bye for a little while. Be well and happy, and don’t worry yourself too much about the fate of - - your devoted,
P. B.
NINTH LETTER
From the SAME to the SAME
P - - - - VILLAGE, March 10, 1853.
I HAVE been a long while without answering your letter; I have been all these days thinking about it. I felt that it was not idle curiosity but real friendship that prompted you, and yet I hesitated whether to follow your advice, whether to act on your desire. I have made up my mind at last; I will tell you everything. Whether my confession will ease my heart as you suppose, I don’t know; but it seems to me I have no right to hide from you what has changed my life for ever; it seems to me, indeed, that I should be wronging - - alas! even more wronging - - the dear being ever in my thoughts, if I did not confide our mournful secret to the one heart still dear to me. You alone, perhaps, on earth, remember Vera, and you judge of her lightly and falsely; that I cannot endure. You shall know all. Alas! it can all be told in a couple of words. All there was between us flashed by in an instant, like lightning, and like lightning, brought death and ruin. . . . Over two years have passed since she died; since I took up my abode in this remote spot, which I shall not leave till the end of my days, and everything is still as vivid in my memory, my wounds are still as fresh, my grief as bitter . . . I will not complain. Complaints rouse up sorrow and so ease it, but not mine. I will begin my story.
Do you remember my last letter - - the letter in which I tried to allay your fears and dissuaded you from coming from Petersburg? You suspected its assumed lightness of tone, you put no faith in our seeing each other soon; you were right. On the day before I wrote to you, I had learnt that I was loved. As I write these words, I realise how hard it would be for me to tell my story to the end. The ever insistent thought of her death will torture me with redoubled force, I shall be consumed by these memories. . . . But I will try to master myself, and will either throw aside the pen, or will say not a word more than is necessary. This is how I learnt that Vera loved me. First of all I must tell you (and you will believe me) that up to that day I had absolutely no suspicion. It is true she had grown pensive at times, which had never been the way with her before; but I did not know why this change had come upon her. At last, one day, the seventh of September - - a day memorable for me - - this is what happened. You know how I loved her and how wretched I was. I wandered about like an uneasy spirit, and could find no rest. I tried to keep at home, but I could not control myself, and went off to her. I found her alone in her own sitting - room. Priemkov was not at home, he had gone out shooting. When I went in to Vera, she looked intently at me and did not respond to my bow. She was sitting at the window; on her knees lay a book I recognised at once; it was my Faust. Her face showed traces of weariness. I sat down opposite her. She asked me to read aloud the scene of Faust with Gretchen, when she asks him if he believes in God. I took the book and began reading. When I had finished, I glanced at her. Her head leaning on the back of her low chair and her arms crossed on her bosom, she was still looking as intently at me.
I don’t know why, my heart suddenly began to throb.
“What have you done to me?” she said in a slow voice.
“What?” I articulated in confusion.
“Yes, what have you done to me?” she repeated.
“You mean to say,” I began; “why did I persuade you to read such books?”
She rose without speaking, and went out of the room. I looked after her.
On the doorway she stopped and turned to me.
“I love you,” she said; “that’s what you have done to me.”
The blood rushed to my head. . . .
“I love you, I am in love with you,” repeated Vera.
She went out and shut the door after her. I will not try to describe what passed within me t
hen. I remember I went out into the garden, made my way into a thicket, leaned against a tree, and how long I stood there, I could not say. I felt faint and numb; a feeling of bliss came over my heart with a rush from time to time. . . . No, I cannot speak of that. Priemkov’s voice roused me from my stupor; they had sent to tell him I had come: he had come home from shooting and was looking for me. He was surprised at finding me alone in the garden, without a hat on, and he led me into the house. “My wife’s in the drawing - room,” he observed; “let’s go to her!” You can imagine my sensations as I stepped through the doorway of the drawing - room. Vera was sitting in the corner, at her embroidery frame; I stole a glance at her, and it was a long while before I raised my eyes again. To my amazement, she seemed composed; there was no trace of agitation in what she said, nor in the sound of her voice. At last I brought myself to look at her. Our eyes met . . . She faintly blushed, and bent over her canvas. I began to watch her. She seemed, as it were, perplexed; a cheerless smile hung about her lips now and then.
Priemkov went out. She suddenly raised her head and in a rather loud voice asked me - - “What do you intend to do now?”
I was taken aback, and hurriedly, in a subdued voice, answered, that I intended to do the duty of an honest man - - to go away, “for,” I added, “I love you, Vera Nikolaevna, you have probably seen that long ago.” She bent over her canvas again and seemed to ponder.
“I must talk with you,” she said; “come this evening after tea to our little house . . . you know, where you read Faust.”
She said this so distinctly that I can’t to this day conceive how it was Priemkov, who came into the room at that instant, heard nothing. Slowly, terribly slowly, passed that day. Vera sometimes looked about her with an expression as though she were asking herself if she were not dreaming. And at the same time there was a look of determination in her face; while I . . . I could not recover myself. Vera loves me! These words were continually going round and round in my head; but I did not understand them - - I neither understood myself nor her. I could not believe in such unhoped - for, such overwhelming happiness; with an effort I recalled the past, and I too looked and talked as in a dream. . . .
After evening tea, when I had already begun to think how I could steal out of the house unobserved, she suddenly announced of her own accord that she wanted a walk, and asked me to accompany her. I got up, took my hat, and followed her. I did not dare begin to speak, I could scarcely breathe, I awaited her first word, I awaited explanations; but she did not speak. In silence we reached the summer - house, in silence we went into it, and then - - I don’t know to this day, I can’t understand how it happened - - we suddenly found ourselves in each other’s arms. Some unseen force flung me to her and her to me. In the fading daylight, her face, with the curls tossed back, lighted up for an instant with a smile of self - surrender and tenderness, and our lips met in a kiss. . . .
That kiss was the first and last.
Vera suddenly broke from my arms and with an expression of horror in her wide open eyes staggered back - - - -
“Look round,” she said in a shaking voice; “do you see nothing?”
I turned round quickly.
“Nothing. Why, do you see something?”
“Not now, but I did.”
She drew deep, gasping breaths.
“Whom? what?”
“My mother,” she said slowly, and she began trembling all over. I shivered too, as though with cold. I suddenly felt ashamed, as though I were guilty. And indeed, wasn’t I guilty at that instant?
“Nonsense!” I began; “what do you mean? Tell me rather - - - - “
“No, for God’s sake, no!” she interposed, clutching her head. “This is madness - - I’m going out of my mind. . . . One can’t play with this - - it’s death. . . . Good - bye. . . .”
I held out my hands to her.
“Stay, for God’s sake, for an instant,” I cried in an involuntary outburst. I didn’t know what I was saying and could scarcely stand upright. “For God’s sake . . . it is too cruel!”
She glanced at me.
“To - morrow, to - morrow evening,” she said, “not to - day, I beseech you - - go away today . . . to - morrow evening come to the garden gate, near the lake. I will be there, I will come. . . . I swear to you I will come,” she added with passion, and her eyes shone; “whoever may hinder me, I swear! I will tell you everything, only let me go to - day.”
And before I could utter a word she was gone. Utterly distraught, I stayed where I was. My head was in a whirl. Across the mad rapture, which filled my whole being, there began to steal a feeling of apprehension. . . . I looked round. The dim, damp room in which I was standing oppressed me with its low roof and dark walls.
I went out and walked with dejected steps towards the house. Vera was waiting for me on the terrace; she went into the house directly I drew near, and at once retreated to her bedroom.
I went away.
How I spent the night and the next day till the evening I can’t tell you. I only remember that I lay, my face hid in my hands, I recalled her smile before our kiss, I whispered - - “At last, she . . .”
I recalled, too, Madame Eltsov’s words, which Vera had repeated to me. She had said to her once, “You are like ice; until you melt as strong as stone, but directly you melt there’s nothing of you left.”
Another thing recurred to my mind; Vera and I had once been talking of talent, ability.
“There’s only one thing I can do,” she said; “keep silent till the last minute.”
I did not understand it in the least at the time.
“But what is the meaning of her fright?” I wondered - - “Can she really have seen Madame Eltsov? Imagination!” I thought, and again I gave myself up to the emotions of expectation.
It was on that day I wrote you, - - with what thoughts in my head it hurts me to recall - - that deceitful letter.
In the evening - - the sun had not yet set - - I took up my stand about fifty paces from the garden gate in a tall thicket on the edge of the lake. I had come from home on foot. I will confess to my shame; fear, fear of the most cowardly kind, filled my heart; I was incessantly starting . . . but I had no feeling of remorse. Hiding among the twigs, I kept continual watch on the little gate. It did not open. The sun set, the evening drew on; then the stars came out, and the sky turned black. No one appeared. I was in a fever. Night came on. I could bear it no longer; I came cautiously out of the thicket and stole down to the gate. Everything was still in the garden. I called Vera, in a whisper, called a second time, a third. . . . No voice called back. Half - an - hour more passed by, and an hour; it became quite dark. I was worn out by suspense; I drew the gate towards me, opened it at once, and on tip - toe, like a thief, walked towards the house. I stopped in the shadow of a lime - tree.
Almost all the windows in the house had lights in them; people were moving to and fro in the house. This surprised me; my watch, as far as I could make out in the dim starlight, said half - past eleven. Suddenly I heard a noise near the house; a carriage drove out of the courtyard.
“Visitors, it seems,” I thought. Losing every hope of seeing Vera, I made my way out of the garden and walked with rapid steps homewards. It was a dark September night, but warm and windless. The feeling, not so much of annoyance as of sadness, which had taken possession of me, gradually disappeared, and I got home, rather tired from my rapid walk, but soothed by the peacefulness of the night, happy and almost light - hearted. I went to my room, dismissed Timofay, and without undressing, flung myself on my bed and plunged into reverie.
At first my day - dreams were sweet, but soon I noticed a curious change in myself. I began to feel a sort of secret gnawing anxiety, a sort of deep, inward uneasiness. I could not understand what it arose from, but I began to feel sick and sad, as though I were menaced by some approaching trouble, as though some one dear to me were suffering at that instant and calling on me for help. A wax candle on the table burnt with a small,
steady flame, the pendulum swung with a heavy, regular tick. I leant my head on my hand and fell to gazing into the empty half - dark of my lonely room. I thought of Vera, and my heart failed me; all, at which I had so rejoiced, struck me, as it ought to have done, as unhappiness, as hopeless ruin. The feeling of apprehension grew and grew; I could not lie still any longer; I suddenly fancied again that some one was calling me in a voice of entreaty. . . . I raised my head and shuddered; I had not been mistaken; a pitiful cry floated out of the distance and rang faintly resounding on the dark window - panes. I was frightened; I jumped off the bed; I opened the window. A distinct moan broke into the room and, as it were hovered about me. Chilled with terror, I drank in its last dying echoes. It seemed as though some one were being killed in the distance and the luckless wretch were beseeching in vain for mercy. Whether it was an owl hooting in the wood or some other creature that uttered this wail, I did not think to consider at the time, but, like Mazeppa, I called back in answer to the ill - omened sound.
“Vera, Vera!” I cried; “is it you calling me?” Timofay, sleepy and amazed, appeared before me.
I came to my senses, drank a glass of water and went into another room; but sleep did not come to me. My heart throbbed painfully though not rapidly. I could not abandon myself to dreams of happiness again; I dared not believe in it.
Next day, before dinner, I went to the Priemkovs’. Priemkov met me with a care - worn face.
“My wife is ill,” he began; “she is in bed; I sent for a doctor.”
“What is the matter with her?”
“I can’t make out. Yesterday evening she went into the garden and suddenly came back quite beside herself, panic - stricken. Her maid ran for me. I went in, and asked my wife what was wrong. She made no answer, and so she has lain; by night delirium set in. In her delirium she said all sorts of things; she mentioned you. The maid told me an extraordinary thing; that Vera’s mother appeared to her in the garden; she fancied she was coming to meet her with open arms.”
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 141