‘Well, as you will, but I can’t agree with you; I am certain you are depriving yourself quite needlessly of the purest, the most legitimate pleasure. Why, you’re not opposed to music and painting, I suppose; why be opposed to poetry?’
‘I’m not opposed to it; I have never got to know anything of it—that’s all.’
‘Well, then, I will see to that! Your mother did not, I suppose, wish to prevent your knowing anything of the works of creative, poetic art all your life?’
‘No; when I was married, my mother removed every restriction; it never occurred to me to read—what did you call them?… well, anyway, to read novels.’
I listened to Vera Nikolaevna in astonishment. I had not expected this.
She looked at me with her serene glance. Birds look so when they are not frightened.
‘I’ll bring you a book!’ I cried. (I thought of Faust, which I had just been reading.)
Vera Nikolaevna gave a gentle sigh.
‘It——it won’t be Georges—Sand?’ she questioned with some timidity.
‘Ah! then you’ve heard of her? Well, if it were, where’s the harm?… No, I’ll bring you another author. You’ve not forgotten German, have you?’