A Lear of the Steppes, etc.

by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Still the throbbing of my heart,

And grateful will be the shade

To the enraptured soul.…

But enough of this; or you’ll be fancying all sorts of things. Till next time … What shall I write to you next time, I wonder?—Good-bye! By the way, she never says ‘Good-bye,’ but always, ‘So, good-bye!’—I like that tremendously.—Yours, P. B.

P.S.—I can’t recollect whether I told you that she knows I wanted to marry her.

SIXTH LETTER
From the SAME to the SAME

M—— Village, August 10, 1850.

Confess you are expecting a letter from me of despair or of rapture!… Nothing of the sort. My letter will be like any other letter. Nothing new has happened, and nothing, I imagine, possibly can happen. The other day we went out in a boat on the lake. I will tell you about this boating expedition. We were three: she, Schimmel, and I. I don’t know what induces her to invite the old fellow so often. The H——s, I hear, are annoyed with him for neglecting his lessons. This time, though, he was entertaining. Priemkov did not come with us; he had a headache. The weather was splendid, brilliant; great white clouds that seemed torn to shreds over a blue sky, everywhere glitter, a rustle in the trees, the plash and lapping of water on the bank, running coils of gold on the waves, freshness and sunlight! At first the German and I rowed; then we hoisted a sail and flew before the wind. The boat’s bow almost dipped in the water, and a constant hissing and foaming followed the helm. She sat at the rudder and steered; she tied a kerchief over her head; she could not have kept a hat on; her curls strayed from under it and fluttered in the air. She held the rudder firmly in her little sunburnt hand, and smiled at the spray which flew at times in her face. I was curled up at the bottom of the boat; not far from her feet. The German brought out a pipe, smoked his shag, and, only fancy, began singing in a rather pleasing bass. First he sang the old-fashioned song: ‘Freut euch des Lebens,’ then an air from the ‘Magic Flute,’ then a song called the ‘A B C of Love.’ In this song all the letters of the alphabet—with additions of course—are sung through in order, beginning with ‘A B C D—Wenn ich dich seh!’ and ending with ‘U V W X—Mach einen Knicks!’ He sang all the couplets with much expression; but you should have seen how slily he winked with his left eye at the word ‘Knicks!’ Vera laughed and shook her finger at him. I observed that, as far as I could judge, Mr. Schimmel had been a redoubtable fellow in his day. ‘Oh yes, I could take my own part!’ he rejoined with dignity; and he knocked the ash out of his pipe on to his open hand, and, with a knowing air, held the mouth-piece on one side in his teeth, while he felt in the tobacco-pouch. ‘When I was a student,’ he added, ‘o-oh-oh!’ He said nothing more. But what an o-oh-oh! it was! Vera begged him to sing some students’ song, and he sang her: ‘Knaster, den gelben,’ but broke down on the last note. Altogether he was quite jovial and expansive. Meanwhile the wind had blown up, the waves began to be rather large, and the boat heeled a little over on one side; swallows began flitting above the water all about us. We made the sail loose and began to tack about. The wind suddenly blew a cross squall, we had not time to right the sail, a wave splashed over the boat’s edge and flung a lot of water into the boat. And now the German proved himself a man of spirit; he snatched the cord from me, and set the sail right, saying as he did so—‘So macht man ins Kuxhaven!’

Vera was most likely frightened, for she turned pale, but as her way is, she did not utter a word, but picked up her skirt, and put her feet upon the crosspiece of the boat. I was suddenly reminded of the poem of Goethe’s (I have been simply steeped in him for some time past) … you remember?—‘On the waves glitter a thousand dancing stars,’ and I repeated it aloud. When I reached the line: ‘My eyes, why do you look down?’ she slightly raised her eyes (I was sitting lower than she; her gaze had rested on me from above) and looked a long while away into the distance, screwing up her eyes from the wind.… A light rain came on in an instant, and pattered, making bubbles on the water. I offered her my overcoat; she put it over her shoulders. We got to the bank—not at the landing-place—and walked home. I gave her my arm. I kept feeling that I wanted to tell her something; but I did not speak. I asked her, though, I remember, why she always sat, when she was at home, under the portrait of Madame Eltsov, like a little bird under its mother’s wing. ‘Your comparison is a very true one,’ she responded, ‘I never want to come out from under her wing.’ ‘Shouldn’t you like to come out into freedom?’ I asked again. She made no answer.