‘That’s splendid,’ I commented; ‘but I tell you what I don’t like--I’m afraid this sleeplessness and headache may turn you against reading such things.’ ‘You think so?’ she responded, and she picked a sprig of wild jasmine as she passed. ‘God knows! I fancy if one has once entered on that path, there is no turning back.’ She suddenly flung away the spray. ‘Come, let us sit down in this arbour,’ she went on; ‘and please, until I talk of it of my own accord, don’t remind me--of that book.’ (She seemed afraid to utter the name _Faust_.) We went into the arbour and sat down. ‘I won’t talk to you about _Faust_,’ I began; ‘but you will let me congratulate you and tell you that I envy you.’ ‘You envy me?’ ‘Yes; you, as I know you now, with your soul, have such delights awaiting you! There are great poets besides Goethe; Shakespeare, Schiller--and, indeed, our own Pushkin, and you must get to know him too.’ She did not speak, and drew in the sand with her parasol. O, my friend, Semyon Nikolaitch! if you could have seen how sweet she was at that instant; pale almost to transparency, stooping forward a little, weary, inwardly perturbed--and yet serene as the sky! I talked, talked a long while, then ceased, and sat in silence watching her.… She did not raise her eyes, and went on drawing with her parasol and rubbing it out again. Suddenly we heard quick, childish steps; Natasha ran into the arbour. Vera Nikolaevna drew herself up, rose, and to my surprise she embraced her daughter with a sort of passionate tenderness.… That was not one of her ways. Then Priemkov made his appearance. Schimmel, that grey-haired but punctual innocent, had left before daybreak so as not to miss a lesson. We went in to morning tea. But I am tired; it’s high time to finish this letter. It’s sure to strike you as foolish and confused. I feel confused myself. I’m not myself. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I am continually haunted by a little room with bare walls, a lamp, an open door, the fragrance and freshness of the night, and there, near the door, an intent youthful face, light white garments.… I understand now why I wanted to marry her: I was not so stupid, it seems, before my stay in Berlin as I had hitherto supposed. Yes, Semyon Nikolaitch, your friend is in a curious frame of mind. All this I know will pass off … and if it doesn’t pass off,--well, what then? it won’t pass off, and that’s all. But any way I am well satisfied with myself; in the first place, I have spent an exquisite evening; and secondly, if I have awakened that soul, who can blame me? Old Madame Eltsov is nailed up on the wall, and must hold her peace. The old thing!… I don’t know all the details of her life; but I know she ran away from her father’s house; she was not half Italian for nothing, it seems. She wanted to keep her daughter secure … we shall see.