A Lear of the Steppes, etc.Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich
General
A Lear of the Steppes, etc.
Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich
Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich, 1818-1883 -- Translations into English
She went to her own sitting-room, and brought out a rather large gold
locket. Opening this locket, I saw excellently painted miniature
portraits of Madame Eltsov’s father and his wife--the peasant woman
from Albano. Vera’s grandfather struck me by his likeness to his
daughter. Only his features, set in a white cloud of powder, seemed
even more severe, sharp, and hard, and in his little yellow eyes there
was a gleam of a sort of sullen obstinacy. But what a face the Italian
woman had, voluptuous, open like a full-blown rose, with prominent,
large, liquid eyes, and complacently smiling red lips! Her delicate
sensual nostrils seemed dilating and quivering as after recent kisses.
The dark cheeks seemed fragrant of glowing heat and health, the
luxuriance of youth and womanly power.… That brow had never done any
thinking, and, thank God, she had been depicted in her Albanian dress!
The artist (a master) had put a vine in her hair, which was black
as pitch with bright grey high lights; this Bacchic ornament was in
marvellous keeping with the expression of her face. And do you know of
whom the face reminded me? My Manon Lescaut in the black frame. And
what is most wonderful of all, as I looked at the portrait, I recalled
that in Vera too, in spite of the utter dissimilarity of the features,
there is at times a gleam of something like that smile, that look.…
Yes, I tell you again; neither she herself nor any one else in the
world knows as yet all that is latent in her.…
By the way--Madame Eltsov, before her daughter’s marriage, told her
all her life, her mother’s death, and so on, probably with a view to
her edification. What specially affected Vera was what she heard about
her grandfather, the mysterious Ladanov. Isn’t it owing to that that
she believes in apparitions? It’s strange! She is so pure and bright
herself, and yet is afraid of everything dark and underground, and
believes in it.…
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_.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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