The Princess's favourite spot of all was at the very bottom of the lower garden, where a little bridge spanned a narrow piece of swamp.The view there was very restricted, yet very intimate and pleasing.We are so accustomed to confound art with nature that, often enough, phenomena of nature which are never to be met with in pictures seem to us unreal, and give us the impression that nature is unnatural, or vice versa; whereas phenomena of nature which occur with too much frequency in pictures seem to us hackneyed, and views which are to be met with in real life, but which appear to us too penetrated with a single idea or a single sentiment, seem to us arabesques.The view from the Princess's favourite spot was as follows.On the further side of a small lake, over-grown with weeds round its edges, rose a steep ascent covered with bushes and with huge old trees of many shades of green, while, overhanging the lake at the foot of the ascent, stood an ancient birch tree which, though partly supported by stout roots implanted in the marshy bank of the lake, rested its crown upon a tall, straight poplar, and dangled its curved branches over the smooth surface of the pond--both branches and the surrounding greenery being reflected therein as in a mirror.
"How lovely!" said the Princess with a nod of her head, and addressing no one in particular.
"Yes, marvellous!" I replied in my desire to show that had an opinion of my own on every subject."Yet somehow it all looks to me so terribly like a scheme of decoration."
The Princess went on gazing at the scene as though she had not heard me, and turning to her sister and Lubov Sergievna at intervals, in order to point out to them its details--especially a curved, pendent bough, with its reflection in the water, which particularly pleased her.Sophia Ivanovna observed to me that it was all very beautiful, and that she and her sister would sometimes spend hours together at this spot; yet it was clear that her remarks were meant merely to please the Princess.I have noticed that people who are gifted with the faculty of loving are seldom receptive to the beauties of nature.Lubov Sergievna also seemed enraptured, and asked (among other things), "How does that birch tree manage to support itself? Has it stood there long?"
Yet the next moment she became absorbed in contemplation of her little dog Susetka, which, with its stumpy paws pattering to and fro upon the bridge in a mincing fashion, seemed to say by the expression of its face that this was the first time it had ever found itself out of doors.As for Dimitri, he fell to discoursing very logically to his mother on the subject of how no view can be beautiful of which the horizon is limited.Varenika alone said nothing.Glancing at her, I saw that she was leaning over the parapet of the bridge, her profile turned towards me, and gazing straight in front of her.Something seemed to be interesting her deeply, or even affecting her, since it was clear that she was oblivious to her surroundings, and thinking neither of herself nor of the fact that any one might be regarding her.In the expression of her large eyes there was nothing but wrapt attention and quiet, concentrated thought, while her whole attitude seemed so unconstrained and, for all her shortness, so dignified that once more some recollection or another touched me and once more I asked myself, "Is IT, then, beginning?" Yet again I assured myself that I was already in love with Sonetchka, and that Varenika was only an ordinary girl, the sister of my friend.
Though she pleased me at that moment, I somehow felt a vague desire to show her, by word or deed, some small unfriendliness.
"I tell you what, Dimitri," I said to my friend as I moved nearer to Varenika, so that she might overhear what I was going to say, "it seems to me that, even if there had been no mosquitos here, there would have been nothing to commend this spot; whereas "--
and here I slapped my cheek, and in very truth annihilated one of those insects--"it is simply awful."
"Then you do not care for nature?" said Varenika without turning her head.
"I think it a foolish, futile pursuit," I replied, well satisfied that I had said something to annoy her, as well as something original.Varenika only raised her eyebrows a little, with an expression of pity, and went on gazing in front of her as calmly as before.
I felt vexed with her.Yet, for all that, the rusty, paint-
blistered parapet on which she was leaning, the way in which the dark waters of the pond reflected the drooping branch of the overhanging birch tree (it almost seemed to me as though branch and its reflection met), the rising odour of the swamp, the feeling of crushed mosquito on my cheek, and her absorbed look and statuesque pose--many times afterwards did these things recur with unexpected vividness to my recollection.
