I rosein the morning with a headache. My agitation of the night before had vanished. It had been replaced by an oppressive perplexity and a certain, hitherto unknown sadness,—exactly as though something had died in me.
“What makes you look like a rabbit which has had half of its brain removed?”—said Lúshin, who happened to meet me. At breakfast I kept casting covert glances now at my father, now at my mother; he was calm, as usual; she, as usual, was secretly irritated. I waited to see whethermy father would address me in a friendly way, as he sometimes did.... But he did not even caress me with his cold, everyday affection.—“Shall I tell Zinaída all?”—I thought.... “For it makes no difference now—everything is over between us.” I went to her, but I not only did not tell her anything,—I did not even get a chance to talk to her as I would have liked. The old Princess’s son, a cadet aged twelve, had come from Petersburg to spend his vacation with her; Zinaída immediately confided her brother to me.—“Here, my dear Volódya,”—said she (she called me so for the first time), “is a comrade for you. His name is Volódya also. Pray, like him; he’s a wild little fellow still, but he has a good heart. Show him Neskútchny Park, walk with him, take him under your protection. You will do that, will you not? You, too, are such a good fellow!”—She laid both hands affectionately on my shoulder—and I was reduced to utter confusion. The arrival of that boy turned me into a boy. I stared in silence at the cadet, who riveted his eyes in corresponding silence on me. Zinaída burst out laughing and pushed us toward each other.—“Come, embrace, children!”—We embraced.—“I’ll take you into the garden if you wish,—shall I?”—I asked the cadet.
“Certainly, sir,”—he replied, in a hoarse, genuine cadet voice. Again Zinaída indulged in a burst of laughter.... I managed to noticethat never before had she had such charming colour in her face. The cadet and I went off together. In our garden stood an old swing. I seated him on the thin little board and began to swing him. He sat motionless in his new little uniform of thick cloth with broad gold galloon, and clung tightly to the ropes.
“You had better unhook your collar,”—I said to him.
“Never mind, sir,[7]we are used to it, sir,”—he said, and cleared his throat.
He resembled his sister; his eyes were particularly suggestive of her. It was pleasant to me to be of service to him; and, at the same time, that aching pain kept quietly gnawing at my heart. “Now I really am a child,” I thought; “but last night....” I remembered where I had dropped my knife and found it. The cadet asked me to lend it to him, plucked a thick stalk of lovage, cut a whistle from it, and began to pipe. Othello piped also.
But in the evening, on the other hand, how he did weep, that same Othello, over Zinaída’s hands when, having sought him out in a corner of the garden, she asked him what made him so melancholy. My tears streamed with such violence that she was frightened.—“What is the matter with you? What is the matter with you, Volódya?”—she kept repeating, and seeing that I made her no reply, she took it into her head to kiss my wet cheek. But I turned away from her and whispered through my sobs:—“I know everything: why have you trifled with me?... Why did you want my love?”
“I am to blame toward you, Volódya” ... said Zinaída.—“Akh, I am very much to blame” ... she said, and clenched her hands.—“How much evil, dark, sinful, there is in me!... But I am not trifling with you now, I love you—you do not suspect why and how.... But what is it you know?”
What could I say to her? She stood before me and gazed at me—and I belonged to her wholly, from head to foot, as soon as she looked at me.... A quarter of an hour later I was running a race with the cadet and Zinaída; I was not weeping; I was laughing, although my swollen eyelids dropped tears from laughing; on my neck, in place of a tie, was bound a ribbon of Zinaída’s, and I shouted with joy when I succeeded in seizing her round the waist. She did with me whatsoever she would.
I shouldbe hard put to it, if I were made to narrate in detail all that went on within me in the course of the week which followed my unsuccessful nocturnal expedition. It was a strange, feverish time, a sort of chaos in which the most opposite emotions, thoughts, suspicions, hopes, joys, and sufferings revolved in a whirlwind; I was afraid to look into myself, if a sixteen-year-old can look into himself; I was afraid to account to myself for anything whatsoever; I simply made haste to live through the day until the evening; on the other hand, at night I slept ... childish giddiness helped me. I did not want to know whether I was beloved, and would not admit to myself that I was not beloved; I shunned my father—but could not shun Zinaída.... I burned as with fire in her presence, ... but what was the use of my knowing what sort of fire it was wherewith I burned and melted—seeing that it was sweet to me to burn and melt! I surrendered myself entirely to my impressions, and dealt artfully with myself, turned away from my memories and shut my eyes to that of which I had a presentiment in the future.... This anguish probably would not have continued long ... a thunder-clap put an instantaneous end to everything and hurled me into a new course.
On returning home one day to dinner from a rather long walk, I learned with surprise that I was to dine alone; that my father had gone away, while my mother was ill, did not wish to dine and had shut herself up in her bedroom. From the footmen’s faces I divined that something unusual had taken place.... I dared not interrogate them, but I had a friend, the young butler Philípp, who was passionately fond of poetry and an artist on the guitar; I applied to him. From him I learned that a frightful scene had taken place between my father and mother (for in the maids’ room everything was audible, to the last word; a great deal had been said in French, but the maid Másha had lived for five years with a dressmaker from Paris and understood it all); that my mother had accused my father of infidelity, of being intimate with the young lady our neighbour; that my father had first defended himself, then had flared up and in his turn had made some harsh remark “seemingly about her age,” which had set my mother to crying; that my mother had also referred to a note of hand, which appeared to have been given to the old Princess, and expressed herself very vilely about her, and about the young lady as well; and that then my father had threatened her.—“And the whole trouble arose,”—pursued Philípp, “out of an anonymous letter; but who wrote it no one knows; otherwise there was no reason why this affair should have come out.”
“But has there been anything?”—I enunciated with difficulty, while my hands and feet turned cold, and something began to quiver in the very depths of my breast.
Philípp winked significantly.—“There has.You can’t conceal such doings, cautious as your papa has been in this case;—still, what possessed him, for example, to hire a carriage, or to ... for you can’t get along without people there also.”
I dismissed Philípp, and flung myself down on my bed. I did not sob, I did not give myself up to despair; I did not ask myself when and how all this had taken place; I was not surprised that I had not guessed it sooner, long before—I did not even murmur against my father.... That which I had learned was beyond my strength; this sudden discovery had crushed me.... All was over. All my flowers had been plucked up at one blow and lay strewn around me, scattered and trampled under foot.
Onthe following day my mother announced that she was going to remove to town. My father went into her bedroom in the morning and sat there a long time alone with her. No one heard what he said to her, but my mother did not weep any more; she calmed down and asked for something to eat, but did not show herself and did not alter her intention. I remember that I wandered about all day long, but did not go into the garden and did not glance even once at the wing—and in theevening I was the witness of an amazing occurrence; my father took Count Malévsky by the arm and led him out of the hall into the anteroom and, in the presence of a lackey, said coldly to him: “Several days ago Your Radiance was shown the door in a certain house. I shall not enter into explanations with you now, but I have the honour to inform you that if you come to my house again I shall fling you through the window. I don’t like your handwriting.” The Count bowed, set his teeth, shrank together, and disappeared.
Preparations began for removing to town, on the Arbát,[8]where our house was situated. Probably my father himself no longer cared to remain in the villa; but it was evident that he had succeeded in persuading my mother not to make a row. Everything was done quietly, without haste; my mother even sent her compliments to the old Princess and expressed her regret that, owing to ill-health, she would be unable to see her before her departure. I prowled about like a crazy person, and desired but one thing,—that everything might come to an end as speedily as possible. One thought never quitted my head: how could she, a young girl,—well, and a princess into the bargain,—bring herself to such a step, knowing that my father was not a free man while she had the possibility of marrying Byelovzóroff at least, for example? What had she hoped for? How was it that she had not been afraid to ruin her whole future?—“Yes,”—I thought,—“that’s what love is,—that is passion,—that is devotion,” ... and I recalled Lúshin’s words to me: “Self-sacrifice is sweet—for some people.” Once I happened to catch sight of a white spot in one of the windows of the wing.... “Can that be Zinaída’s face?”—I thought; ... and it really was her face. I could not hold out. I could not part from her without bidding her a last farewell. I seized a convenient moment and betook myself to the wing.
In the drawing-room the old Princess received me with her customary, slovenly-careless greeting.
“What has made your folks uneasy so early, my dear fellow?”—she said, stuffing snuff up both her nostrils. I looked at her, and a weight was removed from my heart. The word “note of hand” uttered by Philípp tormented me. She suspected nothing ... so it seemed to me then, at least. Zinaída made her appearance from the adjoining room in a black gown, pale, with hair out of curl; she silently took me by the hand and led me away to her room.
“I heard your voice,”—she began,—“and came out at once. And did you find it so easy to desert us, naughty boy?”
“I have come to take leave of you, Princess,”—I replied,—“probably forever. You may have heard we are going away.”
Zinaída gazed intently at me.
“Yes, I have heard. Thank you for coming. I was beginning to think that I should not see you.—Think kindly of me. I have sometimes tormented you; but nevertheless I am not the sort of person you think I am.”
She turned away and leaned against the window-casing.
“Really, I am not that sort of person. I know that you have a bad opinion of me.”
“I?”
“Yes, you ... you.”
“I?”—I repeated sorrowfully, and my heart began to quiver as of old, beneath the influence of the irresistible, inexpressible witchery.—“I? Believe me, Zinaída Alexándrovna, whatever you may have done, however you may have tormented me, I shall love and adore you until the end of my life.”
She turned swiftly toward me and opening her arms widely, she clasped my head, and kissed me heartily and warmly. God knows whom that long, farewell kiss was seeking, but I eagerly tasted its sweetness. I knew that it would never more be repeated.—“Farewell, farewell!” I kept saying....
She wrenched herself away and left the room. And I withdrew also. I am unable to describethe feeling with which I retired. I should not wish ever to have it repeated; but I should consider myself unhappy if I had never experienced it.
We removed to town. I did not speedily detach myself from the past, I did not speedily take up my work. My wound healed slowly; but I really had no evil feeling toward my father. On the contrary, he seemed to have gained in stature in my eyes ... let the psychologists explain this contradiction as best they may. One day I was walking along the boulevard when, to my indescribable joy, I encountered Lúshin. I liked him for his straightforward, sincere character; and, moreover, he was dear to me in virtue of the memories which he awakened in me. I rushed at him.
“Aha!”—he said, with a scowl.—“Is it you, young man? Come, let me have a look at you. You are still all sallow, and yet there is not the olden trash in your eyes. You look like a man, not like a lap-dog. That’s good. Well, and how are you? Are you working?”
I heaved a sigh. I did not wish to lie, and I was ashamed to tell the truth.
“Well, never mind,”—went on Lúshin,—“don’t be afraid. The principal thing is to live in normal fashion and not to yield to impulses. Otherwise, where’s the good? No matter whither the wave bears one—’tis bad; let a man stand ona stone if need be, but on his own feet. Here I am croaking ... but Byelovzóroff—have you heard about him?”
“What about him? No.”
“He has disappeared without leaving a trace; they say he has gone to the Caucasus. A lesson to you, young man. And the whole thing arises from not knowing how to say good-bye,—to break bonds in time. You, now, seem to have jumped out successfully. Look out, don’t fall in again. Farewell.”
“I shall not fall in,”—I thought.... “I shall see her no more.” But I was fated to see Zinaída once more.
Myfather was in the habit of riding on horseback every day; he had a splendid red-roan English horse, with a long, slender neck and long legs, indefatigable and vicious. Its name was Electric. No one could ride it except my father. One day he came to me in a kindly frame of mind, which had not happened with him for a long time: he was preparing to ride, and had donned his spurs. I began to entreat him to take me with him.
“Let us, rather, play at leap-frog,”—replied my father,—“for thou wilt not be able to keep up with me on thy cob.”
“Yes, I shall; I will put on spurs also.”
“Well, come along.”
We set out. I had a shaggy, black little horse, strong on its feet and fairly spirited; it had to gallop with all its might, it is true, when Electric was going at a full trot; but nevertheless I did not fall behind. I have never seen such a horseman as my father. His seat was so fine and so carelessly-adroit that the horse under him seemed to be conscious of it and to take pride in it. We rode the whole length of all the boulevards, reached the Maidens’ Field,[9]leaped over several enclosures (at first I was afraid to leap, but my father despised timid people, and I ceased to be afraid), crossed the Moscow river twice;—and I was beginning to think that we were on our way homeward, the more so as my father remarked that my horse was tired, when suddenly he turned away from me in the direction of the Crimean Ford, and galloped along the shore.—I dashed after him. When he came on a level with a lofty pile of old beams which lay heaped together, he sprang nimbly from Electric, ordered me to alight and, handing me the bridle of his horse, told me to wait for him on that spot, near the beams; then he turned into a narrow alley and disappeared. I began to pace back and forth along the shore, leading the horses after me and scolding Electric, who as he walked kept incessantly twitching his head, shaking himself, snorting and neighing; when I stood still, he alternately pawed the earth with his hoof, and squealed and bit my cob on the neck; in a word, behaved like a spoiled darling,pur sang. My father did not return. A disagreeable humidity was wafted from the river; a fine rain set in and mottled the stupid, grey beams, around which I was hovering and of which I was so heartily tired, with tiny, dark spots. Anxiety took possession of me, but still my father did not come. A Finnish sentry, also all grey, with a huge, old-fashioned shako, in the form of a pot, on his head, and armed with a halberd (why should there be a sentry, I thought, on the shores of the Moscow river?), approached me, and turning his elderly, wrinkled face to me, he said:
“What are you doing here with those horses, my little gentleman? Hand them over to me; I’ll hold them.”
I did not answer him; he asked me for some tobacco. In order to rid myself of him (moreover, I was tortured by impatience), I advanced a few paces in the direction in which my father had retreated; then I walked through the alley to the very end, turned a corner, and came to a standstill. On the street, forty paces distant fromme, in front of the open window of a small wooden house, with his back to me, stood my father; he was leaning his breast on the window-sill, while in the house, half concealed by the curtain, sat a woman in a dark gown talking with my father: the woman was Zinaída.
I stood rooted to the spot in amazement. I must confess that I had in nowise expected this. My first impulse was to flee. “My father will glance round,” I thought,—“and then I am lost.”... But a strange feeling—a feeling more powerful than curiosity, more powerful even than jealousy, more powerful than fear,—stopped me. I began to stare, I tried to hear. My father appeared to be insisting upon something. Zinaída would not consent. I seem to see her face now—sad, serious, beautiful, and with an indescribable imprint of adoration, grief, love, and a sort of despair. She uttered monosyllabic words, did not raise her eyes, and only smiled—submissively and obstinately. From that smile alone I recognised my former Zinaída. My father shrugged his shoulders, and set his hat straight on his head—which was always a sign of impatience with him.... Then the words became audible: “Vous devez vous séparer de cette.”... Zinaída drew herself up and stretched out her hand.... Suddenly, before my very eyes, an incredible thing came to pass:—all at once, my father raised the riding-whip, with which he had been lashing thedust from his coat-tails,—and the sound of a sharp blow on that arm, which was bare to the elbow, rang out. I could hardly keep from shrieking, but Zinaída started, gazed in silence at my father, and slowly raising her arm to her lips, kissed the mark which glowed scarlet upon it.
My father hurled his riding-whip from him, and running hastily up the steps of the porch, burst into the house.... Zinaída turned round, and stretching out her arms, and throwing back her head, she also quitted the window.
My heart swooning with terror, and with a sort of alarmed perplexity, I darted backward; and dashing through the alley, and almost letting go of Electric, I returned to the bank of the river.... I could understand nothing. I knew that my cold and self-contained father was sometimes seized by fits of wild fury; and yet I could not in the least comprehend what I had seen.... But I immediately felt that no matter how long I might live, it would be impossible for me ever to forget that movement, Zinaída’s glance and smile; that her image, that new image which had suddenly been presented to me, had forever imprinted itself on my memory. I stared stupidly at the river and did not notice that my tears were flowing. “She is being beaten,”—I thought.... “She is being beaten ... beaten....”
“Come, what ails thee?—Give me my horse!”—rang out my father’s voice behind me.
I mechanically gave him the bridle. He sprang upon Electric ... the half-frozen horse reared on his hind legs and leaped forward half a fathom ... but my father speedily got him under control; he dug his spurs into his flanks and beat him on the neck with his fist.... “Ekh, I have no whip,”—he muttered.
I remembered the recent swish through the air and the blow of that same whip, and shuddered.
“What hast thou done with it?”—I asked my father, after waiting a little.
My father did not answer me and galloped on. I dashed after him. I was determined to get a look at his face.
“Didst thou get bored in my absence?”—he said through his teeth.
“A little. But where didst thou drop thy whip?”—I asked him again.
My father shot a swift glance at me.—“I did not drop it,”—he said,—“I threw it away.”—He reflected for a space and dropped his head ... and then, for the first and probably for the last time, I saw how much tenderness and compunction his stern features were capable of expressing.
He set off again at a gallop, and this time I could not keep up with him; I reached home a quarter of an hour after him.
“That’s what love is,”—I said to myself again, as I sat at night before my writing-table,on which copy-books and text-books had already begun to make their appearance,—“that is what passion is!... How is it possible not to revolt, how is it possible to endure a blow from any one whomsoever ... even from the hand that is most dear? But evidently it can be done if one is in love.... And I ... I imagined....”
The last month had aged me greatly, and my love, with all its agitations and sufferings, seemed to me like something very petty and childish and wretched in comparison with that other unknown something at which I could hardly even guess, and which frightened me like a strange, beautiful but menacing face that one strives, in vain, to get a good look at in the semi-darkness....
That night I had a strange and dreadful dream. I thought I was entering a low, dark room.... My father was standing there, riding-whip in hand, and stamping his feet; Zinaída was crouching in one corner and had a red mark, not on her arm, but on her forehead ... and behind the two rose up Byelovzóroff, all bathed in blood, with his pale lips open, and wrathfully menacing my father.
Two months later I entered the university, and six months afterward my father died (of an apoplectic stroke) in Petersburg, whither he had just removed with my mother and myself. A few days before his death my father had received a letter from Moscow which had agitated him extremely.... He went to beg something of my mother and, I was told, even wept,—he, my father! On the very morning of the day on which he had the stroke, he had begun a letter to me in the French language: “My son,”—he wrote to me,—“fear the love of women, fear that happiness, that poison....” After his death my mother sent a very considerable sum of money to Moscow.
Fouryears passed. I had but just left the university, and did not yet quite know what to do with myself, at what door to knock; in the meanwhile, I was lounging about without occupation. One fine evening I encountered Maidánoff in the theatre. He had contrived to marry and enter the government service; but I found him unchanged. He went into unnecessary raptures, just as of old, and became low-spirited as suddenly as ever.
“You know,”—he said to me,—“by the way, that Madame Dólsky is here.”
“What Madame Dólsky?”
“Is it possible that you have forgotten? The former Princess Zasyékin, with whom we were all in love, you included. At the villa, near Neskútchny Park, you remember?”
“Did she marry Dólsky?”
“Yes.”
“And is she here in the theatre?”
“No, in Petersburg; she arrived here a few days ago; she is preparing to go abroad.”
“What sort of a man is her husband?”—I asked.
“A very fine young fellow and wealthy. He’s my comrade in the service, a Moscow man. You understand—after that scandal ... you must be well acquainted with all that ...” (Maidánoff smiled significantly), “it was not easy for her to find a husband; there were consequences ... but with her brains everything is possible. Go to her; she will be delighted to see you. She is handsomer than ever.”
Maidánoff gave me Zinaída’s address. She was stopping in the Hotel Demuth. Old memories began to stir in me.... I promised myself that I would call upon my former “passion” the next day. But certain affairs turned up: a week elapsed, and when, at last, I betook myself to the Hotel Demuth and inquired for Madame Dólsky I learned that she had died four days previously, almost suddenly, in childbirth.
Something seemed to deal me a blow in the heart. The thought that I might have seen her but had not, and that I should never see her,—that bitter thought seized upon me with all the force of irresistible reproach. “Dead!” I repeated, staring dully at the door-porter, then quietly made my way to the street and walked away, without knowing whither. The whole past surged up at one blow and stood before me. And now this was the way it had ended, this was the goal of that young, fiery, brilliant life? I thought that—I pictured to myself those dear features, those eyes, those curls in the narrow box, in the damp, underground gloom,—right there, not far from me, who was still alive, and, perchance, only a few paces from my father.... I thought all that, I strained my imagination, and yet—
From a mouth indifferent I heard the news of death,And with indifference did I receive it—
From a mouth indifferent I heard the news of death,And with indifference did I receive it—
From a mouth indifferent I heard the news of death,And with indifference did I receive it—
resounded through my soul. O youth, youth! Thou carest for nothing: thou possessest, as it were, all the treasures of the universe; even sorrow comforts thee, even melancholy becomes thee; thou are self-confident and audacious; thou sayest: “I alone live—behold!”—But the days speed on and vanish without a trace and without reckoning, and everything vanishes in thee, like wax in the sun, like snow.... And perchance the whole secret of thy charm consists not in the power to do everything, but in the possibility of thinking that thou wilt do everything—consists precisely in the fact that thou scatterest to the winds thy powers which thou hast not understood how to employ in any other way,—in the fact that each one of us seriously regards himself as a prodigal, seriously assumes that he has a right tosay: “Oh, what could I not have done, had I not wasted my time!”
And I myself ... what did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee, when I barely accompanied with a single sigh, with a single mournful emotion, the spectre of my first love which had arisen for a brief moment?
And what has come to pass of all for which I hoped? Even now, when the shades of evening are beginning to close in upon my life, what is there that has remained for me fresher, more precious than the memory of that morning spring thunder-storm which sped so swiftly past?
But I calumniate myself without cause. Even then, at that frivolous, youthful epoch, I did not remain deaf to the sorrowful voice which responded within me to the triumphant sound which was wafted to me from beyond the grave. I remember that a few days after I learned of Zinaída’s death I was present, by my own irresistible longing, at the death-bed of a poor old woman who lived in the same house with us. Covered with rags, with a sack under her head, she died heavily and with difficulty. Her whole life had been passed in a bitter struggle with daily want; she had seen no joy, she had not tasted the honey of happiness—it seemed as though she could not have failed to rejoice at death, at her release, her repose. But nevertheless, as long as her decrepit body held out, as long as her breastheaved under the icy hand which was laid upon it, until her last strength deserted her, the old woman kept crossing herself and whispering:—“O Lord, forgive my sins,”—and only with the last spark of consciousness did there vanish from her eyes the expression of fear and horror at her approaching end. And I remember that there, by the bedside of that poor old woman, I felt terrified for Zinaída, and felt like praying for her, for my father—and for myself.
SEVERAL years ago I was in Dresden. I stopped in the hotel. As I was running about the town from early morning until late at night, I did not consider it necessary to make acquaintance with my neighbours; at last, accidentally, it came to my knowledge that there was a sick Russian in the house. I went to him, and found a man in the last stage of consumption. Dresden was beginning to pall upon me; I settled down with my new acquaintance. It is wearisome to sit with an invalid, but even boredom is agreeable sometimes; moreover, my invalid was not dejected, and liked to chat. We endeavoured, in every way, to kill time: we played “fool” together, we jeered at the doctor. My compatriot narrated to that very bald German divers fictions about his own condition, which the doctor always “had long foreseen”; he mimicked him when he was surprised at any unprecedented attack, flung his medicine out of the window and so forth.
Nevertheless I repeatedly remarked to my friend that it would not be a bad idea to send for a good physician before it was too late, that his malady was not to be jested with, and so forth.But Alexyéi (my acquaintance’s name was Alexyéi Petróvitch S***) put me off every time with jests about all doctors in general, and his own in particular, and at last, one stormy autumn evening, to my importunate entreaties, he replied with such a dejected glance, he shook his head so sadly, and smiled so strangely, that I felt a certain surprise. That same night Alexyéi grew worse, and on the following day he died. Just before his death his customary cheerfulness deserted him: he tossed uneasily in the bed, sighed, gazed anxiously about ... grasped my hand, whispered with an effort: “‘Tis difficult to die, you know,” ... dropped his head on the pillow, and burst into tears. I did not know what to say to him, and sat silently beside his bed. But Alexyéi speedily conquered this last, belated compassion.... “Listen,” he said to me:—“our doctor will come to-day, and will find me dead.... I can imagine his phiz” ... and the dying man tried to mimic him.... He requested me to send all his things to Russia, to his relatives, with the exception of a small packet, which he presented to me as a souvenir.
This packet contained letters—the letters of a young girl to Alexyéi and his letters to her. There were fifteen of them in all. Alexyéi Petróvitch S*** had known Márya Alexándrovna B*** for a long time—from childhood, apparently. Alexyéi Petróvitch had a cousin, and Márya Alexándrovna had a sister. In earlier years they had all lived together, then they had dispersed, and had not met again for a long time; then they had accidentally all assembled again in the country, in summer, and had fallen in love—Alexyéi’s cousin with Márya Alexándrovna, and Alexyéi himself with the latter’s sister. Summer passed and autumn came; they parted. Alexyéi being a sensible man, speedily became convinced that he was not in the least beloved, and parted from his beauty very happily; his cousin corresponded with Márya Alexándrovna for a couple of years longer ... but even he divined, at last, that he was deceiving both her and himself in the most unconscionable manner, and he also fell silent.
I should like to tell you a little about Márya Alexándrovna, dear reader, but you will learn to know her for yourself from her letters. Alexyéi wrote his first letter to her soon after her definitive breach with his cousin. He was in Petersburg at the time, suddenly went abroad, fell ill in Dresden and died. I have decided to publish his correspondence with Márya Alexándrovna, and I hope for some indulgence on the part of the reader, because these are not love-letters—God forbid! Love-letters are generally read by two persons only (but, on the other hand, a thousand times in succession), and are intolerable, if not ridiculous, to a third person.
St. Petersburg, March 7, 1840.
My dear Márya Alexándrovna!
I have never yet written to you a single time, I think, and here I am writing now.... I have chosen a strange time, have I not? This is what has prompted me to it:Mon cousin Théodorehas been to see me to-day, and—how shall I say it?... and has informed me, in the strictest privacy (he never imparts anything in any other way), that he is in love with the daughter of some gentleman here, and this time is bent on marrying without fail, and that he has already taken the first step—he has explained his intentions! As a matter of course, I hastened to congratulate him on an event so pleasant for him; he has long stood in need of an explanation ... but inwardly I was, I confess, somewhat amazed. Although I knew that everything was over between you, yet it seemed to me.... In a word, I was amazed. I was preparing to go out visiting to-day, but I have remained at home, and intend to have a little chat with you. If you do not care to listen to me, throw this letter into the fire immediately. I declare to you that I wish to be frank,although I feel that you have a perfect right to take me for a decidedly-intrusive man. Observe, however, that I would not have taken pen in hand if I had not known that your sister is not with you: Théodore told me that she will be away all summer visiting your aunt, Madame B***. May God grant her all good things!
So, then, this is the way it has all turned out.... But I shall not offer you my friendship, and so forth; in general, I avoid solemn speeches, and “intimate” effusions. In beginning to write this letter, I have simply obeyed some momentary impulse: if any other feeling is hiding within me, let it remain hidden from sight for the present.
Neither shall I attempt to console you. In consoling others, people generally desire to rid themselves, as speedily as possible, of the unpleasant feeling of involuntary, self-conceited compassion.... I understand sincere, warm sympathy ... but such sympathy is not to be got from every one.... Please be angry with me.... If you are angry, you will probably read my epistle to the end.
But what right have I to write to you, to talk about my friendship, my feelings, about consolation? None whatever—positively, none whatever; and I am bound to admit that, and I rely solely upon your kindness.
Do you know what the beginning of my letter resembles? This: a certain Mr. N. N. entered thedrawing-room of a lady who was not in the least expecting him,—who, perhaps, was expecting another man.... He divined that he had come at the wrong time, but there was nothing to be done.... He sat down, and began to talk.... God knows what about: poetry, the beauties of nature, the advantages of a good education ... in a word, he talked the most frightful nonsense.... But in the meanwhile the first five minutes had elapsed; he sat on; the lady resigned herself to her fate, and lo! Mr. N. N. recovered himself, sighed, and began to converse—to the best of his ability.
But, despite all this idle chatter, I feel somewhat awkward, nevertheless. I seem to see before me your perplexed, even somewhat angry face: I feel conscious that it is almost impossible for you not to assume that I have some secret intentions or other, and therefore, having perpetrated a piece of folly, like a Roman I wrap myself in my toga and await in silence your ultimate condemnation....
But, in particular: Will you permit me to continue to write to you?
I remain sincerely and cordially your devoted servant—
Alexyéi S***.
Village of ... no, March 22, 1840.
Dear Sir!Alexyéi Petróvitch!
I have received your letter, and really, I do not know what to say to you. I would even not have answered you at all had it not seemed to me that beneath your jests was concealed a decidedly-friendly sentiment. Your letter has produced an unpleasant impression on me. In reply to your “idle chatter,” as you put it, permit me also to propound to you one question: To what end? What have you to do with me, what have I to do with you? I do not assume any evil intentions on your part, ... on the contrary, I am grateful to you for your sympathy, ... but we are strangers to each other, and I now, at all events, feel not the slightest desire to become intimate with any one whomsoever.
With sincere respects I remain, and so forth,
Márya B***.
St. Petersburg, March 30.
I thank you, Márya Alexándrovna, I thank you for your note, curt as it is. All this time I have been in a state of great agitation; twenty times a day I have thought of you and of my letter. You can imagine how caustically I have laughed at myself; but now I am in a capital frame of mind, and am patting myself on the head. Márya Alexándrovna, I am entering into correspondence with you! Confess that you could not possibly have expected that after your reply; I am amazed at my own audacity ... never mind! But calm yourself: I want to talk to you not about myself, but about you. Here, do you see: I find it imperatively necessary—to speak in antiquated style—to express myself to some one. I have no right to select you for my confidante—I admit that; but hearken: I demand from you no reply to my epistles; I do not even wish to know whether you will peruse my “idle chatter,” but do not send me back my letters, in the name of all that is holy!
Listen—I am utterly alone on earth. In my youth I led a solitary life, although, I remember,I never pretended to be a Byron; but, in the first place, circumstances, in the second place, the ability to dream and a love for reverie, rather cold blood, pride, indolence—in a word, a multitude of varied causes alienated me from the society of men. The transition from a dreamy to an active life was effected in me late ... perhaps too late, perhaps to this day not completely. So long as my own thoughts and feelings diverted me, so long as I was capable of surrendering myself to causeless silent raptures, and so forth, I did not complain of my isolation. I had no comrades—I did have so-called friends. Sometimes I needed their presence as an electrical machine needs a discharger—that was all. Love ... we will be silent on that subject for the present. But now, I confess, now loneliness weighs upon me, and yet I see no escape from my situation. I do not blame Fate; I alone am to blame, and I am justly chastised. In my youth one thing alone interested me: my charming ego; I took my good-natured self-love for shyness; I shunned society, and lo! now I am frightfully bored with myself. What is to become of me? I love no one; all my friendships with other people are, somehow, strained and false; and I have no memories, because in all my past life, I find nothing except my own self. Save me! I have not made you enthusiastic vows of love; I have not deafened you with a torrent of chattering speeches; I have passed you bywith considerable coldness, and precisely for that reason I have made up my mind now to have recourse to you. (I had thought of this even earlier, but you were not free then....) Out of all my self-made joys and sufferings, the sole genuine feeling was the small, but involuntary attraction to you, which withered then, like a solitary ear of grain amid worthless weeds.... Allow me, at least, to look into another face, another soul,—my own face has grown repugnant to me; I am like a man who has been condemned to live out his entire life in a room with walls made of mirrors.... I do not demand any confessions from you—oh, heavens, no! Grant me the speechless sympathy of a sister, or at least the simple curiosity of a reader—I will interest you, really, I will.
At any rate, I have the honour to be your sincere friend,
A. S.
Petersburg, April 7th.
I write again to you, although I foresee that, without your approval, I shall speedily hold my peace. I must admit that you cannot fail to feel a certain distrust of me. What of that? Perhapsyou are right. Formerly I would have declared to you (and, probably, would have believed my own words) that, since we parted, I had “developed,” had advanced; with condescending, almost affectionate scorn I would have referred to my past; with touching boastfulness I would have initiated you into the secrets of my present, active life ... but now, I assure you, Márya Alexándrovna, I consider it shameful and disgusting to allude to the way in which my vile self-love once on a time fermented and amused itself. Fear not: I shall not force upon you any great truths, any profound views; I have none—none of those truths and views. I have become a nice fellow,—truly I have. I’m bored, Márya Alexándrovna—so bored that I can endure it no longer. That is why I am writing to you.... Really, it seems to me that we can come to an agreement....
However, I positively am in no condition to talk to you until you stretch out your hand to me, until I receive from you a note with the one word “Yes.”—Márya Alexándrovna, will you hear me out?—that is the question.
Yours truly,A. S.
Village of ... no, April 14.
What a strange man you are! Well, then—“yes.”
Márya B***.
Petersburg, May 2, 1840.
Hurrah! Thanks, Márya Alexándrovna, thanks! You are a very kind and indulgent being.
I begin, according to my promise, to speak of myself, and I shall speak with pleasure, verging on appetite.... Precisely that. One may talk of everything in the world with fervour, with rapture, with enthusiasm, but only of one’s self can one talk with appetite.
Listen: an extremely strange incident happened to me the other day: I took a glance at my past for the first time. You will understand me: every one of us frequently recalls the past—withcompunction or with vexation, or simply for the lack of something to do; but only at a certain age can one cast a cold, clear glance at his whole past life—as a traveller, turning round, gazes from a lofty mountain upon the plain which he has traversed ... and a secret chill grips the heart of a man when this happens to him for the first time. At any rate, my heart contracted with pain. So long as we are young, that sort of looking backward is impossible. But my youth is over—and, like the traveller on the mountain, everything has become clearly visible to me....
Yes, my youth is gone, gone irrevocably!... Here it lies before me, all of it, as though in the palm of my hand....
’Tis not a cheerful spectacle! I confess to you, Márya Alexándrovna, that I am very sorry for myself. My God! My God! Is it possible that I myself have ruined my own life to such a degree, have so ruthlessly entangled and tortured myself?... Now I have come to my senses, but it is too late. Have you ever rescued a fly from a spider? You have? Do you remember, you placed it in the sunshine; its wings, its legs were stuck together, glued fast.... How awkwardly it moved, how clumsily it tried to clean itself!... After long-continued efforts, it got itself to rights, after a fashion; it crawled, it tried to put its wings in order... but it could not walk as it formerly did; it could not buzz, care-free, in the sunshine, now flying through an open window into a cool room, again fluttering freely out into the hot air.... It, at all events, did not fall into the dreadful net of its own free will ... but I!
I was my own spider.
And, nevertheless, I cannot blame myself so very much. Yes, and who—tell me, for mercy’s sake—who ever was to blame for anything—alone? Or, to put it more accurately, we are all to blame, yet it is impossible to blame us. Circumstances settle our fate: they thrust us into this road or that, and then they punish us. Every man has his fate.... Wait, wait! There occurs to my mind on this score an artfully-constructed but just comparison. As clouds are first formed by the exhalations from the earth, rise up from its bosom, then separate themselves from it, withdraw from it, and bear over it either blessings or ruin, just so around each one of us and from us ourselves is formed—how shall I express it?—is formed a sort of atmosphere which afterward acts destructively or salutarily upon us ourselves. This I call Fate.... In other words, and to put it simply: each person makes his own fate, and it makes each person....
Each person makes his own fate—yes!... but our brethren make it far too much—which constitutes our calamity! Consciousness is aroused in us too early; too early do we begin toobserve ourselves.... We Russians have no other life-problem than the cultivation of our personality, and here we, barely adult children, already undertake to cultivate it, this our unhappy personality! Without having received from within any definite direction, in reality respecting nothing, believing firmly in nothing, we are free to make of ourselves whatsoever we will.... But it is impossible to demand of every man that he shall immediately comprehend the sterility of a mind, “seething in empty activity” ... and so, there is one more monster in the world, one more of those insignificant beings in which the habits of self-love distort the very striving after truth, and ridiculous ingenuousness lives side by side with pitiful guile ... one of those beings to whose impotent, uneasy thought there remains forever unknown either the satisfaction of natural activity, or the genuine suffering, or the genuine triumph of conviction.... Combining in itself the defects of all ages, we deprive each defect of its good, its redeeming side.... We are as stupid as children, but we are not sincere like them; we are as cold as old men, but the common sense of old age is not in us.... On the other hand, we are psychologists. Oh, yes, we are great psychologists! But our psychology strays off into pathology; our psychology is an artful study of the laws of a diseased condition and a diseased development, withwhich healthy people have no concern.... But the chief thing is, we are not young,—in youth itself we are not young!
And yet—why calumniate one’s self? Have we really never been young? Have the vital forces never sparkled, never seethed, never quivered in us? Yet we have been in Arcadia, and we have roved its bright meads!... Have you ever happened, while strolling among bushes, to hit upon those dark-hued harvest-flies, which, springing out from under your very feet, suddenly expand their bright red wings with a clatter, flutter on a few paces, and then tumble into the grass again? Just so did our dark youth sometimes expand its gaily-coloured little wings for a few moments, and a brief flight.... Do you remember our silent evening rambles, the four of us together, along the fence of your park, after some long, warm, animated conversation? Do you remember those gracious moments? Nature received us affectionately and majestically into her lap. We entered, with sinking heart, into some sort of blissful waves. Round about the glow of sunset kindled with sudden and tender crimson; from the crimsoning sky, from the illuminated earth, from everywhere, it seemed as though the fresh and fiery breath of youth were wafted abroad, and the joyous triumph of some immortal happiness; the sunset glow blazed; like it, softly and passionately blazed our enraptured hearts, andthe tiny leaves of the young trees quivered sensitively and confusedly above us, as though replying to the inward tremulousness of the indistinct feelings and anticipations within us. Do you remember that purity, that kindness and trustfulness of ideas, that emotion of noble hopes, that silence of plenitude? Can it be that we were not then worthy of something better than that to which life has conducted us? Why have we been fated only at rare intervals to catch sight of the longed-for shore, and never to stand thereon with firm foothold, never to touch it—