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 malady11 was not to be jested with, and so forth.{116} 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 importunate12 entreaties13, 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 deserted15 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 compassion16.... “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 mimic7 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, apparently17. Alexyéi Petróvitch had a cousin, and Má{117}rya Alexándrovna had a sister. In earlier years they had all lived together, then they had dispersed18, 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 definitive20 breach21 with his cousin. He was in Petersburg at the time, suddenly went abroad, fell ill in Dresden and died. I have decided22 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.
I
From Alexyéi Petróvitch to Márya Alexándrovna
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 Théodore has 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 bent23 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,{119} 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 momentary24 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 consolation25? None whatever—positively26, none whatever; and I am bound to admit that, and I rely solely27 upon your kindness.
Do you know what the beginning of my letter resembles? This: a certain Mr. N. N. entered the{120} drawing-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 frightful28 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 chatter29, I feel somewhat awkward, nevertheless. I seem to see before me your perplexed30, 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 folly31, like a Roman I wrap myself in my toga and await in silence your ultimate condemnation32....
But, in particular: Will you permit me to continue to write to you?
I remain sincerely and cordially your devoted33 servant—
Alexyéi S***.
{121}
II
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
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 concealed36 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 propound37 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***.
{122}
III
From Alexyéi Petróvitch to Márya Alexándrovna
St. Petersburg, March 30.
I thank you, Márya Alexándrovna, I thank you for your note, curt38 as it is. All this time I have been in a state of great agitation39; twenty times a day I have thought of you and of my letter. You can imagine how caustically40 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 audacity41 ... never mind! But calm yourself: I want to talk to you not about myself, but about you. Here, do you see: I find it imperatively42 necessary—to speak in antiquated43 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 peruse44 my “idle chatter,” but do not send me back my letters, in the name of all that is holy!
Listen—I am utterly45 alone on earth. In my youth I led a solitary46 life, although, I remember,{123} 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 varied47 causes alienated48 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 raptures49, and so forth, I did not complain of my isolation51. 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 chastised52. In my youth one thing alone interested me: my charming ego53; I took my good-natured self-love for shyness; I shunned54 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 vows56 of love; I have not deafened57 you with a torrent58 of chattering59 speeches; I have passed you by{124} with considerable coldness, and precisely60 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 withered61 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 condemned62 to live out his entire life in a room with walls made of mirrors.... I do not demand any confessions63 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.
IV
From Alexyéi Petróvitch to Márya Alexándrovna
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? Perhaps{125} you are right. Formerly65 I would have declared to you (and, probably, would have believed my own words) that, since we parted, I had “developed,” had advanced; with condescending66, almost affectionate scorn I would have referred to my past; with touching67 boastfulness I would have initiated68 you into the secrets of my present, active life ... but now, I assure you, Márya Alexándrovna, I consider it shameful69 and disgusting to allude70 to the way in which my vile71 self-love once on a time fermented72 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.
{126}
V
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of ... no, April 14.
What a strange man you are! Well, then—“yes.”
Márya B***.
VI
From Alexyéi Petróvitch to Márya Alexándrovna
Petersburg, May 2, 1840.
Hurrah73! 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, verging74 on appetite.... Precisely that. One may talk of everything in the world with fervour, with rapture50, 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—with{127} compunction 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 entangled75 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 {128}... 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 accurately76, 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 bosom77, then separate themselves from it, withdraw from it, and bear over it either blessings78 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 afterward79 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 calamity80! Consciousness is aroused in us too early; too early do we begin to{129} observe ourselves.... We Russians have no other life-problem than the cultivation81 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 whatsoever82 we will.... But it is impossible to demand of every man that he shall immediately comprehend the sterility83 of a mind, “seething in empty activity” ... and so, there is one more monster in the world, one more of those insignificant84 beings in which the habits of self-love distort the very striving after truth, and ridiculous ingenuousness85 lives side by side with pitiful guile86 ... one of those beings to whose impotent, uneasy thought there remains87 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 redeeming88 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 psychology89 strays off into pathology; our psychology is an artful study of the laws of a diseased condition and a diseased development, with{130} which healthy people have no concern.... But the chief thing is, we are not young,—in youth itself we are not young!
And yet—why calumniate90 one’s self? Have we really never been young? Have the vital forces never sparkled, never seethed91, 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 clatter92, 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 rambles93, the four of us together, along the fence of your park, after some long, warm, animated94 conversation? Do you remember those gracious moments? Nature received us affectionately and majestically95 into her lap. We entered, with sinking heart, into some sort of blissful waves. Round about the glow of sunset kindled97 with sudden and tender crimson99; from the crimsoning100 sky, from the illuminated101 earth, from everywhere, it seemed as though the fresh and fiery102 breath of youth were wafted104 abroad, and the joyous105 triumph of some immortal106 happiness; the sunset glow blazed; like it, softly and passionately107 blazed our enraptured109 hearts, and{131} the tiny leaves of the young trees quivered sensitively and confusedly above us, as though replying to the inward tremulousness of the indistinct feelings and anticipations110 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 worthy111 of something better than that to which life has conducted us? Why have we been fated only at rare intervals112 to catch sight of the longed-for shore, and never to stand thereon with firm foothold, never to touch it—
Not to weep sweetly, like the first of the Jews
On the borders of the Promised Land?
These two lines of Fet[10] have reminded me of others,—also by him.... Do you remember how one day, as we were standing113 in the road, we beheld114 in the distance a cloud of rosy115 dust, raised by a light breeze, against the setting sun? “In a billowy cloud” you began, and we all fell silent on the instant, and set to listening:
In a billowy cloud
The dust rises in the distance....
Whether horseman or pedestrian—
Cannot be descried116 for the dust.{132}
I see some one galloping117
On a spirited steed....
My friend, my distant friend—
Remember me!
You ceased.... All of us fairly shuddered118, as though the breath of love had flitted over our hearts, and each one of us—I am convinced of that—longed inexpressibly to flee away in the distance, that unknown distance, where the apparition119 of bliss96 rises up and beckons120 athwart the mist. And yet, observe this odd thing: why should we reach out into the distance?—we thought. Were not we in love with each other? Was not happiness “so near, so possible”? And I immediately asked you: “Why have not we gained the shore we long for?” Because falsehood was walking hand in hand with us; because it was poisoning our best sentiments; because everything in us was artificial and strained; because we did not love each other at all, and only tried to love, imagined that we did love....
But enough, enough! Why irritate one’s wounds? Moreover, all that is past irrevocably. That which was good in our past has touched me, and on this good I bid you farewell for the time being. And it is time to end this long letter. I will go and inhale121 the May air here, in which, through the winter’s stern fortress122, the spring is forcing its way with a sort of moist and keen warmth. Farewell.
A. S.
{133}
VII
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of ... no, May 20, 1840.
I have received your letter, Alexyéi Petróvitch, and do you know what feeling it aroused in me?—Indignation ... yes, indignation ... and I will immediately explain to you why it aroused precisely that feeling in me. One thing is a pity: I am not a mistress of the pen—I rarely write. I do not know how to express my thoughts accurately and in a few words; but you will, I hope, come to my aid. You yourself will try to understand me: if only for the sake of knowing why I am angry with you.
Tell me—you are a clever man—have you ever asked yourself what sort of a creature a Russian woman is? What is her fate, her position in the world—in short, what her life is like? I do not know whether you have ever had time to put that question to yourself; I cannot imagine how you would answer it.... I might, in conversation be able to communicate to you my ideas on that subject, but I shall hardly manage it on paper. However, it makes no difference. This is the point: you surely will agree with me that we women—at all events, those of us who are not{134} satisfied with the ordinary cares of domestic life—receive our final education, all the same, from you—from the men: you have a great and powerful influence on us. Look, now, at what you do with us. I shall speak of the young girls, especially of those who, like myself, dwell in the dull places, and there are many such in Russia. Moreover, I do not know others, and cannot judge with regard to them. Figure to yourself such a young girl. Here, now, her education is finished; she is beginning to live, to amuse herself. But amusement alone is not enough for her. She demands a great deal from life; she reads, dreams ... of love:—“Always of love alone!” you will say.... Let us assume that that word means a great deal to her. I will say again that I am not talking of the sort of girl who finds it burdensome and tiresome123 to think.... She looks about her, waits for the coming of him for whom her soul pines.... At last he makes his appearance: she is carried away; she is like soft wax in his hands. Everything—happiness, and love, and thought—everything has invaded her together with him, all at once; all her tremors124 are soothed125, all her doubts are solved by him; truth itself seems to speak by his mouth; she worships him, she is ashamed of her happiness, she learns, she loves. Great is his power over her at this period!... If he were a hero, he would kindle98 her to flame, he would teach her to sacrifice her{135}self, and all sacrifices would be easy to her! But there are no heroes in our day.... Nevertheless, he guides her whithersoever he will; she devotes herself to that which interests him, his every word sinks into her soul: at that time, she does not know, as yet, how insignificant and empty and false that word may be, how little it costs him who utters it, and how little faith it merits! These first moments of bliss and hope are followed, generally—according to circumstances—(circumstances are always to blame)—are followed by parting. It is said that there have been cases where two kindred souls, on recognising each other, have immediately united indissolubly; I have heard, also, that they are not always comfortable as a result.... But I will not speak of that which I have not myself beheld—but that the very pettiest sort of calculation, the most woful prudence126, may dwell in a young heart side by side with the most passionate108 rapture,—that is a fact which, unhappily, I know by my own experience. So, then, parting comes.... Happy is that young girl who instantly recognises that the end of all has come, who does not comfort herself with expectation! But you brave, just men, in the majority of cases, have neither the courage nor the desire to tell us the truth ... you find it more easy to deceive us.... I am ready to believe, however, that you deceive yourselves along with us.... Parting! It is both{136} difficult and easy to endure parting. If only faith in him whom one loves were intact and unassailed, the soul would conquer the pain of parting.... I will say more: only when she is left alone does she learn the sweetness of solitude127, not sterile128 but filled with memories and thoughts. Only then will she learn to know herself—will she come to herself, will she grow strong.... In the letters of the distant friend she will find a support for herself; in her own she will, perhaps, for the first time, express her mind fully55.... But as two persons who have started from the source of a river along its different banks can, at first, clasp hands, then hold communication only with the voice, but ultimately lose sight of each other: so also two beings are ultimately disjoined by separation. “What of that?” you will say: “evidently they were not fated to go together....” But here comes in the difference between a man and a woman. It signifies nothing to a man to begin a new life, to shake far from him the past; a woman cannot do that. No, she cannot cast aside her past, she cannot tear herself away from her roots—no, a thousand times no! And so, a pitiful and ridiculous spectacle presents itself.... Gradually losing hope and faith in herself,—you can form no idea of how painful that is,—she will pine away and fade alone, obstinately129 clinging to her memories, and turning away from everything which life around her offers.... And he?... Seek him! Where is he? And{137} is it worth while for him to pause? What time has he for looking back? All this is a thing of the past for him, you see.
Or here is another thing which happens: it sometimes happens that he will suddenly conceive a desire to meet the former object of his affections, he will even deliberately130 go to her.... But, my God! from what a motive131 of petty vain-glory he does it! In his polite compassion, in his counsels which are intended to be friendly, in his condescending explanations of the past, there is audible such a consciousness of his own superiority! It is so agreeable and cheerful a thing for him to let himself feel every minute how sensible and kind he is! And how little he understands what he is doing! How well he manages not even to guess at what is going on in the woman’s heart, and how insultingly he pities her, if he does guess it!...
Tell me, please, whence are we to get the strength to endure all this? Remember this, too: in the majority of cases, a girl who, to her misfortune, has an idea beginning to stir in her head, when she begins to love, and falls under the influence of a man, involuntarily separates herself from her family, from her acquaintances. Even previously132 she has not been satisfied with their life, yet she has walked on by their side, preserving in her soul all her intimate secrets.... But the breach speedily makes itself visible.... They cease to understand her, they are ready to suspect{138} every movement of hers.... At first she pays no heed133 to this, but afterward, afterward ... when she is left alone, when that toward which she has been striving and for which she has sacrificed everything escapes her grasp, when she has not attained135 to heaven, but when every near thing, every possible thing, has retreated far from her—what shall uphold her? Sneers136, hints, the vulgar triumph of coarse common sense she can still bear, after a fashion ... but what is she to do, to what is she to have recourse, when the inward voice begins to whisper to her that all those people were right, and that she has been mistaken; that life, of whatever sort it may be, is better than dreams, as health is better than disease ... when her favourite occupations, her favourite books, disgust her, the books from which one cannot extract happiness,—what, say you,—what shall uphold her? How is she to help succumbing138 in such a struggle? How is she to live and to go on living in such a wilderness139? Confess herself vanquished140, and extend her hand like a beggar to indifferent people? Will not they give her at least some of that happiness with which the proud heart once imagined that it could dispense—all that is nothing as yet! But to feel one’s self ridiculous at the very moment when one is shedding bitter, bitter tears ... akh! God forbid that you should go through that experience!...{139}
My hands are trembling, and I am in a fever all over.... My face is burning hot. It is time for me to stop.... I shall send off this letter as speedily as possible, while I am not ashamed of my weakness. But, for God’s sake, not a word in your reply—do you hear me?—not a word of pity, or I will never write to you again. Understand me: I should not like to have you take this letter as the outpouring of a misunderstood soul which is making complaint.... Akh! it is all a matter of indifference141 to me! Farewell.
M.
VIII
From Alexyéi Petróvitch to Márya Alexándrovna
St. Petersburg, May 28, 1840.
Márya Alexándrovna, you are a fine creature ... indeed you are ... your letter has disclosed to me the truth at last! O Lord my God! what torture! A man is constantly thinking that now he has attained simplicity142, no longer shows off, puts on airs, or lies ... but when you come to look at him more attentively143, he has become almost worse than he was before. And this must be noted144: the man himself, alone that is to say, will never attain134 to that consciousness, bestir himself as he may! his eye will not discern his own de{140}fects, just as the blunted eye of the printer will not detect errors: another, a fresher eye is required. I thank you, Márya Alexándrovna.... You see, I am speaking to you of myself; I dare not speak of you.... Akh, how ridiculous my last letter seems to me now,—so eloquent145 and sentimental146! Go on, I beg of you, with your confession64; I have a premonition that you will be relieved thereby147, and it will be of great benefit to me. Not without cause does the proverb say: “A woman’s wit is better than many thoughts”; and a woman’s heart is far more so—God is my witness that it is so! If women only knew how much better, and more magnanimous, and clever—precisely that—clever they are than the men, they would grow puffed148 up with pride, and get spoiled: but, fortunately, they do not know that; they do not know it because their thoughts have not become accustomed to returning incessantly150 to themselves, as have the thoughts of us men. They think little about themselves—that is their weakness and their strength; therein lies the whole secret—I will not say of our superiority, but of our power. They squander151 their souls, as a lavish152 heir squanders153 his father’s gold, but we collect interest from every look.... How can they enter into rivalry154 with us?... All this is not compliments, but the simple truth, demonstrated by experience. Again I entreat14 you, Márya Alexándrovna, to continue writing to me.{141}... If you only knew all that comes into my mind!... But now I do not want to talk, I want to listen to you.... My speech will come later on. Write, write.
Yours truly,
A. S.
IX
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of ... no, June 12, 1840.
No sooner had I despatched my last letter to you, Alexyéi Petróvitch, than I repented155 of it; but there was no help for it. One thing somewhat soothed me: I am convinced that you have understood under the influence of what long-suppressed feelings it was written, and have forgiven me. I did not even read over at the time what I had written to you; I remember that my heart was beating so violently that my pen trembled in my hand. However, although I probably should have expressed myself differently if I had given myself time to think it over, still I have no intention of disclaiming156 either my words or the feelings which I have imparted to you to the best of my ability. To-day I am much more cool-headed, and have far better control over myself....
I remember that I spoke157 toward the end of my{142} letter about the painful situation of the young girl who recognises the fact that she is isolated158 even among her own people.... I will not enlarge further on that point, but rather will I communicate to you a few details; it seems to me that I shall bore you less in that way.
In the first place, you must know that throughout the whole country-side I am not called anything but “the female philosopher”; the ladies, in particular, allude to me by that name. Some assert that I sleep with a Latin book in my hands and in spectacles; others, that I know how to extract some cubic roots or other: not one of them cherishes any doubt that I wear masculine attire159 on the sly, and that instead of “good morning,” I say abruptly160: “Georges Sand!”—and indignation against “the female philosopher” is on the increase. We have a neighbour, a man of five-and-forty, a great wit, ... at least, he has the reputation of being a great wit, ... and for him my poor person is an inexhaustible subject for jeers161. He has related, concerning me, that as soon as the moon rises in the sky, I cannot take my eyes from it, and he shows how I look; that I even drink coffee not with cream but with the moon, that is to say, I set my cup in its rays. He swears that I use phrases in the nature of the following: “That is easy because it is difficult; {143}although, on the other hand, it is difficult because it is easy.”... He declares that I am always seeking some word or other, always yearning162 “thither163,” and he inquires, with comic indignation: “Whither is thither? Whither?” He has also set in circulation about me a rumour164 to the effect that I ride by night on horseback back and forth through the ford165 of the river, singing the while Schubert’s “Serenade,” or simply moaning: “Beethoven, Beethoven!” as much as to say—“She’s such a fiery old woman!” and so forth, and so forth. Of course, all this immediately reaches my ears. Perhaps this may surprise you; but do not forget that four years have elapsed since you have sojourned in these parts. Remember how every one gazed askance at us then.... Now their turn has come. And all this is nothing. I sometimes happen to hear words which pierce my heart much more painfully. I will not mention the fact that my poor, good mother cannot possibly pardon me for your cousin’s indifference; but all my life runs through the fire, as my old nurse expresses it. “Of course,”—I hear constantly,—“how are we to keep up with thee? We are plain folks, we are guided only by common sense; but, after all, when one comes to think of it, to what have all these philosophisings and books and acquaintances with learned people brought thee?” Perhaps you remember my sister—not the one to whom you were formerly not indifferent, but the other,{144} the elder, who is married. Her husband, you will remember, is a decidedly-ridiculous man; you often used to make fun of him in those days. Yet she is happy: the mother of a family, she loves her husband, and her husband adores her.... “I am like all the rest,”—she says to me sometimes;—“but how about thee?” And she is right: I envy her....
And nevertheless I feel that I should not like to change places with her. Let them call me “a female philosopher,” “an eccentric,” whatever they choose—I shall remain faithful to the end ... to what?—to an ideal, pray? Yes, to an ideal. Yes, I shall remain faithful to the end to that which first made my heart beat,—to that which I have acknowledged and do acknowledge to be the true, the good. If only my strength does not fail me, if only my idol167 does not prove a soulless block....
If you really do feel friendship for me, if you really have not forgotten me, you must help me; you must disperse19 my doubts, strengthen my beliefs....
But what aid can you render me? “All this is nonsense, like the useless running of a squirrel on a wheel,” said my uncle to me yesterday—I think you do not know him—a retired168 naval169 officer, and a far from stupid man. “A husband, children, a pot of buckwheat groats: to tend husband and children, and look after the pot of groats—tha{145}t’s what a woman needs.”... Tell me, he is right, is he not?
If he really is right, I can still repair the past, I can still get into the common rut. What else is there for me to wait for? What is there to hope for? In one of your letters, you spoke of the wings of youth. How often, how long they remain fettered170! And then comes a time, when they fall off; and it is no longer possible to raise one’s self above the earth, to soar heavenward. Write to me.
Yours, M.
X
From Alexyéi Petróvitch to Márya Alexándrovna
St. Petersburg, June 16, 1840.
I hasten to answer your letter, my dear Márya Alexándrovna. I will confess to you that if it were not for.... I will not say business—I have none—if it were not for my being so stupidly habituated to this place, I would go again to you and would talk my fill, but on paper all this comes out so coldly, in such a dead manner....
I repeat to you, Márya Alexándrovna: women are better than men, and you ought to demonstrate that in deed. Let us men fling aside our{146} convictions, like a worn-out garment, or barter171 them for a morsel172 of bread, or, in conclusion, let them fall into the sleep which knows no waking, and place over them, as over one formerly beloved, a tombstone, to which one goes only now and then to pray—let us men do all that; but do not you women be false to yourselves, do not betray your ideal.... That word has become ridiculous.... To be afraid of the ridiculous is not to love the truth. It does happen, it is true, that a stupid laugh will make the stupid man, even good people, renounce173 a great deal ... take for example the defence of an absent friend.... I am guilty in that respect myself. But, I repeat it, you women are better than we are.... In trifles you are inclined to yield to us; but you understand better than we do how to look the devil straight in the eye. I shall give you neither aid nor advice—how can I? and you do not need it; but I do stretch forth my hand to you, and I do say to you: “Have patience; fight until the end; and know that, as a feeling, the consciousness of a battle honourably174 waged almost transcends175 the triumph of victory.”... The victory does not depend upon us.
Of course, from a certain point of view, your uncle is right: family life is everything for a woman; there is no other life for her.
But what does that prove? Only the Jesuits assert that every means is good, if only one at{147}tains his end. It is not true! not true! It is an indignity176 to enter a clean temple with feet soiled with the mire177 of the road. At the end of your letter there is a phrase which I do not like: you want to get into the common rut. Look out—do not make a misstep! Do not forget, moreover, that it is impossible to efface178 the past; and strive as you may, force yourself as you will, you cannot make yourself your sister. You have ascended179 above her. But your soul is broken, hers is intact. You can lower yourself, bend down to her, but nature will not resign her rights, and the broken place will not grow together again....
You are afraid—let us speak without circumlocution—you are afraid of remaining an old maid. I know that you are already twenty-six years old. As a matter of fact, the position of old maids is not enviable: every one so gladly laughs at them; every one notes their oddities and their weaknesses with such unmagnanimous delight. But if you scan more closely any elderly bachelor,—he deserves to have the finger of scorn pointed180 at him also,—you will find in him cause to laugh your fill. What is to be done? Happiness is not to be captured by battle. But we must not forget that not happiness but human dignity is the chief goal of life.
You describe your position with great humour. I well understand all its bitterness; your position may, I am sure, be called tragic181. But you must{148} know that you are not the only one who finds herself in it: there is hardly any man of the present day who does not find himself in it also. You will say that that does not make it any the easier for you; but what I think is that to suffer in company with thousands is quite a different thing from suffering alone. It is not a question of egotism here, but of a feeling of universal necessity.
“All this is very fine, let us assume,” you will say, ... “but, in point of fact, it is not applicable to the case.” Why is it not applicable? Up to the present day I think, and I hope that I shall never cease to think, that in God’s world everything honest, good, and true is applicable, and sooner or later will be fulfilled; and not only will be fulfilled, but is already being fulfilled, if each one will only hold himself firmly in his place, will not lose patience, will not desire the impossible, but will act, so far as his strength permits. But I think I have given myself up too much to abstractions. I will defer182 the continuation of my arguments until another letter; but I do not wish to lay down my pen without having pressed your hand warmly, very warmly, and wished you, with all my soul, everything that is good on earth.
Yours, A. S.
P.S. By the way, you say that you have nothing to look forward to, nothing to hope for; how do you know that, allow me to ask?{149}
XI
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of ... no, June 30, 1840.
How grateful I am to you for your letter, Alexyéi Petróvitch! How much good it has done me! I see that you really are a good and trustworthy man, and therefore I shall not dissimulate183 before you. I trust you. I know that you will not make a bad use of my frankness and that you will give me friendly advice. That is the point.
You noticed at the end of my letter a phrase which did not entirely184 please you. This is what it referred to. There is a neighbour here ... he was not here in your day, and you have not seen him. He ... I might marry him, if I wished; he is a man who is still young, cultured, wealthy. There are no obstacles on the side of my relatives; on the contrary, they—I know this for certain—desire this marriage; he is a fine man, and I think he loves me.... But he is so languid and petty, all his desires are so narrow, that I cannot help recognising my superiority over him; he feels this, and seems to take delight in it, and precisely that repels185 me from him; I cannot respect him, although he has an excellent{150} heart. What am I to do, tell me? Think for me and write me your opinion sincerely.
But how grateful I am to you for your letter!... Do you know, I have sometimes been visited by such bitter thoughts.... Do you know, I have gone so far as almost to feel ashamed of every—I will not say exalted—but of every trustful feeling. I have shut my book in vexation when it spoke of hope and happiness; I have turned away from the cloudless sky, from the fresh verdure of the trees, from everything that smiled and was glad. What a painful condition this was! I say “was” ... as though it had passed!
I do not know whether it has passed; I know that if it does not return I shall be indebted to you for it. You see, Alexyéi Petróvitch, how much good you have done, perhaps without yourself suspecting it! Now, in the very heart of summer, the days are magnificent, the sky is blue, bright.... It cannot be more beautiful in Italy. But you are sitting in a stifling186 and dusty town, you are walking on the scorching187 pavements. What possesses you to do it? You ought, at least, to remove to a villa34 somewhere. They say that beyond Peterhoff, on the seashore, there are charming places.
I should like to write more to you, but it is impossible: such a sweet perfume has been wafted up to me from the garden that I cannot remain{151} in the house. I shall put on my hat and go for a stroll.... Farewell until another time, kind Alexyéi Petróvitch.
Yours truly,
M. B.
P.S. I have forgotten to tell you ... just imagine: that wit, of whom I recently wrote you,—just imagine: he has made me a declaration of love, and in the most fiery terms! At first I thought that he was making fun of me; but he wound up with a formal proposal. What do you think of that, after all his calumnies188? But he is positively too old. Last night, to pique189 him, I sat down at the piano in front of the open window in the moonlight, and played Beethoven. It was so delightful190 to me to feel its cold light on my face, so consolatory191 to send forth upon the perfumed night air the noble sounds of music, athwart which, at times, the song of the nightingale was audible! It is a long time since I have been so happy, but do you write to me concerning the thing I asked you about in the beginning of my letter: it is very important.{152}
XII
From Alexyéi Petróvich to Márya Alexándrovna
St. Petersburg, July 8, 1840.
My dear Márya Alexándrovna, here is my opinion in two words: throw both the old bachelor and the young suitor overboard! There’s no use in deliberating over this. Neither of them is worthy of you—that is as clear as that twice two are four. The young neighbour may be a good man, but I throw him over! I am convinced that you and he have nothing in common, and you can imagine how cheerful it would be to live together! And why be in a hurry? Is it possible that a woman like you—I have no intention of paying compliments, and therefore will not enlarge further—that such a woman as you should not meet some one who will know how to appreciate her? No, Márya Alexándrovna; heed me if you really think that my advice is beneficial.
But confess that you found it pleasant to behold192 that old calumniator193 at your feet!... If I had been in your place, I would have made him sing Beethoven’s “Adela?da” the whole night through, staring at the moon the while.
But God be with them, with your admirers! It is not of them that I wish to talk with you to-day.{153} I am in a sort of half-irritated, half-agitated condition to-day, as the result of a letter which I received yesterday. I send you a copy of it. This letter was written by one of my very old friends and comrades in the service, a kind-hearted but rather narrow-minded man. A couple of years ago he went abroad, and up to the present he has not written to me a single time. Here is his letter. N.B. He is very far from bad-looking.
“Cher Alexis:
“I am in Naples. I am sitting in my chamber194 on the Chiaja at the window. The weather is wonderful. At first I gazed a long time at the sea, then impatience195 seized upon me, and the brilliant idea of writing a letter to thee occurred to me. I have always felt an affection for thee, my dear friend,—Heaven is my witness that I have! And now I should like to pour myself into thy bosom.... I believe that is the way it is expressed in our elevated language. And the reason I have been seized with impatience is that I am expecting a woman; together we shall go to Bai? to eat oysters196 and oranges, to watch the dark-brown shepherds in red nightcaps dance the tarantella, to broil197 ourselves in the sunshine, to watch the lizards—in a word, to enjoy life to the full. My dear friend, I am so happy that I am unable to express it to you. If I possessed198 thy power with the pen, oh, what a picture I would{154} draw before thine eyes! But, unfortunately, as thou knowest, I am an illiterate199 man. The woman for whom I am waiting, and who has already made me constantly start and glance at the door, loves me—and as for the way I love her, it seems to me that even thou with thy eloquent pen couldst not describe that.
“I must tell thee that I have known her for the last three months, and ever since the very first day of our acquaintance, my love has gone on crescendo200, in the shape of a chromatic201 scale, ever higher and higher, and at the present moment it has already attained to the seventh heaven. I am jesting, but, as a matter of fact, my attachment202 to that woman is something extraordinary, supernatural. Just imagine: I hardly ever talk with her, but I stare at her incessantly and laugh. I sit at her feet, I feel that I am frightfully stupid and happy, simply unlawfully happy. It sometimes happens that she lays her hand on my head.... And then, I must tell thee, ... but thou canst not understand it; for thou art a philosopher, and have been a philosopher all thy life. Her name is Nina, Ninetta—as thou wilt203; she is the daughter of a wealthy merchant here. Beautiful as all thy Raphaels; lively as powder, blithe204, so clever that it is positively amazing that she should have fallen in love with such a fool as myself; she sings like a bird, and her eyes{155}—
“Forgive me, pray, for this involuntary tirade205.... I thought the door creaked.... No, the rogue206 has not come yet! Thou wilt ask me how all this is going to end, and what I mean to do with myself, and whether I shall remain here long. I know nothing, and wish to know nothing, about that, my dear fellow. What is to be will be.... For if one is to pause and reason constantly....
“‘Tis she!... She is running up the stairs and singing.... She has come.... Well, good-by, my dear fellow.... I’m in no mood for thee. Pardon me—it is she who has spattered this letter all over: she struck the paper with her damp nosegay. At first she thought I was writing to a woman; but as soon as she found out that it was to a man-friend, she bade me give you her compliments, and inquire whether there are any flowers in your country, and whether they are fragrant207. Well, good-by.... If you could only hear how she laughs!... Silver rings just like that: and what goodness in every sound!—One fairly wants to kiss her feet. Let us go, let us go! Be not angry at this untidy scrawl208, and envy thy—
M...”
The letter actually was bespattered, and exhaled209 an odour of orange-flowers ... two white petals210 had adhered to the paper. This letter has{156} excited me.... I have called to mind my sojourn166 in Naples.... The weather was magnificent then also; May was only just beginning; I had recently completed my twenty-second year; but I did not know any Ninetta. I roamed about alone, consumed with a thirst for bliss, which was both painful and sweet,—sweet to the point where it itself bore a sort of resemblance to bliss.... What a thing it is to be young!... I remember I once went out for a row on the bay at night. There were two of us: the boatman and I ... but what was it you thought? What a night it was, and what a sky, what stars—how they trembled and crumbled211 in the waves! With what a liquid flame did the water flow over and flash up under the oars137, what perfume was wafted all over the sea—it is not for me to describe, however “eloquent” my pen may be. A French ship of the line lay at anchor in the roadstead. It glowed obscurely red all over with lights; long streaks212 of red light, the reflection of the illuminated windows, stretched across the dark sea. Merry music reached me in occasional bursts; I recall, in particular, the trill of a small flute213 amid the dull blaring of the horns; it seemed to flutter like a butterfly around my boat. I ordered the man to row to the ship; twice did we make the circuit of it. Women’s forms flitted past the windows, borne smartly past on the whirlwind of the waltz.... I ordered the boatman to put off,{157} far away, straight out into the darkness.... I remember that the sounds pursued me long and importunately214.... At last they died away. I stood up in the boat and stretched out my arms over the sea in the dumb pain of longing215.... Oh, how my heart ached then! How oppressive was my loneliness! With what joy would I have given myself at that moment wholly, wholly ... wholly, if only there had been any one to whom to give myself! With what a bitter feeling in my soul did I fling myself, face down, in the bottom of the boat and, like Repetíloff, request him to take me somewhere or other!
But my friend here experienced nothing of that sort. And why should he? He has managed matters much more cleverly than I did. He is living ... while I ... not without cause has he called me a philosopher.... ’Tis strange! You, also, are called a philosopher.... Why should such a calamity overtake us?...
I am not living.... But who is to blame for that? Why do I sit here in Petersburg? What am I doing here? Why do I kill day after day? Why don’t I go to the country? Are not our steppes beautiful? Or cannot one breathe freely in them? Or is it stifling in them? What possesses me to pursue dreams, when, perchance, happiness is within my reach? It is settled: I am going away, I am going away to-morrow, if possible; I am going home, that is, to you—it is all{158} the same: for we live only twenty versts apart. What’s the use, after all, in languishing216 here? And why is it that this idea did not occur to me earlier? My dear Márya Alexándrovna, we shall soon meet. But it is remarkable217 that this thought did not enter my head until this moment! I ought to have gone away long, long ago. Farewell until we meet, Márya Alexándrovna.
July 9th.
I have deliberately given myself twenty-four hours to think it over, and now I am definitively218 convinced that there is no reason why I should remain here. The dust in the streets is so biting that it makes one’s eyes ache. To-day I shall begin to pack; on the day after to-morrow, probably, I shall leave here; and ten days hence I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I hope you will receive me as of old. By the way—your sister is still visiting your aunt, is she not?
Permit me, Márya Alexándrovna, to press your hand warmly, and to say to you from my soul: farewell until a speedy meeting. I was preparing to leave in any case, but this letter has precipitated219 my intention. Let us assume that this letter proves nothing; let us even assume that Ninetta would not please any one else—me, for example. Yet I am going, all the same; there is no doubt about that. Farewell for the present.
Yours, A. S.
{159}
XIII
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of ... no, July 16, 1840.
You are coming hither, you will soon be with us, will you not, Alexyéi Petróvitch? I will not conceal35 from you that this news both delights and agitates220 me.... How shall we meet? Will that spiritual bond be preserved which, so it seems to me, has already begun to unite us? Will it not break when we meet? I do not know; I am apprehensive221, for some reason or other. I will not answer your last letter, although I might say a good deal; I will defer all this until we meet. My mother is greatly delighted at your coming.... She has been aware that I was corresponding with you. The weather is enchanting222. We will walk a great deal; I will show you the new places which I have discovered ... one long, narrow valley is particularly nice: it lies between hillocks, covered with forest.... It seems to be hiding in their curves. A tiny brook223 blows along it and can barely force its way through the grass and flowers.... You shall see. Come: perhaps you will not find it tedious.
M. B.
{160}
P.S. You will not see my sister, I think: she is still visiting my aunt. I believe (this is between ourselves) that she is going to marry a very amiable224 young man—an officer. Why did you send me that letter from Naples? The life here perforce seems dim and pale in comparison with that luxury and that brilliancy. But Mademoiselle Ninetta is wrong: flowers grow and are fragrant—even with us.
XIV
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of ... no, January, 1841.
I have written to you several times, Alexyéi Petróvitch.... You have not answered me. Are you alive? Or perhaps our correspondence has begun to bore you; perhaps you have found for yourself a more agreeable diversion than the letters of a rustic225 young lady can afford you? Evidently you called me to mind for the lack of something to do. If that is the case, I wish you happiness. If you do not answer me this time, I shall not trouble you again; there will be nothing left for me to do but to regret my imprudence, that I have unnecessarily permitted myself to be roused up, have offered my hand and emerged, if only for a moment, from my isolated{161} nook. I ought to remain in it forever, lock myself in—that is my portion, the portion of all old maids. I ought to accustom149 myself to that thought. There is no necessity for coming out into God’s sunlight, no necessity for craving226 fresh air, when the lungs will not bear it. By the way, we are now blocked up with dead drifts of snow. I shall be more sensible henceforth.... People do not die of boredom, but it is possible to perish with melancholy227, I suppose. If I am mistaken, prove it to me. But I think I am not mistaken. In any case, farewell. I wish you happiness.
M. B.
XV
From Alexyéi Petróvitch to Márya Alexándrovna
Dresden, September, 1842.
I write to you, my dear Márya Alexándrovna, and I write only because I do not wish to die without having taken leave of you, and without having recalled myself to your mind. I am condemned by the doctors ... and I myself feel that my life is drawing to a close. On my table stands a rose; before it fades I shall be no more. But that comparison is not quite just. The rose is far more interesting than I am.{162}
As you see, I am abroad. I have been in Dresden six months. I received your last letters—I am ashamed to confess: I lost several of them more than a year ago, and did not answer you.... I will tell you presently why. But, evidently, you have always been dear to me: with the exception of yourself, there is no one of whom I wish to take leave, and perhaps I have no one to whom I could bid farewell.
Soon after my last letter to you (I was quite ready to set out for your parts, and was making various plans in advance), there happened to me an episode which had, I may say, a strong influence on my fate,—so strong that here I am, dying, thanks to that event. To wit: I set out for the theatre, to see the ballet. I have never liked the ballet, and have always felt a secret disgust for all sorts of actresses, singers, and dancers.... But, obviously, one cannot change his fate, neither does any one know himself, and it is also impossible to foresee the future. In point of fact, nothing happens in life except the unexpected, and we do nothing all our life long but adjust ourselves to events.... But I believe I am dropping into philosophy again. Old habit!... In a word, I fell in love with a dancer.
This was all the more strange because she could not be called a beauty. She had, it is true, wonderful golden hair, with an ash tinge228, and large, bright eyes, with a pensive229 and, at the same{163} time, a bold glance.... Haven’t I cause to know the expression of that glance? I pined and languished230 for a whole year in its rays! She had a splendid figure, and when she danced her folkdance, the spectators used to stamp and shout with rapture.... But I do not think any one besides myself fell in love with her—at all events, no one fell in love with her as I did. From the very minute that I beheld her for the first time—(will you believe it? all I have to do even now is to shut my eyes, and immediately here stands before me the theatre, the almost empty stage, representing the interior of a forest, and she runs out from behind the side-scenes on the right, with a wreath of vine-leaves on her head and a tiger-skin over her shoulders)—from that fatal minute I belonged to her wholly,—just as a dog belongs to his master; and if now, when I am dying, I do not belong to her, it is merely because she has cast me off.
To tell the truth, she never troubled herself especially about me. She barely noticed me, although she good-naturedly made use of my money. I was for her, as she expressed it in her broken French jargon231, “oun Rousso buon enfan,”—and nothing more. But I ... I could no longer live anywhere where she was not; I tore myself at one wrench232 from all that was dear to me, from my native land itself, and set out in pursuit of that woman.{164}
Perhaps you think that she was clever?—Not in the least! It sufficed to cast a glance at her low brow, it sufficed to note, if only once, her lazy, heedless smile, in order instantly to convince one’s self as to the paucity233 of her mental abilities. And I never imagined her to be a remarkable woman. On the whole, I did not deceive myself for a single minute on her score. But that did not help matters in the least. Whatever I thought of her in her absence, in her presence I felt nothing but servile adoration234.... In the German fairytales the knights235 often fall into that sort of stupor236. I could not tear my eyes from her features; I could not hear enough of her remarks, or sufficiently237 watch every movement of hers; to tell the truth, I actually breathed to her breathing. However, she was good-natured, unconstrained—too unconstrained even; she did not put on airs, as the majority of artists do. She had a great deal of life, that is, a great deal of blood, of that splendid Southern blood, into which the sun of their land must have dropped a portion of his rays. She slept nine hours a day, was fond of good eating, never read a single line of print, unless, perhaps, the articles in the newspapers in which she was mentioned, and almost the sole tender sentiment in her life was her attachment to il signore Carlino, a small and greedy Italian who served as her secretary and whom she afterward married. And with such a woman as this I,{165} who have tasted so many varied intellectual subtleties238, I, already an old man, could fall in love! Who could have expected it? I never expected it, at all events. I did not anticipate the part which I should be compelled to play. I did not expect that I should haunt rehearsals239, freeze and get bored behind the scenes, inhale the reek240 of the theatre, make acquaintance with various unseemly individuals ... what am I saying?—make acquaintance—bow to them. I had not expected that I should carry a dancer’s shawl, buy new gloves for her, clean her old ones with white bread (but I did it, I take my oath!), cart home her bouquets241, run about to the anterooms of journalists and directors, wear myself out, give serenades, catch cold, lose my strength.... I had not expected that I should acquire at last in a certain little German town the ingenious nickname of “der Kunst-barbar.”... And all this in vain—in the fullest sense of the word, in vain! There, that is precisely the state of the case....
Do you remember how you and I, orally and by letter, argued about love, into what subtleties we entered? And when it is put to the proof, it turns out that real love is a feeling not at all resembling that which we imagined it to be. Love is not even a feeling at all; it is a malady, a well-known condition of the soul and body. It does not develop gradually; there is no possibility of{166} doubting it; one cannot dodge242 it, although it does not always manifest itself in identically the same fashion. It generally takes possession of a man without being invited, suddenly, against his will—precisely like the cholera243 or a fever.... It lays hold upon him, the dear creature, as a hawk244 does upon a chicken; and it will bear him off whithersoever it wishes, struggle and resist as he may.... In love there is no equality, no so-called free union of souls and other ideal things, invented at their leisure by German professors.... No; in love one person is the slave, the other is the sovereign, and not without cause do the poets prate245 of the chains imposed by love. Yes, love is a chain, and the heaviest of chains at that. At all events, I have arrived at that conviction, and have reached it by the path of experience. I have purchased that conviction at the price of my life, because I am dying a slave.
Alack, what a fate is mine! one thinks. In my youth I was resolutely246 determined247 to conquer heaven for myself.... Later on, I fell to dreaming about the welfare of all mankind, the prosperity of my fatherland. Then that passed off: I thought only of how I might arrange my domestic, my family life ... and I tripped over an ant-hill—and flop248! I went headlong on the ground, and into the grave.... What master hands we Russians are at winding249 up in that fashion!{167}
However, it is high time for me to turn away from all this,—it was time long ago! May this burden fall from my soul along with my life! I wish for the last time, if only for a moment, to enjoy that good, gentle feeling which is diffused250 within me like a tranquil251 light as soon as I call you to mind. Your image is now doubly dear to me.... Along with it there surges up before me the image of my native land, and I waft103 to it and to you my last greeting. Live on, live long and happily, and remember one thing: whether you remain in that remote nook of the steppes, where you sometimes find things so painful, but where I should so like to spend my last day, or whether you shall enter upon another career, remember: life fails to disappoint him alone who does not meditate252 upon it, and, demanding nothing from it, calmly accepts its sparse253 gifts, and calmly makes use of them. Go forward, while you can: but when your feet fail you,—sit down near the road, and gaze at the passers-by without vexation and without envy: for they will not go far! I have said this to you before, but death will teach any man whomsoever; moreover, who shall say what is life, what is truth? Remember who it was that gave no answer to this question.... Farewell, Márya Alexándrovna; farewell for the last time, and bear no ill will to poor—
Alexyéi.
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1
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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18
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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20
definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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21
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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22
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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23
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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24
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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29
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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30
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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32
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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33
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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36
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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37
propound
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| v.提出 | |
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38
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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39
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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40
caustically
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| adv.刻薄地；挖苦地；尖刻地；讥刺地 | |
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41
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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42
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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43
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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44
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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45
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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46
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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47
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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48
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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49
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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50
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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51
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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52
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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53
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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54
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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56
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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57
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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58
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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59
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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60
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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61
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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62
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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63
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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64
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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65
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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66
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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67
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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68
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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69
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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70
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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71
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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72
fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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73
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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74
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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75
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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77
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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78
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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79
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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80
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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81
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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82
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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83
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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84
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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85
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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86
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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87
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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88
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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89
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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calumniate
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| v.诬蔑，中伤 | |
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91
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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92
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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93
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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94
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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96
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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97
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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98
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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99
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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100
crimsoning
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| 变为深红色（crimson的现在分词形式） | |
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101
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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102
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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103
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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104
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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106
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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107
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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108
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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109
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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111
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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113
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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115
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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116
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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117
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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118
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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119
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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120
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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122
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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123
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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124
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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125
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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126
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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127
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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128
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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129
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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130
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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131
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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132
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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133
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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134
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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135
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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136
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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137
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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139
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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141
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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142
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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143
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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144
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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145
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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146
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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147
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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148
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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149
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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150
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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151
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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152
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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153
squanders
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的第三人称单数 ) | |
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154
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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155
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
disclaiming
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| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
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157
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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158
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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159
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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160
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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161
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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162
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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163
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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164
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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165
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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166
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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167
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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168
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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169
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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170
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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172
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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173
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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174
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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175
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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176
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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177
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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178
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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179
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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181
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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182
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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183
dissimulate
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| v.掩饰，隐藏 | |
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184
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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185
repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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186
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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187
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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188
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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189
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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190
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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191
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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192
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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193
calumniator
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| n.中伤者，诽谤者 | |
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194
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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195
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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196
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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197
broil
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| v.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂；n.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂 | |
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198
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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199
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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200
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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201
chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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202
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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203
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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204
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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205
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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206
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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207
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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208
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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209
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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210
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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211
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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212
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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213
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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214
importunately
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215
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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216
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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217
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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218
definitively
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| adv.决定性地，最后地 | |
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219
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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220
agitates
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| 搅动( agitate的第三人称单数 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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221
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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222
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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223
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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224
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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225
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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226
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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227
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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228
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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229
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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230
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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231
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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232
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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233
paucity
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| n.小量，缺乏 | |
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234
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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235
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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236
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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237
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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238
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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239
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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240
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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241
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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242
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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243
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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244
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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245
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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246
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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247
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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248
flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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249
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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250
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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251
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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252
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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253
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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