WhiteNightsASentimentalStoryfromtheDiaryofaDreamer

FyodorDostoyevsky

TranslatedbyConstanceGarnett

https://TheVirtualLibrary.org

FirstNight

SecondNight

ThirdNight

FourthNight

TABLEOFCONTENTS

Itwasawonderfulnight,suchanightasisonlypossiblewhenweareyoung,

dearreader.Theskywassostarry,sobrightthat,lookingatit,onecouldnot

help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and capricious people could live

undersuchasky.Thatisayouthfulquestiontoo,dearreader,veryyouthful,but

maytheLordput itmore frequently intoyourheart! . . .Speakingofcapricious

andill-humouredpeople,Icannothelprecallingmymoralconditionallthatday.

FromearlymorningIhadbeenoppressedbyastrangedespondency.Itsuddenly

seemedtomethatIwaslonely,thateveryonewasforsakingmeandgoingaway

fromme.Ofcourse,anyoneisentitledtoaskwho“everyone”was.ForthoughI

hadbeenlivingalmosteightyearsinPetersburgIhadhardlyanacquaintance.But

what did Iwantwith acquaintances? Iwas acquaintedwith all Petersburg as it

was;thatwaswhyIfeltasthoughtheywerealldesertingmewhenallPetersburg

packedupandwent to its summervilla. I feltafraidofbeing leftalone,and for

threewholedaysIwanderedaboutthetowninprofounddejection,notknowing

whattodowithmyself.WhetherIwalkedintheNevsky,wenttotheGardensor

sauntered on the embankment, there was not one face of those I had been

accustomedtomeetat thesametimeandplaceall theyear.They,ofcourse,do

not knowme, but I know them. I know them intimately, I have almostmade a

studyoftheirfaces,andamdelightedwhentheyaregay,anddowncastwhenthey

areunderacloud.IhavealmoststruckupafriendshipwithoneoldmanwhomI

meet every blessed day, at the same hour in Fontanka. Such a grave, pensive

countenance; he is always whispering to himself and brandishing his left arm,

while inhis righthandheholdsa longgnarled stickwithagoldknob.Heeven

noticesmeandtakesawarminterestinme.IfIhappennottobeatacertaintime

inthesamespotinFontanka,Iamcertainhefeelsdisappointed.Thatishowitis

thatwealmostbowtoeachother,especiallywhenwearebothingoodhumour.

The other day, whenwe had not seen each other for two days andmet on the

third, we were actually touching our hats, but, realizing in time, dropped our

handsandpassedeachotherwithalookofinterest.

Iknowthehousestoo.AsIwalkalongtheyseemtorunforwardinthestreets

tolookoutatmefromeverywindow,andalmosttosay:“Good-morning!Howdo

youdo?Iamquitewell, thankGod,andIamtohaveanewstorey inMay,”or,

FIRSTNIGHT

“Howareyou?Iambeingredecoratedto-morrow;”or,“Iwasalmostburntdown

andhad such a fright,” and so on. I havemy favourites among them, some are

dear friends; one of them intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I

shallgoeverydayonpurposetoseethattheoperationisnotafailure.Godforbid!

ButIshallnever forgetan incidentwithaverypretty littlehouseofa lightpink

colour.Itwassuchacharminglittlebrickhouse,itlookedsohospitablyatme,and

soproudlyatitsungainlyneighbours,thatmyheartrejoicedwheneverIhappened

topassit.SuddenlylastweekIwalkedalongthestreet,andwhenIlookedatmy

friend I heard a plaintive, “They are painting me yellow!” The villains! The

barbarians!Theyhadsparednothing,neithercolumns,norcornices,andmypoor

littlefriendwasasyellowasacanary.Italmostmademebilious.AndtothisdayI

havenothadthecouragetovisitmypoordisfiguredfriend,paintedthecolourof

theCelestialEmpire.

So now you understand, reader, in what sense I am acquainted with all

Petersburg.

IhavementionedalreadythatIhadfeltworriedforthreewholedaysbeforeI

guessedthecauseofmyuneasiness.AndIfeltillateaseinthestreet—thisone

had gone and that onehad gone, andwhathadbecomeof the other?—and at

homeIdidnotfeellikemyselfeither.FortwoeveningsIwaspuzzlingmybrains

to thinkwhatwasamiss inmycorner;whyI felt souncomfortable in it.And in

perplexityIscannedmygrimygreenwalls,myceilingcoveredwithaspider’sweb,

thegrowthofwhichMatronahassosuccessfullyencouraged.Ilookedoverallmy

furniture, examinedevery chair,wonderingwhether the trouble lay there (for if

onechairisnotstandinginthesamepositionasitstoodthedaybefore,Iamnot

myself).Ilookedatthewindow,butitwasallinvain...Iwasnotabitthebetter

forit!IevenbethoughtmetosendforMatrona,andwasgivinghersomefatherly

admonitions in regard to the spider’s web and sluttishness in general; but she

simplystaredatmeinamazementandwentawaywithoutsayingaword,sothat

thespider’swebiscomfortablyhanginginitsplacetothisday.Ionlyatlastthis

morning realized what was wrong. Aie! Why, they are giving me the slip and

makingofftotheirsummervillas!Forgivethetrivialityoftheexpression,butIam

innomoodforfinelanguage. . .foreverythingthathadbeeninPetersburghad

gone or was going away for the holidays; for every respectable gentleman of

dignifiedappearancewhotookacabwasatoncetransformed,inmyeyes,intoa

respectableheadofahouseholdwhoafterhisdailydutieswereover,wasmaking

hiswaytothebosomofhisfamily,tothesummervilla;forallthepassers-byhad

nowquiteapeculiarairwhichseemedtosaytoeveryonetheymet:“Weareonly

hereforthemoment,gentlemen,andinanothertwohoursweshallbegoingoffto

thesummervilla.”Ifawindowopenedafterdelicatefingers,whiteassnow,had

tappedupon thepane, and theheadof a pretty girlwas thrust out, calling to a

street-sellerwithpotsofflowers—atonceonthespotIfanciedthatthoseflowers

werebeingboughtnotsimplyinordertoenjoytheflowersandthespringinstuffy

town lodgings,butbecause theywouldallbeverysoonmoving into thecountry

andcouldtaketheflowerswiththem.Whatismore,Imadesuchprogressinmy

newpeculiarsortofinvestigationthatIcoulddistinguishcorrectlyfromthemere

airofeachinwhatsummervillahewasliving.TheinhabitantsofKamennyand

AptekarskyIslandsorofthePeterhofRoadweremarkedbythestudiedelegance

oftheirmanner, their fashionablesummersuits,andthefinecarriages inwhich

theydrovetotown.VisitorstoPargolovoandplacesfurtherawayimpressedone

atfirstsightbytheirreasonableanddignifiedair;thetrippertoKrestovskyIsland

couldberecognizedbyhislookofirrepressiblegaiety.IfIchancedtomeetalong

procession of waggoners walking lazily with the reins in their hands beside

waggonsloadedwithregularmountainsoffurniture,tables,chairs,ottomansand

sofasanddomesticutensilsofallsorts,frequentlywithadecrepitcooksittingon

thetopofitall,guardinghermaster’spropertyasthoughitweretheappleofher

eye;orifIsawboatsheavilyloadedwithhouseholdgoodscrawlingalongtheNeva

orFontankatotheBlackRiverortheIslands—thewaggonsandtheboatswere

multipliedtenfold,ahundredfold,inmyeyes.Ifanciedthateverythingwasastir

andmoving, everything was going in regular caravans to the summer villas. It

seemedasthoughPetersburgthreatenedtobecomeawilderness,sothatatlastI

feltashamed,mortifiedandsadthatIhadnowheretogofortheholidaysandno

reason to go away. Iwas ready to go awaywith everywaggon, todrive offwith

every gentleman of respectable appearance who took a cab; but no one —

absolutelynoone—invitedme;itseemedtheyhadforgottenme,asthoughreally

Iwereastrangertothem!

Itooklongwalks,succeeding,asIusuallydid,inquiteforgettingwhereIwas,

whenIsuddenlyfoundmyselfatthecitygates.InstantlyIfeltlighthearted,andI

passed the barrier and walked between cultivated fields and meadows,

unconsciousof fatigue,andfeelingonlyalloveras thoughaburdenwere falling

off my soul. All the passers-by gave me such friendly looks that they seemed

almost greeting me, they all seemed so pleased at something. They were all

smokingcigars,everyoneofthem.AndIfeltpleasedasIneverhadbefore.Itwas

asthoughIhadsuddenlyfoundmyselfinItaly—sostrongwastheeffectofnature

uponahalf-sicktownsmanlikeme,almoststiflingbetweencitywalls.

ThereissomethinginexpressiblytouchinginnatureroundPetersburg,when

attheapproachofspringsheputsforthallhermight,allthepowersbestowedon

herbyHeaven,whenshebreaksintoleaf,decksherselfoutandspanglesherself

withflowers.. . .SomehowIcannothelpbeingremindedofafrail,consumptive

girl,atwhomonesometimeslookswithcompassion,sometimeswithsympathetic

love,whomsometimesonesimplydoesnotnotice;thoughsuddenlyinoneinstant

she becomes, as though by chance, inexplicably lovely and exquisite, and,

impressed and intoxicated, one cannot help asking oneself what power made

thosesad,pensiveeyesflashwithsuchfire?Whatsummonedthebloodtothose

pale,wan cheeks?What bathedwith passion those soft features?What set that

bosomheaving?Whatsosuddenlycalledstrength, lifeandbeauty into thepoor

girl’s face,making itgleamwithsuchasmile,kindlewithsuchbright,sparkling

laughter? You look round, you seek for some one, you conjecture. . . . But the

momentpasses,andnextdayyoumeet,maybe,thesamepensiveandpreoccupied

lookasbefore,thesamepaleface,thesamemeekandtimidmovements,andeven

signsofremorse,tracesofamortalanguishandregretforthefleetingdistraction.

...Andyougrievethatthemomentarybeautyhasfadedsosoonnevertoreturn,

that it flasheduponyou so treacherously, so vainly, grievebecause youhadnot

eventimetoloveher....

Andyetmynightwasbetterthanmyday!Thiswashowithappened.

Icamebacktothetownverylate,andithadstrucktenasIwasgoingtowards

my lodgings.Myway lay along the canal embankment, where at that hour you

nevermeetasoul.ItistruethatIliveinaveryremotepartofthetown.Iwalked

along singing, forwhen I amhappy I am always humming tomyself like every

happy man who has no friend or acquaintance with whom to share his joy.

SuddenlyIhadamostunexpectedadventure.

Leaningonthecanalrailingstoodawomanwithherelbowsontherail,she

wasapparentlylookingwithgreatattentionatthemuddywaterofthecanal.She

waswearingaverycharmingyellowhatandajauntylittleblackmantle.“She’sa

girl,andIamsuresheisdark,”Ithought.Shedidnotseemtohearmyfootsteps,

anddidnot even stirwhen I passedbywithbatedbreath and loudly throbbing

heart.

“Strange,”Ithought;“shemustbedeeplyabsorbedinsomething,”andallat

onceIstoppedasthoughpetrified.Iheardamuffledsob.Yes!Iwasnotmistaken,

thegirlwascrying,andaminute laterIheardsobaftersob.GoodHeavens!My

heart sank.And timidas Iwaswithwomen, yet thiswas suchamoment! . . . I

turned,tookasteptowardsher,andshouldcertainlyhavepronouncedtheword

“Madam!”ifIhadnotknownthatthatexclamationhasbeenutteredathousand

timesineveryRussiansocietynovel.Itwasonlythatreflectionstoppedme.But

whileIwasseekingforaword,thegirlcametoherself,lookedround,started,cast

downhereyesandslippedbymealongtheembankment.Iatoncefollowedher;

butshe,diviningthis,lefttheembankment,crossedtheroadandwalkedalongthe

pavement. I dared not cross the street after her.My heart was fluttering like a

capturedbird.Allatonceachancecametomyaid.

Alongthesamesideofthepavementtheresuddenlycameintosight,notfar

from the girl, a gentleman in evening dress, of dignified years, though by no

meansofdignifiedcarriage;hewasstaggeringandcautiouslyleaningagainstthe

wall.Thegirl flewstraightasanarrow,withthetimidhasteonesees inallgirls

whodonotwantanyonetovolunteertoaccompanythemhomeatnight,andno

doubtthestaggeringgentlemanwouldnothavepursuedher,ifmygoodluckhad

notpromptedhim.

Suddenly,withoutawordtoanyone,thegentlemansetoffandflewfullspeed

inpursuitofmyunknownlady.Shewasracinglikethewind,butthestaggering

gentlemanwasovertaking—overtookher.Thegirlutteredashriek,and...Ibless

myluckfortheexcellentknottedstick,whichhappenedonthatoccasiontobein

my right hand. In a flash I was on the other side of the street; in a flash the

obtrusive gentleman had taken in the position, had grasped the irresistible

argument, fallen back without a word, and only when we were very far away

protested against my action in rather vigorous language. But his words hardly

reachedus.

“Give me your arm,” I said to the girl. “And he won’t dare to annoy us

further.”

Shetookmyarmwithoutaword,stilltremblingwithexcitementandterror.

Oh,obtrusivegentleman!HowIblessedyouat thatmoment! I stoleaglanceat

her,shewasverycharminganddark—Ihadguessedright.

Onherblackeyelashestherestillglistenedatear—fromherrecentterroror

herformergrief—Idon’tknow.Buttherewasalreadyagleamofasmileonher

lips.Shetoostoleaglanceatme,faintlyblushedandlookeddown.

“There, you see; why did you drive me away? If I had been here, nothing

wouldhavehappened....”

“ButIdidnotknowyou;Ithoughtthatyoutoo....”

“Why,doyouknowmenow?”

“Alittle!Here,forinstance,whyareyoutrembling?”

“Oh,youarerightatthefirstguess!”Ianswered,delightedthatmygirlhad

intelligence;thatisneveroutofplaceincompanywithbeauty.“Yes,fromthefirst

glanceyouhaveguessedthesortofmanyouhavetodowith.Precisely;Iamshy

withwomen,Iamagitated,Idon’tdenyit,asmuchsoasyouwereaminuteago

whenthatgentlemanalarmedyou.Iaminsomealarmnow.It’slikeadream,and

IneverguessedeveninmysleepthatIshouldevertalkwithanywoman.”

“What?Really?...”

“Yes;ifmyarmtrembles,itisbecauseithasneverbeenheldbyaprettylittle

hand like yours. I ama complete stranger towomen; that is, Ihaveneverbeen

used to them.You see, I amalone. . . . I don’t evenknowhow to talk to them.

Here, Idon’tknownowwhetherIhavenotsaidsomethingsilly toyou!Tellme

frankly;IassureyoubeforehandthatIamnotquicktotakeoffence?...”

“No,nothing,nothing,quite the contrary.And if you insistonmyspeaking

frankly, I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if youwant to know

more,Ilikeittoo,andIwon’tdriveyouawaytillIgethome.”

“Youwillmakeme,” I said, breathless with delight, “losemy timidity, and

thenfarewelltoallmychances....”

“Chances!Whatchances—ofwhat?That’snotsonice.”

“Ibegyourpardon,Iamsorry, itwasaslipofthetongue;buthowcanyou

expectoneatsuchamomenttohavenodesire....”

“Tobeliked,eh?”

“Well,yes;butdo,forgoodness’sake,bekind.ThinkwhatIam!Here,Iam

twenty-sixandIhaveneverseenanyone.HowcanIspeakwell,tactfully,andto

thepoint?ItwillseembettertoyouwhenIhavetoldyoueverythingopenly....I

don’t knowhow to be silentwhenmy heart is speaking.Well, nevermind. . . .

Believeme,notonewoman,never,never!Noacquaintanceofanysort!AndIdo

nothingbutdreameveryday thatat last I shallmeet someone.Oh, ifonlyyou

knewhowoftenIhavebeeninloveinthatway....”

“How?Withwhom?...”

“Why,withnoone,withanideal,withtheoneIdreamofinmysleep.Imake

upregularromancesinmydreams.Ah,youdon’tknowme!It’strue,ofcourse,I

havemettwoorthreewomen,butwhatsortofwomenwerethey?Theywereall

landladies, that. . . . But I shallmake you laugh if I tell you that I have several

times thoughtof speaking, justsimplyspeaking, tosomearistocratic lady in the

street,when she is alone, Ineedhardly say; speaking toher, of course, timidly,

respectfully,passionately;tellingherthatIamperishinginsolitude,beggingher

nottosendmeaway;sayingthatIhavenochanceofmakingtheacquaintanceof

anywoman; impressing upon her that it is a positive duty for a woman not to

repulsesotimidaprayerfromsuchalucklessmanasme.That,infact,allIaskis,

thatsheshouldsaytwoorthreesisterlywordswithsympathy,shouldnotrepulse

meatfirstsight;shouldtakemeontrustandlistentowhatIsay;shouldlaughat

meifshelikes,encourageme,saytwowordstome,onlytwowords,eventhough

wenevermeetagainafterwards!...Butyouarelaughing;however,thatiswhyI

amtellingyou....”

“Don’tbevexed;Iamonlylaughingatyourbeingyourownenemy,andifyou

had tried you would have succeeded, perhaps, even though it had been in the

street;thesimplerthebetter....Nokind-heartedwoman,unlessshewerestupid

or,stillmore,vexedaboutsomethingatthemoment,couldbringherselftosend

youawaywithoutthosetwowordswhichyouaskforsotimidly....ButwhatamI

saying?Ofcourseshewould takeyou foramadman. Iwas judgingbymyself; I

knowagooddealaboutotherpeople’slives.”

“Oh,thankyou,”Icried;“youdon’tknowwhatyouhavedoneformenow!”

“Iamglad!Iamglad!ButtellmehowdidyoufindoutthatIwasthesortof

woman with whom . . . well, whom you think worthy . . . of attention and

friendship...infact,notalandladyasyousay?Whatmadeyoudecidetocome

uptome?”

“Whatmademe?...Butyouwerealone;thatgentlemanwastooinsolent;it’s

night.Youmustadmitthatitwasaduty....”

“No,no;Imeanbefore,ontheotherside—youknowyoumeanttocomeup

tome.”

“Ontheotherside?ReallyIdon’tknowhowtoanswer;Iamafraidto....Do

youknowIhavebeenhappyto-day?Iwalkedalongsinging;Iwentout intothe

country;Ihaveneverhadsuchhappymoments.You...perhapsitwasmyfancy.

. . .Forgivemeforreferringtoit;I fanciedyouwerecrying,andI . . .couldnot

beartohearit...itmademyheartache....Oh,mygoodness!SurelyImightbe

troubledaboutyou?Surelytherewasnoharminfeelingbrotherlycompassionfor

you....Ibegyourpardon,Isaidcompassion....Well,inshort,surelyyouwould

notbeoffendedatmyinvoluntaryimpulsetogouptoyou?...”

“Stop,that’senough,don’ttalkofit,”saidthegirl,lookingdown,andpressing

myhand.“It’smyfaultforhavingspokenofit;butIamgladIwasnotmistakenin

you....ButhereIamhome;Imustgodownthisturning,it’stwostepsfromhere.

...Good-bye,thankyou!...”

“Surely . . . surely you don’t mean . . . that we shall never see each other

again?...Surelythisisnottobetheend?”

“You see,” said the girl, laughing, “at first you onlywanted twowords, and

now....However,Iwon’tsayanything...perhapsweshallmeet....”

“Ishallcomehereto-morrow,”Isaid.“Oh,forgiveme,Iamalreadymaking

demands....”

“Yes,youarenotverypatient...youarealmostinsisting.”

“Listen,listen!”Iinterruptedher.“ForgivemeifItellyousomethingelse....

I tell youwhat, I can’t help cominghere to-morrow, I amadreamer; I have so

littlereallifethatIlookuponsuchmomentsasthisnow,assorare,thatIcannot

helpgoingoversuchmomentsagaininmydreams.Ishallbedreamingofyouall

night,awholeweek,awholeyear.Ishallcertainlycomehereto-morrow,justhere

tothisplace,justatthesamehour,andIshallbehappyrememberingto-day.This

placeisdeartomealready.IhavealreadytwoorthreesuchplacesinPetersburg.I

once shed tearsovermemories . . . likeyou. . . .Whoknows,perhapsyouwere

weepingtenminutesagooversomememory....But,forgiveme,Ihaveforgotten

myselfagain;perhapsyouhaveoncebeenparticularlyhappyhere....”

“Verygood,” said thegirl, “perhaps Iwill comehere to-morrow, too, at ten

o’clock. I see that I can’t forbid you. . . . The fact is, I have to be here; don’t

imaginethatIammakinganappointmentwithyou;ItellyoubeforehandthatI

have tobehereonmyownaccount.But . . .well, I tellyoustraightout, Idon’t

mindifyoudocome.Tobeginwith,somethingunpleasantmighthappenasitdid

to-day,butnevermindthat....Inshort,Ishouldsimplyliketoseeyou...tosay

twowords to you.Only,mind, youmust not think theworse ofmenow!Don’t

thinkImakeappointmentssolightly....Ishouldn’tmakeitexceptthat....But

letthatbemysecret!Onlyacompactbeforehand....”

“Acompact!Speak,tellme,tellmeallbeforehand;Iagreetoanything,Iam

ready for anything,” I cried delighted. “I answer formyself, I will be obedient,

respectful...youknowme....”

“It’sjustbecauseIdoknowyouthatIaskyoutocometo-morrow,”saidthe

girl,laughing.“Iknowyouperfectly.Butmindyouwillcomeonthecondition,in

thefirstplace(onlybegood,dowhatIask—yousee,Ispeakfrankly),youwon’t

fallinlovewithme....That’simpossible,Iassureyou.Iamreadyforfriendship;

here’smyhand....Butyoumustn’tfallinlovewithme,Ibegyou!”

“Iswear,”Icried,grippingherhand....

“Hush,don’tswear, Iknowyouarereadyto flareup likegunpowder.Don’t

thinkillofmeforsayingso.Ifonlyyouknew... .I,too,havenoonetowhomI

cansayaword,whoseadviceIcanask.Ofcourse,onedoesnotlookforanadviser

inthestreet;butyouareanexception.Iknowyouasthoughwehadbeenfriends

fortwentyyears....Youwon’tdeceiveme,willyou?...”

“Youwillsee...theonlythingis,Idon’tknowhowIamgoingtosurvivethe

nexttwenty-fourhours.”

“Sleep soundly.Good-night, and remember that Ihave trustedyoualready.

But you exclaimed so nicely just now, ‘Surely one can’t be held responsible for

everyfeeling,evenforbrotherlysympathy!’Doyouknow,thatwassonicelysaid,

thattheideastruckmeatonce,thatImightconfideinyou?”

“ForGod’ssakedo;butaboutwhat?Whatisit?”

“Waittillto-morrow.Meanwhile,letthatbeasecret.Somuchthebetterfor

you; itwill give it a faint flavourof romance.Perhaps Iwill tell you to-morrow,

andperhapsnot....Iwilltalktoyoualittlemorebeforehand;wewillgettoknow

eachotherbetter....”

“Ohyes,Iwilltellyouallaboutmyselfto-morrow!Butwhathashappened?It

isasthoughamiraclehadbefallenme. . . .MyGod,whereamI?Come,tellme

aren’t you glad that youwere not angry and did not driveme away at the first

moment,asanyotherwomanwouldhavedone?Intwominutesyouhavemade

mehappyforever.Yes,happy;whoknows,perhaps,youhavereconciledmewith

myself,solvedmydoubts!...Perhapssuchmomentscomeuponme....Butthere

Iwilltellyouallaboutitto-morrow,youshallknoweverything,everything....”

“Verywell,Iconsent;youshallbegin....”

“Agreed.”

“Good-byetillto-morrow!”

“Tillto-morrow!”

Andweparted.Iwalkedaboutallnight;Icouldnotmakeupmymindtogo

home.Iwassohappy....To-morrow!

“Well,soyouhavesurvived!”shesaid,pressingbothmyhands.

“I’vebeenhereforthelasttwohours;youdon’tknowwhata

stateIhavebeeninallday.”

“Iknow,Iknow.Buttobusiness.DoyouknowwhyIhavecome?Nottotalk

nonsense, as I did yesterday. I tell youwhat,wemust behavemore sensibly in

future.Ithoughtagreatdealaboutitlastnight.”

“Inwhatway—inwhatmustwebemoresensible?Iamreadyformypart;

but,really,nothingmoresensiblehashappenedtomeinmylifethanthis,now.”

“Really?Inthefirstplace,Ibegyounottosqueezemyhandsso;secondly,I

musttellyouthatIspentalongtimethinkingaboutyouandfeelingdoubtfulto-

day.”

“Andhowdiditend?”

“Howdiditend?Theupshotofitisthatwemustbeginalloveragain,because

theconclusionI reachedto-daywas that Idon’tknowyouatall; that Ibehaved

likeababylastnight,likealittlegirl;and,ofcourse,thefactofitis,thatit’smy

softheartthatistoblame—thatis,Isangmyownpraises,asonealwaysdoesin

the endwhenone analyses one’s conduct.And therefore to correctmymistake,

I’vemadeupmymind to findoutall aboutyouminutely.Butas Ihavenoone

fromwhom I can find out anything, youmust tellme everything fully yourself.

Well,whatsortofmanareyou?Come,makehaste—begin—tellmeyourwhole

history.”

“Myhistory!” I cried in alarm. “Myhistory!Butwhohas told you I have a

history?Ihavenohistory....”

“Thenhowhaveyoulived,ifyouhavenohistory?”sheinterrupted,laughing.

“Absolutelywithoutanyhistory! Ihave lived,as theysay,keepingmyself to

myself,thatis,utterlyalone—alone,entirelyalone.Doyouknowwhatitmeansto

bealone?”

“Buthowalone?Doyoumeanyouneversawanyone?”

“Ohno,Iseepeople,ofcourse;butstillIamalone.”

SECONDNIGHT

“Why,doyounevertalktoanyone?”

“Strictlyspeaking,withnoone.”

“Whoareyouthen?Explainyourself!Stay,Iguess:most likely, likemeyou

haveagrandmother.Sheisblindandwillneverletmegoanywhere,sothatIhave

almostforgottenhowtotalk;andwhenIplayedsomeprankstwoyearsago,and

she saw therewas no holdingme in, she calledme up and pinnedmy dress to

hers,andeversincewesitlikethatfordaystogether;sheknitsastocking,though

she’sblind,andIsitbesideher,seworreadaloudtoher—it’ssuchaqueerhabit,

herefortwoyearsI’vebeenpinnedtoher....”

“GoodHeavens!whatmisery!Butno,Ihaven’tagrandmotherlikethat.”

“Well,ifyouhaven’twhydoyousitathome?...”

“Listen,doyouwanttoknowthesortofmanIam?”

“Yes,yes!”

“Inthestrictsenseoftheword?”

“Intheverystrictestsenseoftheword.”

“Verywell,Iamatype!”

“Type, type!What sortof type?” cried thegirl, laughing, as though shehad

nothadachanceof laughing forawholeyear. “Yes, it’sveryamusingtalkingto

you.Look,here’saseat,letussitdown.Nooneispassinghere,noonewillhear

us,and—beginyourhistory.Forit’snogoodyourtellingme,Iknowyouhavea

history;onlyyouareconcealingit.Tobeginwith,whatisatype?”

“Atype?Atypeisanoriginal, it’sanabsurdperson!”Isaid, infectedbyher

childish laughter. “It’s a character. Listen; do you know what is meant by a

dreamer?”

“A dreamer! Indeed I should think I do know. I am a dreamer myself.

Sometimes,asIsitbygrandmother,allsortsofthingscomeintomyhead.Why,

whenonebeginsdreamingoneletsone’sfancyrunawaywithone—why,Imarry

a Chinese Prince! . . . Though sometimes it is a good thing to dream! But,

goodness knows! Especially when one has something to think of apart from

dreams,”addedthegirl,thistimeratherseriously.

“Excellent! If you have beenmarried to a Chinese Emperor, youwill quite

understandme.Come,listen....Butoneminute,Idon’tknowyournameyet.”

“Atlast!Youhavebeeninnohurrytothinkofit!”

“Oh,mygoodness!Itneverenteredmyhead,Ifeltquitehappyasitwas....”

“MynameisNastenka.”

“Nastenka!Andnothingelse?”

“Nothingelse!Why,isnotthatenoughforyou,youinsatiableperson?”

“Notenough?Onthecontrary, it’sagreatdeal,averygreatdeal,Nastenka;

youkindgirl,ifyouareNastenkaformefromthefirst.”

“Quiteso!Well?”

“Well,listen,Nastenka,nowforthisabsurdhistory.”

Isatdownbesideher,assumedapedanticallyseriousattitude,andbeganas

thoughreadingfromamanuscript:—

“There are, Nastenka, though you may not know it, strange nooks in

Petersburg. It seemsas thoughthesamesunasshines forallPetersburgpeople

does not peep into those spots, but some other different new one, bespoken

expressly for thosenooks,and it throwsadifferent lightoneverything. In these

corners,dearNastenka,quiteadifferent life is lived,quiteunlike the life that is

surgingroundus,butsuchasperhapsexistsinsomeunknownrealm,notamong

us in our serious, over-serious, time. Well, that life is a mixture of something

purely fantastic, fervently ideal,with something (alas!Nastenka)dingilyprosaic

andordinary,nottosayincrediblyvulgar.”

“Foo!GoodHeavens!Whatapreface!WhatdoIhear?”

“Listen, Nastenka. (It seems to me I shall never be tired of calling you

Nastenka.)Letmetellyouthat inthesecorners livestrangepeople—dreamers.

The dreamer— if you want an exact definition— is not a human being, but a

creatureofanintermediatesort.Forthemostparthesettlesinsomeinaccessible

corner, as thoughhiding from the lightofday;oncehe slips intohis corner,he

grows to it like a snail, or, anyway, he is in that respect very much like that

remarkablecreature,whichisananimalandahousebothatonce,andiscalleda

tortoise.Whydoyousupposeheissofondofhisfourwalls,whichareinvariably

paintedgreen,grimy,dismalandreekingunpardonablyoftobaccosmoke?Whyis

itthatwhenthisabsurdgentlemanisvisitedbyoneofhisfewacquaintances(and

heendsbygettingridofallhis friends),whydoes thisabsurdpersonmeethim

with such embarrassment, changing countenance andovercomewith confusion,

asthoughhehadonlyjustcommittedsomecrimewithinhisfourwalls;asthough

hehadbeenforgingcounterfeitnotes,orasthoughhewerewritingversestobe

senttoajournalwithananonymousletter,inwhichhestatesthattherealpoetis

dead,andthathisfriendthinksithissacreddutytopublishhisthings?Why,tell

me,Nastenka,whyisitconversationisnoteasybetweenthetwofriends?Whyis

therenolaughter?Whydoesnolivelywordflyfromthetongueoftheperplexed

newcomer, who at other times may be very fond of laughter, lively words,

conversationabout the fair sex, andother cheerful subjects?Andwhydoes this

friend, probably a new friend and on his first visit— for therewill hardly be a

second, and the friend will never come again — why is the friend himself so

confused, so tongue-tied, in spite of his wit (if he has any), as he looks at the

downcastfaceofhishost,whoinhisturnbecomesutterlyhelplessandathiswits’

end after gigantic but fruitless efforts to smooth things over and enliven the

conversation,toshowhisknowledgeofpolitesociety,totalk,too,ofthefairsex,

and by such humble endeavour, to please the poorman,who like a fish out of

water has mistakenly come to visit him?Why does the gentleman, all at once

remembering some verynecessary businesswhichnever existed, suddenly seize

hishatandhurriedlymakeoff,snatchingawayhishandfromthewarmgripofhis

host,whowastryinghisutmosttoshowhisregretandretrievethelostposition?

Whydoesthefriendchuckleashegoesoutofthedoor,andswearnevertocome

andseethisqueercreatureagain,thoughthequeercreatureisreallyaverygood

fellow,andatthesametimehecannotrefusehisimaginationthelittlediversion

of comparing thequeer fellow’s countenanceduring their conversationwith the

expression of an unhappy kitten treacherously captured, roughly handled,

frightened and subjected to all sorts of indignities by children, till, utterly

crestfallen, it hides away from them under a chair in the dark, and theremust

needsatitsleisurebristleup,spit,andwashitsinsultedfacewithbothpaws,and

longafterwardslookangrilyatlifeandnature,andevenatthebitssavedfromthe

master’sdinnerforitbythesympathetichousekeeper?”

“Listen,” interrupted Nastenka, who had listened to me all the time in

amazement, openingher eyes andher littlemouth. “Listen; Idon’t know in the

leastwhyithappenedandwhyyouaskmesuchabsurdquestions;allIknowis,

thatthisadventuremusthavehappenedwordforwordtoyou.”

“Doubtless,”Ianswered,withthegravestface.

“Well,sincethereisnodoubtaboutit,goon,”saidNastenka,“becauseIwant

verymuchtoknowhowitwillend.”

“Youwant toknow,Nastenka,whatourhero, that is I— for theheroof the

wholebusinesswasmyhumbleself—didinhiscorner?YouwanttoknowwhyI

lostmyheadandwasupsetforthewholedaybytheunexpectedvisitofafriend?

YouwanttoknowwhyIwassostartled,whyIblushedwhenthedoorofmyroom

wasopened,why Iwasnot able to entertainmyvisitor, andwhy Iwas crushed

undertheweightofmyownhospitality?”

“Why,yes,yes,”answeredNastenka,“that’sthepoint.Listen.Youdescribeit

allsplendidly,butcouldn’tyouperhapsdescribeitalittlelesssplendidly?Youtalk

asthoughyouwerereadingitoutofabook.”

“Nastenka,” I answered in a stern and dignified voice, hardly able to keep

from laughing, “dearNastenka, I know I describe splendidly, but, excuseme, I

don’tknowhowelsetodoit.Atthismoment,dearNastenka,atthismomentIam

like the spirit of King Solomonwhen, after lying a thousand years under seven

sealsinhisurn,thosesevensealswereatlasttakenoff.Atthismoment,Nastenka,

whenwehavemetatlastaftersuchalongseparation—forIhaveknownyoufor

ages,Nastenka,becauseIhavebeenlookingforsomeoneforages,andthatisa

sign that itwasyou Iwas looking for, and itwasordained thatwe shouldmeet

now—atthismomentathousandvalveshaveopenedinmyhead,andImustlet

myselfflowinariverofwords,orIshallchoke.AndsoIbegyounottointerrupt

me,Nastenka,butlistenhumblyandobediently,orIwillbesilent.”

“No,no,no!Notatall.Goon!Iwon’tsayaword!”

“Iwill continue.There is,my friendNastenka,onehour inmydaywhich I

like extremely. That is the hour when almost all business, work and duties are

over,andeveryone ishurryinghometodinner, to liedown, torest,andon the

wayallarecogitatingonothermorecheerful subjects relating to theirevenings,

theirnights,andalltherestoftheirfreetime.Atthathourourhero—forallow

me,Nastenka,totellmystoryinthethirdperson,foronefeelsawfullyashamedto

tellitinthefirstperson—andsoatthathourourhero,whohadhisworktoo,was

pacingalongaftertheothers.Butastrangefeelingofpleasuresethispale,rather

crumpled-looking faceworking.He lookednotwith indifference on the evening

glowwhichwasslowlyfadingonthecoldPetersburgsky.WhenIsayhelooked,I

amlying:hedidnot lookat it,butsawitas itwerewithoutrealizing,asthough

tiredorpreoccupiedwith someothermore interesting subject, so thathe could

scarcelyspareaglanceforanythingabouthim.Hewaspleasedbecausetillnext

dayhewasreleasedfrombusinessirksometohim,andhappyasaschoolboylet

outfromtheclass-roomtohisgamesandmischief.Takealookathim,Nastenka;

you will see at once that joyful emotion has already had an effect on his weak

nerves andmorbidly excited fancy.You seehe is thinkingof something. . . .Of

dinner,doyouimagine?Oftheevening?What ishe lookingat likethat?Is itat

thatgentlemanofdignifiedappearancewhoisbowingsopicturesquelytothelady

whorollsbyinacarriagedrawnbyprancinghorses?No,Nastenka;whatareall

thosetrivialitiestohimnow!Heisrichnowwithhisownindividual life;hehas

suddenlybecome rich, and it is not fornothing that the fading sunset sheds its

farewellgleamssogailybeforehim,andcallsforthaswarmofimpressionsfrom

hiswarmedheart.Nowhehardlynoticestheroad,onwhichthetiniestdetailsat

other times would strike him. Now ‘the Goddess of Fancy’ (if you have read

Zhukovsky,dearNastenka)hasalreadywithfantastichandspunhergoldenwarp

andbegunweavinguponitpatternsofmarvellousmagic life—andwhoknows,

maybe,her fantastichandhasbornehimto theseventhcrystalheaven far from

the excellent granite pavement onwhich hewaswalking hisway?Try stopping

himnow,askhimsuddenlywhereheisstandingnow,throughwhatstreetsheis

going—hewill,probablyremembernothing,neitherwhereheisgoingnorwhere

he is standingnow, and flushingwith vexationhewill certainly tell some lie to

save appearances.That iswhyhe starts, almost criesout, and looks roundwith

horror when a respectable old lady stops him politely in the middle of the

pavement and asks her way. Frowning with vexation he strides on, scarcely

noticingthatmorethanonepasser-bysmilesandturnsroundtolookafterhim,

andthata littlegirl,movingoutofhiswayinalarm, laughsaloud,gazingopen-

eyedathisbroadmeditativesmileandgesticulations.Butfancycatchesupinits

playfulflighttheoldwoman,thecuriouspassers-by,andthelaughingchild,and

thepeasantsspending theirnights in theirbargesonFontanka (ourhero, letus

suppose,iswalkingalongthecanal-sideatthatmoment),andcapriciouslyweaves

everyoneandeverythingintothecanvaslikeaflyinaspider’sweb.Anditisonly

afterthequeerfellowhasreturnedtohiscomfortabledenwithfreshstoresforhis

mindtoworkon,hassatdownandfinishedhisdinner,thathecomestohimself,

whenMatronawhowaitsuponhim—alwaysthoughtfulanddepressed—clears

the table and gives him his pipe; he comes to himself then and recalls with

surprise that he has dined, though he has absolutely no notion how it has

happened. Ithasgrowndark in the room;his soul is sadandempty; thewhole

kingdom of fancies drops to pieces about him, drops to pieces without a trace,

withoutasound,floatsawaylikeadream,andhecannothimselfrememberwhat

hewasdreaming.Butavaguesensationfaintlystirshisheartandsetsitaching,

some new desire temptingly tickles and excites his fancy, and imperceptibly

evokesaswarmoffreshphantoms.Stillnessreignsinthelittleroom;imagination

is fosteredbysolitudeand idleness; it is faintly smouldering, faintly simmering,

likethewaterwithwhicholdMatronaismakinghercoffeeasshemovesquietly

about in the kitchen close by. Now it breaks out spasmodically; and the book,

pickedupaimlesslyandatrandom,dropsfrommydreamer’shandbeforehehas

reachedthethirdpage.Hisimaginationisagainstirredandatwork,andagaina

newworld,anewfascinatinglifeopensvistasbeforehim.Afreshdream—fresh

happiness!Afreshrushofdelicate,voluptuouspoison!Whatisreallifetohim!To

hiscorruptedeyeswe live,youandI,Nastenka,so torpidly,slowly, insipidly; in

hiseyesweareallsodissatisfiedwithourfate,soexhaustedbyourlife!And,truly,

seehowat first sighteverything iscold,morose,as though ill-humouredamong

us. . . . Poor things! thinks our dreamer.And it is nowonder that he thinks it!

Look at these magic phantasms, which so enchantingly, so whimsically, so

carelesslyandfreelygroupbeforehiminsuchamagic,animatedpicture,inwhich

themostprominentfigureintheforegroundisofcoursehimself,ourdreamer,in

his precious person. See what varied adventures, what an endless swarm of

ecstaticdreams.Youask,perhaps,whatheisdreamingof.Whyaskthat?—why,

of everything . . . of the lot of the poet, first unrecognized, then crowned with

laurels;offriendshipwithHoffmann,St.Bartholomew’sNight,ofDianaVernon,

ofplayingtheheroatthetakingofKazanbyIvanVassilyevitch,ofClaraMowbray,

ofEffieDeans,ofthecounciloftheprelatesandHussbeforethem,oftherisingof

the dead in ‘Robert the Devil’ (do you remember the music, it smells of the

churchyard!),ofMinnaandBrenda,ofthebattleofBerezina,ofthereadingofa

poematCountessV.D.‘s,ofDanton,ofCleopatraeisuoiamanti,ofalittlehouse

in Kolomna, of a little home of one’s own and beside one a dear creature who

listenstooneonawinter’sevening,openingherlittlemouthandeyesasyouare

listeningtomenow,myangel....No,Nastenka,whatisthere,whatistherefor

him,voluptuoussluggard,inthislife,forwhichyouandIhavesuchalonging?He

thinks that this is a poor pitiful life, not foreseeing that for him too, maybe,

sometime themournfulhourmaystrike,when foronedayof thatpitiful lifehe

wouldgiveallhisyearsofphantasy,andwouldgivethemnotonlyforjoyandfor

happiness, but without caring to make distinctions in that hour of sadness,

remorse and unchecked grief. But so far that threatening has not arrived— he

desires nothing, because he is superior to all desire, becausehehas everything,

becausehe is satiated,becausehe is theartist ofhisown life, and creates it for

himselfeveryhour tosuithis latestwhim.Andyouknowthis fantasticworldof

fairyland is so easily, so naturally created! As though it were not a delusion!

Indeed,heisreadytobelieveatsomemomentsthatallthislifeisnotsuggestedby

feeling, is notmirage,not a delusionof the imagination, but that it is concrete,

real,substantial!Whyisit,Nastenka,whyisitatsuchmomentsoneholdsone’s

breath? Why, by what sorcery, through what incomprehensible caprice, is the

pulse quickened, does a tear start from the dreamer’s eye,while his palemoist

cheeks glow, while his whole being is suffused with an inexpressible sense of

consolation?Whyisitthatwholesleeplessnightspasslikeaflashininexhaustible

gladness and happiness, and when the dawn gleams rosy at the window and

daybreakfloodsthegloomyroomwithuncertain,fantasticlight,asinPetersburg,

ourdreamer,wornoutandexhausted,flingshimselfonhisbedanddropsasleep

withthrillsofdelightinhismorbidlyoverwroughtspirit,andwithawearysweet

acheinhisheart?Yes,Nastenka,onedeceivesoneselfandunconsciouslybelieves

thatrealtruepassionisstirringone’ssoul;oneunconsciouslybelievesthatthere

issomethingliving,tangibleinone’simmaterialdreams!Andisitdelusion?Here

love,forinstance,isboundupwithallitsfathomlessjoy,allitstorturingagonies

inhisbosom....Onlylookathim,andyouwillbeconvinced!Wouldyoubelieve,

lookingathim,dearNastenka,thathehasneverknownherwhomhelovesinhis

ecstaticdreams?Canitbethathehasonlyseenherinseductivevisions,andthat

this passion has been nothing but a dream? Surely theymust have spent years

handinhandtogether—alonethetwoofthem,castingoffalltheworldandeach

unitinghisorherlifewiththeother’s?Surelywhenthehourofpartingcameshe

musthavelainsobbingandgrievingonhisbosom,heedlessofthetempestraging

under the sullen sky, heedless of the wind which snatches and bears away the

tears from her black eyelashes? Can all of that have been a dream— and that

garden, dejected, forsaken, run wild, with its little moss-grown paths, solitary,

gloomy,wheretheyusedtowalksohappilytogether,wheretheyhoped,grieved,

loved,lovedeachothersolong,“solongandsofondly?”Andthatqueerancestral

house where she spent so many years lonely and sad with her morose old

husband, always silent and splenetic, who frightened them, while timid as

childrentheyhidtheir lovefromeachother?Whattormentstheysuffered,what

agoniesofterror,howinnocent,howpurewastheirlove,andhow(Ineedhardly

say, Nastenka) malicious people were! And, good Heavens! surely he met her

afterwards,farfromtheirnativeshores,underalienskies,inthehotsouthinthe

divinelyeternalcity,inthedazzlingsplendouroftheballtothecrashofmusic,in

apalazzo (itmust be in apalazzo), drowned in a sea of lights, on the balcony,

wreathedinmyrtleandroses,where,recognizinghim,shehurriedlyremovesher

maskandwhispering,‘Iamfree,’flingsherselftremblingintohisarms,andwitha

cryofrapture,clingingtooneanother,inoneinstanttheyforgettheirsorrowand

theirpartingandalltheiragonies,andthegloomyhouseandtheoldmanandthe

dismalgarden in thatdistant land,and theseatonwhichwitha lastpassionate

kissshetoreherselfawayfromhisarmsnumbwithanguishanddespair....Oh,

Nastenka,youmustadmitthatonewouldstart,betrayconfusion,andblushlikea

schoolboywhohas just stuffed inhispocketanapple stolen fromaneighbour’s

garden, when your uninvited visitor, some stalwart, lanky fellow, a festive soul

fondofajoke,opensyourdoorandshoutsoutasthoughnothingwerehappening:

‘Mydearboy,IhavethisminutecomefromPavlovsk.’Mygoodness!theoldcount

is dead, unutterable happiness is close at hand — and people arrive from

Pavlovsk!”

Finishingmypatheticappeal,Ipausedpathetically.IrememberedthatIhad

an intense desire to force myself to laugh, for I was already feeling that a

malignantdemonwasstirringwithinme,thattherewasalumpinmythroat,that

mychinwasbeginningtotwitch,andthatmyeyesweregrowingmoreandmore

moist.

IexpectedNastenka,wholistenedtomeopeningherclevereyes,wouldbreak

intoherchildish,irrepressiblelaugh;andIwasalreadyregrettingthatIhadgone

so far, that Ihadunnecessarilydescribedwhathad longbeen simmering inmy

heart,aboutwhichIcouldspeakasthoughfromawrittenaccountofit,becauseI

had long ago passed judgment on myself and now could not resist reading it,

makingmyconfession,withoutexpectingtobeunderstood;buttomysurpriseshe

was silent, waiting a little, then she faintly pressed my hand and with timid

sympathyasked—

“Surelyyouhaven’tlivedlikethatallyourlife?”

“Allmylife,Nastenka,”Ianswered;“allmylife,anditseemstomeIshallgo

onsototheend.”

“No, thatwon’t do,” she said uneasily, “thatmust not be; and so,maybe, I

shallspendallmylifebesidegrandmother.Doyouknow, it isnotatallgoodto

livelikethat?”

“I know,Nastenka, I know!” I cried, unable to restrainmy feelings longer.

“AndIrealizenow,morethanever,thatIhavelostallmybestyears!AndnowI

knowitandfeelitmorepainfullyfromrecognizingthatGodhassentmeyou,my

goodangel,totellmethatandshowit.NowthatIsitbesideyouandtalktoyouit

is strange forme to think of the future, for in the future— there is loneliness

again,againthismusty,uselesslife;andwhatshallIhavetodreamofwhenIhave

been so happy in reality beside you!Oh,may you be blessed, dear girl, for not

havingrepulsedmeatfirst,forenablingmetosaythatfortwoevenings,atleast,I

havelived.”

“Oh,no,no!”criedNastenkaandtearsglistenedinhereyes.“No,itmustn’t

besoanymore;wemustnotpartlikethat!whataretwoevenings?”

“Oh,Nastenka,Nastenka!Do youknowhow far youhave reconciledme to

myself?DoyouknownowthatIshallnotthinksoillofmyself,asIhaveatsome

moments?Doyouknowthat,maybe,Ishallleaveoffgrievingoverthecrimeand

sinofmylife?forsuchalifeisacrimeandasin.AnddonotimaginethatIhave

beenexaggeratinganything—forgoodness’sakedon’tthinkthat,Nastenka:forat

timessuchmiserycomesoverme,suchmisery. . . .Becauseitbeginstoseemto

meatsuchtimesthatIamincapableofbeginningalifeinreallife,becauseithas

seemedtomethatIhavelostalltouch,allinstinctfortheactual,thereal;because

atlastIhavecursedmyself;becauseaftermyfantasticnightsIhavemomentsof

returningsobriety,whichareawful!Meanwhile,youhearthewhirlandroarofthe

crowdinthevortexoflifearoundyou;youhear,yousee,menlivinginreality;you

see that life for them is not forbidden, that their life does not float away like a

dream,likeavision;thattheirlifeisbeingeternallyrenewed,eternallyyouthful,

and not one hour of it is the same as another; while fancy is so spiritless,

monotonoustovulgarityandeasilyscared,theslaveofshadows,oftheidea,the

slave of the first cloud that shrouds the sun, and overcastswith depression the

truePetersburgheart sodevoted to the sun—andwhat is fancy indepression!

Onefeelsthatthisinexhaustiblefancyiswearyatlastandwornoutwithcontinual

exercise,becauseoneisgrowingintomanhood,outgrowingone’soldideals:they

are being shattered into fragments, into dust; if there is no other life onemust

build oneup from the fragments.Andmeanwhile the soul longs and craves for

something else! And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams, as though

seeking a spark among the embers, to fan them into flame, towarmhis chilled

heartbytherekindledfire,andtorouseupinitagainallthatwassosweet,that

touched his heart, that set his blood boiling, drew tears from his eyes, and so

luxuriouslydeceivedhim!Doyouknow,Nastenka,thepointIhavereached?Do

youknowthatIamforcednowtocelebratetheanniversaryofmyownsensations,

theanniversaryofthatwhichwasoncesosweet,whichneverexistedinreality—

forthisanniversaryiskeptinmemoryofthosesamefoolish,shadowydreams—

andtodothisbecausethosefoolishdreamsarenomore,becauseIhavenothing

toearnthemwith;youknowevendreamsdonotcomefornothing!Doyouknow

that I love now to recall and visit at certain dates the placeswhere I was once

happy in my own way? I love to build up my present in harmony with the

irrevocable past, and I often wander like a shadow, aimless, sad and dejected,

about the streets and crooked lanesofPetersburg.Whatmemories theyare!To

remember,forinstance,thatherejustayearago,justatthistime,atthishour,on

this pavement, I wandered just as lonely, just as dejected as to-day. And one

remembers that thenone’sdreamsweresad,and thoughthepastwasnobetter

onefeelsasthoughithadsomehowbeenbetter,andthatlifewasmorepeaceful,

thatonewasfreefromtheblackthoughtsthathauntonenow;thatonewasfree

fromthegnawingofconscience—thegloomy,sullengnawingwhichnowgivesme

norestbydayorbynight.Andoneasksoneselfwhereareone’sdreams.Andone

shakes one’s head and says how rapidly the years fly by! And again one asks

oneself what has one done with one’s years.Where have you buried your best

days?Haveyoulivedornot?Look,onesaystooneself,lookhowcoldtheworldis

growing. Somemore yearswill pass, andafter themwill comegloomy solitude;

thenwillcomeoldagetremblingonitscrutch,andafteritmiseryanddesolation.

Yourfantasticworldwillgrowpale,yourdreamswillfadeanddieandwillfalllike

theyellowleavesfromthetrees.. . .Oh,Nastenka!youknowitwillbesadtobe

left alone, utterly alone, and to have not even anything to regret — nothing,

absolutelynothing. . . forallthatyouhavelost,allthat,allwasnothing,stupid,

simplenullity,therehasbeennothingbutdreams!”

“Come,don’tworkonmyfeelingsanymore,”saidNastenka,wipingawaya

tear which was trickling down her cheek. “Now it’s over! Nowwe shall be two

together.Now,whateverhappenstome,wewillneverpart.Listen;Iamasimple

girl,Ihavenothadmucheducation,thoughgrandmotherdidgetateacherforme,

but truly I understandyou, for all that youhavedescribed Ihavebeen through

myself,whengrandmotherpinnedmetoherdress.Ofcourse,Ishouldnothave

described it sowell asyouhave; Iamnoteducated,” sheadded timidly, for she

wasstillfeelingasortofrespectformypatheticeloquenceandloftystyle;“butI

amverygladthatyouhavebeenquiteopenwithme.NowIknowyouthoroughly,

allofyou.Anddoyouknowwhat?Iwanttotellyoumyhistorytoo,allwithout

concealment,andafterthatyoumustgivemeadvice.Youareaverycleverman;

willyoupromisetogivemeadvice?”

“Ah,Nastenka,”Icried,“thoughIhavenevergivenadvice,still lesssensible

advice,yetIseenowthatifwealwaysgoonlikethisthatitwillbeverysensible,

and that eachof uswill give theother a greatdeal of sensible advice!Well,my

prettyNastenka,whatsortofadvicedoyouwant?Tellmefrankly;atthismoment

Iamsogayandhappy,soboldandsensible,thatitwon’tbedifficultformetofind

words.”

“No,no!”Nastenkainterrupted,laughing.“Idon’tonlywantsensibleadvice,I

wantwarmbrotherlyadvice,asthoughyouhadbeenfondofmeallyourlife!”

“Agreed,Nastenka,agreed!”Icrieddelighted;“andifIhadbeenfondofyou

fortwentyyears,Icouldn’thavebeenfonderofyouthanIamnow.”

“Yourhand,”saidNastenka.

“Hereitis,”saidI,givinghermyhand.

“Andsoletusbeginmyhistory!”

NASTENKA’SHISTORY

“Half my story you know already — that is, you know that I have an old

grandmother....”

“Iftheotherhalfisasbriefasthat...”Iinterrupted,laughing.

“Bequietandlisten.Firstofallyoumustagreenottointerruptme,orelse,

perhapsIshallgetinamuddle!Come,listenquietly.

“Ihaveanoldgrandmother.IcameintoherhandswhenIwasquitea little

girl, formy fatherandmotheraredead. Itmustbe supposed that grandmother

wasoncericher,fornowsherecallsbetterdays.ShetaughtmeFrench,andthen

got a teacher forme.When Iwas fifteen (andnow I amseventeen)wegaveup

havinglessons.ItwasatthattimethatIgotintomischief;whatIdidIwon’ttell

you;it’senoughtosaythatitwasn’tveryimportant.Butgrandmothercalledmeto

heronemorningandsaidthatasshewasblindshecouldnotlookafterme;she

tookapinandpinnedmydresstohers,andsaidthatweshouldsit likethatfor

therestofourlivesif,ofcourse,Ididnotbecomeabettergirl.Infact,atfirstit

wasimpossibletogetawayfromher:Ihadtowork,toreadandtostudyallbeside

grandmother.Itriedtodeceiveheronce,andpersuadedFeklatositinmyplace.

Feklaisourcharwoman,sheisdeaf.Feklasatthereinsteadofme;grandmother

was asleep in her armchair at the time, and Iwent off to see a friend close by.

Well,itendedintrouble.GrandmotherwokeupwhileIwasout,andaskedsome

questions; she thought I was still sitting quietly in my place. Fekla saw that

grandmother was asking her something, but could not tell what it was; she

wonderedwhattodo,undidthepinandranaway....”

AtthispointNastenkastoppedandbeganlaughing.I laughedwithher.She

leftoffatonce.

“Itellyouwhat,don’tyoulaughatgrandmother.I laughbecauseit’sfunny.

. . .WhatcanIdo,sincegrandmother is like that;butyet Iamfondofher ina

way.Oh,well,Ididcatchitthattime.Ihadtositdowninmyplaceatonce,and

afterthatIwasnotallowedtostir.

“Oh,Iforgottotellyouthatourhousebelongstous,thatistograndmother;

itisalittlewoodenhousewiththreewindowsasoldasgrandmotherherself,with

alittleupperstorey;well,theremovedintoourupperstoreyanewlodger.”

“Thenyouhadanoldlodger,”Iobservedcasually.

“Yes, of course,” answered Nastenka, “and one who knew how to hold his

tonguebetterthanyoudo.Infact,hehardlyeverusedhistongueatall.Hewasa

dumb,blind,lame,dried-uplittleoldman,sothatatlasthecouldnotgoonliving,

hedied;sothenwehadtofindanewlodger,forwecouldnotlivewithoutalodger

—the rent, togetherwithgrandmother’spension, is almostallwehave.But the

newlodger,asluckwouldhaveit,wasayoungman,astrangernotoftheseparts.

As he did not haggle over the rent, grandmother accepted him, and only

afterwardssheaskedme:‘Tellme,Nastenka,whatisourlodgerlike—isheyoung

orold?’Ididnotwanttolie,soItoldgrandmotherthathewasn’texactlyyoung

andthathewasn’told.

“‘Andishepleasantlooking?’askedgrandmother.

“AgainIdidnotwanttotellalie:‘Yes,heispleasantlooking,grandmother,’I

said.Andgrandmothersaid:‘Oh,whatanuisance,whatanuisance!Itellyouthis,

grandchild,thatyoumaynotbelookingafterhim.Whattimestheseare!Whya

paltrylodgerlikethis,andhemustbepleasantlookingtoo;itwasverydifferentin

theolddays!’”

“Grandmotherwasalwaysregrettingtheolddays—shewasyounger inold

days,andthesunwaswarmerinolddays,andcreamdidnotturnsosourinold

days—itwasalwaystheolddays!Iwouldsitstillandholdmytongueandthink

tomyself:whydidgrandmother suggest it tome?Whydidsheaskwhether the

lodger was young and good-looking? But that was all, I just thought it, began

countingmystitchesagain,wentonknittingmystocking,andforgotallaboutit.

“Well,onemorningthelodgercameintoseeus;heaskedaboutapromiseto

paperhis rooms.One thing led toanother.Grandmotherwas talkative, and she

said:‘Go,Nastenka,intomybedroomandbringmemyreckoner.’Ijumpedupat

once; I blushed all over, I don’t know why, and forgot I was sitting pinned to

grandmother;insteadofquietlyundoingthepin,sothatthelodgershouldnotsee

—Ijumpedsothatgrandmother’schairmoved.WhenIsawthatthelodgerknew

allaboutmenow,Iblushed,stoodstillasthoughIhadbeenshot,andsuddenly

begantocry—Ifeltsoashamedandmiserableatthatminute,thatIdidn’tknow

wheretolook!Grandmothercalledout,‘Whatareyouwaitingfor?’andIwenton

worsethanever.Whenthelodgersaw,sawthatIwasashamedonhisaccount,he

bowedandwentawayatonce!

“AfterthatIfeltreadytodieattheleastsoundinthepassage.‘It’sthelodger,’

Ikeptthinking;Istealthilyundidthepinincase.Butitalwaysturnedoutnotto

be,henevercame.Afortnightpassed;thelodgersentwordthroughFyoklathat

hehadagreatnumberofFrenchbooks,andthattheywereallgoodbooksthatI

mightread,sowouldnotgrandmother likemetoreadthemthatImightnotbe

dull? Grandmother agreed with gratitude, but kept asking if they were moral

books, for if thebookswere immoral itwouldbeoutof thequestion,onewould

learnevilfromthem.”

“‘AndwhatshouldIlearn,grandmother?Whatistherewritteninthem?’

“‘Ah,’shesaid,‘what’sdescribedinthem,ishowyoungmenseducevirtuous

girls;how,ontheexcusethattheywanttomarrythem,theycarrythemofffrom

theirparents’houses;howafterwardstheyleavetheseunhappygirlstotheirfate,

and they perish in the most pitiful way. I read a great many books,’ said

grandmother, ‘and it isall sowelldescribed thatonesitsupallnightandreads

themonthesly.Somindyoudon’treadthem,Nastenka,’saidshe. ‘Whatbooks

hashesent?’

“‘TheyareallWalterScott’snovels,grandmother.’

“‘WalterScott’snovels!Butstay,isn’ttheresometrickaboutit?Look,hasn’t

hestuckalove-letteramongthem?’

“‘No,grandmother,’Isaid,‘thereisn’talove-letter.’

“‘Butlookunderthebinding;theysometimesstuffitunderthebindings,the

rascals!’

“‘No,grandmother,thereisnothingunderthebinding.’

“‘Well,that’sallright.’

“SowebeganreadingWalterScott,andinamonthorsowehadreadalmost

half.Thenhe sentusmoreandmore.He sentusPushkin, too; so that at last I

couldnotgetonwithoutabookandleftoffdreamingofhowfineitwouldbeto

marryaChinesePrince.

“That’showthingswerewhenIchancedoneday tomeetour lodgeron the

stairs.Grandmotherhadsentmetofetchsomething.Hestopped,Iblushedand

he blushed; he laughed, though, said good-morning to me, asked after

grandmother, and said, ‘Well, have you read thebooks?’ I answered that I had.

‘Whichdidyoulikebest?’heasked.Isaid,‘Ivanhoe,andPushkinbestofall,’and

soourtalkendedforthattime.

“AweeklaterImethimagainonthestairs.Thattimegrandmotherhadnot

sentme, Iwanted to get something formyself. Itwas past two, and the lodger

usedtocomehomeatthattime.‘Good-afternoon,’saidhe.Isaidgood-afternoon,

too.

“‘Aren’tyoudull,’hesaid,‘sittingalldaywithyourgrandmother?’

“Whenheaskedthat,Iblushed,Idon’tknowwhy;Ifeltashamed,andagainI

feltoffended—Isupposebecauseotherpeoplehadbeguntoaskmeaboutthat.I

wantedtogoawaywithoutanswering,butIhadn’tthestrength.

“‘Listen,’hesaid,‘youareagoodgirl.Excusemyspeakingtoyoulikethat,but

IassureyouthatIwishforyourwelfarequiteasmuchasyourgrandmother.Have

younofriendsthatyoucouldgoandvisit?’

“ItoldhimIhadn’tany,thatIhadhadnofriendbutMashenka,andshehad

goneawaytoPskov.

“‘Listen,’hesaid,‘wouldyouliketogotothetheatrewithme?’

“‘Tothetheatre.Whataboutgrandmother?’

“‘Butyoumustgowithoutyourgrandmother’sknowingit,’hesaid.

“‘No,’Isaid,‘Idon’twanttodeceivegrandmother.Good-bye.’

“‘Well,good-bye,’heanswered,andsaidnothingmore.

“Onlyafterdinnerhecametoseeus;satalongtimetalkingtograndmother;

askedherwhethersheeverwentoutanywhere,whethershehadacquaintances,

andsuddenlysaid:‘Ihavetakenaboxattheoperaforthisevening;theyaregiving

TheBarberofSeville.Myfriendsmeanttogo,butafterwardsrefused,sotheticket

is left onmyhands.’ ‘TheBarberofSeville,’ criedgrandmother; ‘why, the same

theyusedtoactinolddays?’

“‘Yes, it’s thesamebarber,’hesaid,andglancedatme.Isawwhat itmeant

andturnedcrimson,andmyheartbeganthrobbingwithsuspense.

“‘To be sure, I know it,’ said grandmother; ‘why, I took the part of Rosina

myselfinolddays,ataprivateperformance!’

“‘So wouldn’t you like to go to-day?’ said the lodger. ‘Ormy ticket will be

wasted.’

“‘By all means let us go,’ said grandmother; why shouldn’t we? And my

Nastenkaherehasneverbeentothetheatre.’

“Mygoodness,what joy!Wegotreadyatonce,putonourbestclothes,and

set off. Though grandmother was blind, still she wanted to hear the music;

besides, she is a kind old soul, what she caredmost for was to amuseme, we

shouldneverhavegoneofourselves.

“WhatmyimpressionsofTheBarberofSevillewereIwon’ttellyou;butall

thateveningourlodgerlookedatmesonicely,talkedsonicely,thatIsawatonce

thathehadmeanttotestmeinthemorningwhenheproposedthatIshouldgo

withhimalone.Well,itwasjoy!Iwenttobedsoproud,sogay,myheartbeatso

thatIwasalittlefeverish,andallnightIwasravingaboutTheBarberofSeville.

“Iexpected thathewouldcomeandseeusmoreandmoreoftenafter that,

butitwasn’tsoatall.Healmostentirelygaveupcoming.Hewouldjustcomein

about once a month, and then only to invite us to the theatre.We went twice

again.OnlyIwasn’tatallpleasedwiththat;Isawthathewassimplysorryforme

because Iwassohardly treatedbygrandmother,and thatwasall.As timewent

on, Igrewmoreandmorerestless, I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t read, I couldn’t

work;sometimesIlaughedanddidsomethingtoannoygrandmother,atanother

timeIwouldcry.AtlastIgrewthinandwasverynearlyill.Theoperaseasonwas

over, and our lodger had quite given up coming to see us;wheneverwemet—

alwaysonthesamestaircase,ofcourse—hewouldbowsosilently,sogravely,as

thoughhedidnotwanttospeak,andgodowntothefrontdoor,whileIwenton

standinginthemiddleofthestairs,asredasacherry,forallthebloodrushedto

myheadatthesightofhim.

“Nowtheendisnear.Justayearago,inMay,thelodgercametousandsaid

tograndmotherthathehadfinishedhisbusinesshere,andthathemustgoback

to Moscow for a year. When I heard that, I sank into a chair half dead;

grandmotherdidnotnoticeanything;andhavinginformedusthatheshouldbe

leavingus,hebowedandwentaway.

“WhatwasItodo?Ithoughtandthoughtandfrettedandfretted,andatlastI

madeupmymind.Nextdayhewastogoaway,andImadeupmymindtoendit

allthateveningwhengrandmotherwenttobed.Andsoithappened.Imadeupall

myclothesinaparcel—allthelinenIneeded—andwiththeparcelinmyhand,

moredeadthanalive,wentupstairstoourlodger.IbelieveImusthavestayedan

houronthestaircase.WhenIopenedhisdoorhecriedoutashelookedatme.He

thoughtIwasaghost,andrushedtogivemesomewater,forIcouldhardlystand

up.Myheartbeatsoviolentlythatmyheadached,andIdidnotknowwhatIwas

doing.WhenIrecoveredIbeganbylayingmyparcelonhisbed,satdownbeside

it,hidmyfaceinmyhandsandwentintofloodsoftears.Ithinkheunderstoodit

allatonce,andlookedatmesosadlythatmyheartwastorn.

“‘Listen,’hebegan,‘listen,Nastenka,Ican’tdoanything;Iamapoorman,for

I have nothing, not even a decent berth.How couldwe live, if Iwere tomarry

you?’

“Wetalkedalongtime;butatlastIgotquitefrantic,IsaidIcouldnotgoon

livingwithgrandmother,thatIshouldrunawayfromher,thatIdidnotwantto

bepinnedtoher,andthatIwouldgotoMoscowifheliked,becauseIcouldnot

livewithouthim.Shameandprideand lovewereall clamouring inmeatonce,

andIfellonthebedalmostinconvulsions,Iwassoafraidofarefusal.

“Hesatforsomeminutesinsilence,thengotup,cameuptomeandtookme

bythehand.

“‘Listen,mydeargoodNastenka,listen;IsweartoyouthatifIameverina

positiontomarry,youshallmakemyhappiness.Iassureyouthatnowyouarethe

onlyonewhocouldmakemehappy.Listen, IamgoingtoMoscowandshallbe

there justayear;Ihopetoestablishmyposition.WhenIcomeback, ifyoustill

loveme,Iswearthatwewillbehappy.Nowitisimpossible,Iamnotable,Ihave

not theright topromiseanything.Well, I repeat, if it isnotwithinayear itwill

certainlybesometime;that is,ofcourse, ifyoudonotpreferanyoneelse,forI

cannotanddarenotbindyoubyanysortofpromise.’

“Thatwaswhathesaidtome,andnextdayhewentaway.Weagreedtogether

not to sayaword tograndmother: thatwashiswish.Well,myhistory isnearly

finishednow.Justayearhaspast.Hehasarrived;hehasbeenhere threedays,

and,and——”

“Andwhat?”Icried,impatienttoheartheend.

“And up to now has not shown himself!” answered Nastenka, as though

screwingupallhercourage.“There’snosignorsoundofhim.”

Hereshestopped,pausedforaminute,bentherhead,andcoveringherface

withherhandsbrokeintosuchsobsthatitsentapangtomyhearttohearthem.I

hadnotintheleastexpectedsuchadénouement.

“Nastenka,”Ibegantimidlyinaningratiatingvoice,“Nastenka!Forgoodness’

sakedon’tcry!Howdoyouknow?Perhapsheisnothereyet....”

“He is, he is,”Nastenka repeated. “He is here, and I know it.Wemadean

agreementatthetime,thatevening,beforehewentaway:whenwesaidallthatI

have toldyou, andhadcome toanunderstanding, thenwe cameouthere for a

walkonthisembankment.Itwasteno’clock;wesatonthisseat.Iwasnotcrying

then;itwassweettometohearwhathesaid....Andhesaidthathewouldcome

to us directly he arrived, and if I did not refuse him, then we would tell

grandmotheraboutitall.Nowheishere,Iknowit,andyethedoesnotcome!”

Andagainsheburstintotears.

“GoodGod,canIdonothingtohelpyouinyoursorrow?”Icriedjumpingup

fromtheseatinutterdespair.“Tellme,Nastenka,wouldn’titbepossibleformeto

gotohim?”

“Wouldthatbepossible?”sheaskedsuddenly,raisingherhead.

“No, of course not,” I said pullingmyself up; “but I tell you what, write a

letter.”

“No,that’simpossible,Ican’tdothat,”sheansweredwithdecision,bending

herheadandnotlookingatme.

“How impossible — why is it impossible?” I went on, clinging to my idea.

“But,Nastenka,itdependswhatsortofletter;therearelettersandlettersand....

Ah,Nastenka,Iamright;trusttome,trusttome,Iwillnotgiveyoubadadvice.It

canallbearranged!Youtookthefirststep—whynotnow?”

“Ican’t.Ican’t!ItwouldseemasthoughIwereforcingmyselfonhim....”

“Ah,mygoodlittleNastenka,”Isaid,hardlyabletoconcealasmile;“no,no,

youhave a right to, in fact, because hemade you a promise.Besides, I can see

fromeverythingthatheisamanofdelicatefeeling;thathebehavedverywell,”I

went on, more and more carried away by the logic of my own arguments and

convictions.“Howdidhebehave?Heboundhimselfbyapromise:hesaidthatif

hemarriedatallhewouldmarrynoonebutyou;hegaveyoufulllibertytorefuse

himatonce....Undersuchcircumstancesyoumaytakethefirststep;youhave

theright;youareintheprivilegedposition—if,forinstance,youwantedtofree

himfromhispromise....”

“Listen;howwouldyouwrite?”

“Writewhat?”

“Thisletter.”

“ItellyouhowIwouldwrite:‘DearSir.’...”

“MustIreallybeginlikethat,‘DearSir’?”

“Youcertainlymust!Though,afterall,Idon’tknow,Iimagine....”

“Well,well,whatnext?”

“‘DearSir—Imustapologizefor——’But,no,there’snoneedtoapologize;

thefactitselfjustifieseverything.Writesimply:—

“Yes, yes; that’s exactly what I was thinking!” cried Nastenka, and her eyes

beamedwith delight. “Oh, youhave solvedmydifficulties:Godhas sent you to

me!Thankyou,thankyou!”

“Whatfor?Whatfor?ForGod’ssendingme?”Ianswered,lookingdelighted

atherjoyfullittleface.“Why,yes;forthattoo.”

“Ah,Nastenka!Why,onethankssomepeopleforbeingaliveatthesametime

withone;Ithankyouforhavingmetme,formybeingabletorememberyouall

mylife!”

“Well, enough, enough! But now I tell you what, listen: we made an

agreement then that as soon as he arrived hewould letme know, by leaving a

letterwithsomegoodsimplepeopleofmyacquaintancewhoknownothingabout

it;or,ifitwereimpossibletowritealettertome,foraletterdoesnotalwaystell

everything,hewouldbehereat teno’clockonthedayhearrived,wherewehad

arrangedtomeet.Iknowhehasarrivedalready;butnowit’s thethirdday,and

there’s no sign of him and no letter. It’s impossible for me to get away from

grandmother in themorning. Givemy letter to-morrow to those kind people I

“‘Iamwritingtoyou.Forgivememyimpatience;butIhave

beenhappyforawholeyearinhope;amItoblameforbeingunabletoendureadayofdoubtnow?

Nowthatyouhavecome,perhapsyouhavechangedyourmind.Ifso,thisletteristotellyouthatI

donotrepine,norblameyou.IdonotblameyoubecauseIhavenopoweroveryourheart,suchis

myfate!

“‘Youareanhonourableman.Youwillnotsmileorbevexed

attheseimpatientlines.Remembertheyarewrittenbyapoorgirl;thatsheisalone;thatshehas

noonetodirecther,noonetoadviseher,andthatsheherselfcouldnevercontrolherheart.But

forgivemethatadoubthasstolen—ifonlyforoneinstant—intomyheart.Youarenotcapableof

insulting,eveninthought,herwhosolovedandsolovesyou.’”

spoketoyouabout:theywillsenditontohim,andifthereisanansweryoubring

itto-morrowatteno’clock.”

“Buttheletter,theletter!Yousee,youmustwritetheletterfirst!Soperhaps

itmustallbethedayafterto-morrow.”

“Theletter...”saidNastenka,alittleconfused,“theletter...but....”

Butshedidnotfinish.Atfirstsheturnedherlittlefaceawayfromme,flushed

like a rose, and suddenly I felt in my hand a letter which had evidently been

written long before, all ready and sealed up. A familiar sweet and charming

reminiscencefloatedthroughmymind.

“R,o—Ro;s,i—si;n,a—na,”Ibegan.

“Rosina!” we both hummed together; I almost embracing her with delight,

whilesheblushedasonlyshecouldblush,and laughedthroughthe tearswhich

gleamedlikepearlsonherblackeyelashes.

“Come,enough,enough!Good-byenow,”shesaidspeakingrapidly.“Hereis

the letter,here is theaddresstowhichyouaretotake it.Good-bye, tillwemeet

again!Tillto-morrow!”

Shepressedbothmyhandswarmly,noddedherhead,andflewlikeanarrow

downhersidestreet.Istoodstillforalongtimefollowingherwithmyeyes.

“Tillto-morrow!tillto-morrow!”wasringinginmyearsasshevanishedfrom

mysight.

To-daywasagloomy,rainydaywithoutaglimmerofsunlight, liketheold

age before me. I am oppressed by such strange thoughts, such gloomy

sensations;questionsstillsoobscuretomearecrowdingintomybrain—

andIseemtohaveneitherpowernorwilltosettlethem.It’snotformetosettleall

this!

To-day we shall not meet. Yesterday, when we said good-bye, the clouds

begangatheringovertheskyandamistrose.Isaidthatto-morrowitwouldbea

badday;shemadenoanswer,shedidnotwanttospeakagainstherwishes; for

herthatdaywasbrightandclear,notonecloudshouldobscureherhappiness.

“Ifitrainsweshallnotseeeachother,”shesaid,“Ishallnotcome.”

Ithoughtthatshewouldnotnoticeto-day’srain,andyetshehasnotcome.

Yesterdaywasourthirdinterview,ourthirdwhitenight....

Buthowfinejoyandhappinessmakesanyone!Howbrimmingoverwithlove

the heart is! One seems longing to pour out one’s whole heart; one wants

everything to be gay, everything to be laughing.Andhow infectious that joy is!

Therewassuchasoftnessinherwords,suchakindlyfeelinginherhearttowards

meyesterday....Howsolicitousandfriendlyshewas;howtenderlyshetriedto

givemecourage!Oh, thecoquetryofhappiness!WhileI . . . I took itall for the

genuinething,Ithoughtthatshe....

But,myGod,howcouldIhavethought it?HowcouldIhavebeensoblind,

when everything had been taken by another already, when nothing was mine;

when,infact,herverytendernesstome,heranxiety,herlove...yes,loveforme,

wasnothingelsebutjoyatthethoughtofseeinganothermansosoon,desireto

includeme,too,inherhappiness?...Whenhedidnotcome,whenwewaitedin

vain, she frowned,shegrewtimidanddiscouraged.Hermovements,herwords,

werenolongersolight,soplayful,sogay;and,strangetosay,sheredoubledher

attentiveness to me, as though instinctively desiring to lavish on me what she

desired for herself so anxiously, if her wishes were not accomplished. My

Nastenkawas so downcast, so dismayed, that I think she realized at last that I

lovedher,andwassorry formypoor love.Sowhenweareunhappywe feel the

unhappinessofothersmore;feelingisnotdestroyedbutconcentrated....

THIRDNIGHT

I went to meet her with a full heart, and was all impatience. I had no

presentimentthatIshouldfeelasIdonow,thatitwouldnotallendhappily.She

was beaming with pleasure; she was expecting an answer. The answer was

himself.Hewastocome,torunathercall.ShearrivedawholehourbeforeIdid.

Atfirstshegiggledateverything,laughedateverywordIsaid.Ibegantalking,but

relapsedintosilence.

“DoyouknowwhyIamsoglad,”shesaid,“sogladtolookatyou?—whyI

likeyousomuchto-day?”

“Well?”Iasked,andmyheartbeganthrobbing.

“Ilikeyoubecauseyouhavenotfalleninlovewithme.Youknowthatsome

meninyourplacewouldhavebeenpesteringandworryingme,wouldhavebeen

sighingandmiserable,whileyouaresonice!”

ThenshewrungmyhandsohardthatIalmostcriedout.Shelaughed.

“Goodness,what a friend you are!” she began gravely aminute later. “God

sentyou tome.Whatwouldhavehappened tome if youhadnotbeenwithme

now?Howdisinterestedyouare!Howtrulyyoucareforme!WhenIammarried

wewillbegreatfriends,morethanbrotherandsister;IshallcarealmostasIdo

forhim....”

Ifelthorriblysadatthatmoment,yetsomethinglikelaughterwasstirringin

mysoul.

“You are verymuch upset,” I said; “you are frightened; you think hewon’t

come.”

“Ohdear!”sheanswered;“ifIwerelesshappy,IbelieveIshouldcryatyour

lack of faith, at your reproaches. However, you have mademe think and have

givenmealottothinkabout;butIshallthinklater,andnowIwillownthatyou

areright.Yes,Iamsomehownotmyself;Iamallsuspense,andfeeleverythingas

itweretoolightly.Buthush!that’senoughaboutfeelings....”

At that moment we heard footsteps, and in the darkness we saw a figure

comingtowardsus.Webothstarted;shealmostcriedout;Idroppedherhandand

madeamovementasthoughtowalkaway.Butweweremistaken,itwasnothe.

“Whatareyouafraidof?Whydidyouletgoofmyhand?”shesaid,givingitto

meagain. “Come,what is it?Wewillmeethimtogether; Iwanthimtoseehow

fondweareofeachother.”

“How fond we are of each other!” I cried. (“Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka,” I

thought, “howmuch you have toldme in that saying! Such fondness at certain

momentsmakestheheartcoldandthesoulheavy.Yourhandiscold,mineburns

likefire.Howblindyouare,Nastenka!...Oh,howunbearableahappypersonis

sometimes!ButIcouldnotbeangrywithyou!”)

Atlastmyheartwastoofull.

“Listen,Nastenka!”Icried.“Doyouknowhowithasbeenwithmeallday.”

“Why,how,how?Tellmequickly!Whyhaveyousaidnothingallthistime?”

“Tobeginwith,Nastenka,whenIhadcarriedoutallyourcommissions,given

theletter,gonetoseeyourgoodfriends,then.. .thenIwenthomeandwentto

bed.”

“Isthatall?”sheinterrupted,laughing.

“Yes,almostall,”Iansweredrestrainingmyself,forfoolishtearswerealready

startingintomyeyes.“Iwokeanhourbeforeourappointment,andyet,asitwere,

Ihadnotbeenasleep.Idon’tknowwhathappenedtome.Icameto tellyouall

about it, feeling as though time were standing still, feeling as though one

sensation, one feelingmust remainwithme from that time for ever; feeling as

thoughoneminutemustgoonforalleternity,andasthoughalllifehadcometoa

standstillforme.. . .WhenIwokeupitseemedasthoughsomemusicalmotive

longfamiliar,heardsomewhereinthepast,forgottenandvoluptuouslysweet,had

comebacktomenow.Itseemedtomethatithadbeenclamouringatmyheartall

mylife,andonlynow....”

“Ohmygoodness,mygoodness,”Nastenka interrupted, “whatdoes all that

mean?Idon’tunderstandaword.”

“Ah,Nastenka,Iwantedsomehowtoconveytoyouthatstrangeimpression.

...”Ibeganinaplaintivevoice,inwhichtherestilllayhidahope,thoughavery

faintone.

“Leaveoff.Hush!”shesaid,andinoneinstanttheslypusshadguessed.

Suddenlyshebecameextraordinarilytalkative,gay,mischievous;shetookmy

arm,laughed,wantedmetolaughtoo,andeveryconfusedwordIutteredevoked

fromherprolongedringinglaughter... .Ibegantofeelangry,shehadsuddenly

begunflirting.

“Doyouknow,”shebegan,“Ifeelalittlevexedthatyouarenotinlovewith

me? There’s no understanding human nature! But all the same, Mr.

Unapproachable,youcannotblamemeforbeingsosimple;Itellyoueverything,

everything,whateverfoolishthoughtcomesintomyhead.”

“Listen!That’seleven,Ibelieve,” Isaidas theslowchimeofabell rangout

fromadistanttower.Shesuddenlystopped,leftofflaughingandbegantocount.

“Yes,it’seleven,”shesaidatlastinatimid,uncertainvoice.

I regrettedatonce that Ihad frightenedher,makinghercount the strokes,

andIcursedmyselfformyspitefulimpulse;Ifeltsorryforher,anddidnotknow

howtoatoneforwhatIhaddone.

I began comforting her, seeking for reasons for his not coming, advancing

variousarguments,proofs.Noonecouldhavebeeneasiertodeceivethanshewas

at that moment; and, indeed, any one at such a moment listens gladly to any

consolation,whatever itmay be, and is overjoyed if a shadow of excuse can be

found.

“Andindeedit’sanabsurdthing,”Ibegan,warmingtomytaskandadmiring

theextraordinaryclearnessofmyargument, “why,hecouldnothavecome;you

havemuddled and confusedme,Nastenka, so that I too, have lost count of the

time. . . .Only think:hecanscarcelyhavereceived the letter; supposehe isnot

abletocome,supposeheisgoingtoanswertheletter,couldnotcomebeforeto-

morrow.Iwillgoforitassoonasit’slightto-morrowandletyouknowatonce.

Consider,therearethousandsofpossibilities;perhapshewasnotathomewhen

the lettercame,andmaynothaveread itevennow!Anythingmayhappen,you

know.”

“Yes, yes!” saidNastenka. “I did not think of that.Of course anythingmay

happen?”shewentoninatonethatofferednoopposition,thoughsomeotherfar-

away thought couldbeheard like a vexatiousdiscord in it. “I tell youwhat you

mustdo,”shesaid,“yougoasearlyaspossibleto-morrowmorning,andifyouget

anythingletmeknowatonce.YouknowwhereIlive,don’tyou?”

Andshebeganrepeatingheraddresstome.

Then she suddenlybecame so tender, so solicitouswithme.She seemed to

listenattentivelytowhatItoldher;butwhenIaskedhersomequestionshewas

silent,wasconfused,andturnedherheadaway.Ilookedintohereyes—yes,she

wascrying.

“Howcanyou?Howcanyou?Oh,whatababyyouare!whatchildishness!...

Come,come!”

Shetriedtosmile,tocalmherself,butherchinwasquiveringandherbosom

wasstillheaving.

“Iwasthinkingaboutyou,”shesaidafteraminute’ssilence.“Youaresokind

thatIshouldbeastoneifIdidnotfeelit.Doyouknowwhathasoccurredtome

now?Iwascomparingyoutwo.Whyisn’theyou?Whyisn’thelikeyou?Heisnot

asgoodasyou,thoughIlovehimmorethanyou.”

Imadenoanswer.Sheseemedtoexpectmetosaysomething.

“Ofcourse, itmaybethatIdon’tunderstandhimfullyyet.YouknowIwas

alwaysas itwereafraidofhim;hewasalways sograve,as itwere soproud.Of

courseIknowit’sonlythatheseemslikethat,Iknowthereismoretendernessin

hisheartthaninmine....IrememberhowhelookedatmewhenIwentintohim

— do you remember?—withmy bundle; but yet I respect him toomuch, and

doesn’tthatshowthatwearenotequals?”

“No, Nastenka, no,” I answered, “it shows that you love him more than

anythingintheworld,andfarmorethanyourself.”

“Yes, supposing that is so,” answeredNastenka naïvely. “But do you know

what strikes me now? Only I am not talking about him now, but speaking

generally;all this came intomymindsome timeago.Tellme,how is it thatwe

can’tallbelikebrotherstogether?Whyisitthateventhebestofmenalwaysseem

tohidesomething fromotherpeopleand tokeepsomethingback?Whynotsay

straightoutwhatisinone’sheart,whenoneknowsthatoneisnotspeakingidly?

As it is every one seems harsher than he really is, as though all were afraid of

doinginjusticetotheirfeelings,bybeingtooquicktoexpressthem.”

“Oh,Nastenka,whatyousayistrue;buttherearemanyreasonsforthat,”I

brokeinsuppressingmyownfeelingsatthatmomentmorethanever.

“No,no!”sheansweredwithdeepfeeling.“Hereyou,forinstance,arenotlike

otherpeople! Ireallydon’tknowhowto tellyouwhatI feel;but itseemstome

thatyou,forinstance.. .atthepresentmoment.. .itseemstomethatyouare

sacrificing something for me,” she added timidly, with a fleeting glance at me.

“Forgivemeforsayingso,Iamasimplegirlyouknow.Ihaveseenverylittleof

life,andI reallysometimesdon’tknowhowtosay things,”sheadded inavoice

that quivered with some hidden feeling, while she tried to smile; “but I only

wantedtotellyouthatIamgrateful,thatIfeelitalltoo....Oh,mayGodgiveyou

happinessforit!Whatyoutoldmeaboutyourdreamerisquiteuntruenow—that

is,Imean,it’snottrueofyou.Youarerecovering,youarequiteadifferentman

fromwhat you described. If you ever fall in love with some one, God give you

happinesswithher!Iwon’twishanythingforher,forshewillbehappywithyou.I

know,Iamawomanmyself,soyoumustbelievemewhenItellyouso.”

She ceased speaking, and pressedmy hand warmly. I too could not speak

withoutemotion.Someminutespassed.

“Yes,it’sclearhewon’tcometo-night,”shesaidatlastraisingherhead.“It’s

late.”

“Hewillcometo-morrow,”Isaidinthemostfirmandconvincingtone.

“Yes,”sheaddedwithnosignofherformerdepression.“Iseeformyselfnow

thathecouldnotcometill to-morrow.Well,good-bye, till to-morrow.If it rains

perhapsIshallnotcome.Butthedayafterto-morrow,Ishallcome.Ishallcome

forcertain,whateverhappens;besuretobehere,Iwanttoseeyou,Iwilltellyou

everything.”

And then when we parted she gave me her hand and said, looking at me

candidly:“Weshallalwaysbetogether,shan’twe?”

Oh,Nastenka,Nastenka!IfonlyyouknewhowlonelyIamnow!

As soon as it struck nine o’clock I could not stay indoors, but put on my

things,andwentoutinspiteoftheweather.Iwasthere,sittingonourseat.Iwent

to her street, but I felt ashamed, and turned back without looking at their

windows,whenIwastwostepsfromherdoor.IwenthomemoredepressedthanI

hadeverbeenbefore.Whatadamp,drearyday!IfithadbeenfineIshouldhave

walkedaboutallnight....

Butto-morrow,to-morrow!To-morrowshewilltellmeeverything.Theletter

hasnotcometo-day,however.Butthatwastobeexpected.Theyaretogetherby

now....

MyGod,howithasallended!Whatithasallendedin!Iarrivedatnine

o’clock. Shewas already there. I noticedher a goodway off; shewas

standingasshehadbeenthatfirsttime,withherelbowsontherailing,

andshedidnothearmecominguptoher.

“Nastenka!”Icalledtoher,suppressingmyagitationwithaneffort.

Sheturnedtomequickly.

“Well?”shesaid.“Well?Makehaste!”

Ilookedatherinperplexity.

“Well, where is the letter? Have you brought the letter?” she repeated

clutchingattherailing.

“No,thereisnoletter,”Isaidatlast.“Hasn’thebeentoyouyet?”Sheturned

fearfullypaleandlookedatmeforalongtimewithoutmoving.Ihadshatteredher

lasthope.

“Well,Godbewithhim,” she said at last in abreakingvoice; “Godbewith

himifheleavesmelikethat.”

She dropped her eyes, then tried to look atme and could not. For several

minutesshewasstrugglingwithheremotion.Allatoncesheturnedaway,leaning

herelbowsagainsttherailingandburstintotears.

“Ohdon’t,don’t!”Ibegan;butlookingatherIhadnotthehearttogoon,and

whatwasItosaytoher?

“Don’ttryandcomfortme,”shesaid;“don’ttalkabouthim;don’ttellmethat

hewillcome,thathehasnotcastmeoffsocruellyandsoinhumanlyashehas.

What for—what for?Cantherehavebeensomething inmy letter, thatunlucky

letter?”

Atthatpointsobsstifledhervoice;myheartwastornasIlookedather.

“Oh,howinhumanlycruelitis!”shebeganagain.“Andnotaline,notaline!

Hemightatleasthavewrittenthathedoesnotwantme,thatherejectsme—but

not a line for three days! How easy it is for him to wound, to insult a poor,

defenceless girl, whose only fault is that she loves him! Oh, what I’ve suffered

FOURTHNIGHT

duringthesethreedays!Oh,dear!WhenIthinkthatIwasthefirsttogotohim,

thatIhumbledmyselfbeforehim,cried,thatIbeggedofhimalittlelove!...and

afterthat!Listen,”shesaid,turningtome,andherblackeyesflashed,“itisn’tso!

It can’t be so; it isn’t natural.Either you aremistakenor I; perhapshehasnot

receivedtheletter?Perhapshestillknowsnothingaboutit?Howcouldanyone—

judgeforyourself,tellme,forgoodness’sakeexplainittome,Ican’tunderstandit

—howcouldanyonebehavewithsuchbarbarouscoarsenessashehasbehavedto

me? Not one word! Why, the lowest creature on earth is treated more

compassionately. Perhaps he has heard something, perhaps some one has told

him something aboutme,” she cried, turning tome inquiringly: “What do you

think?”

“Listen,Nastenka,Ishallgotohimto-morrowinyourname.”

“Yes?”

“Iwillquestionhimabouteverything;Iwilltellhimeverything.”

“Yes,yes?”

“You write a letter. Don’t say no, Nastenka, don’t say no! I willmake him

respectyouraction,heshallhearallaboutit,andif——”

“No,myfriend,no,”sheinterrupted.“Enough!Notanotherword,notanother

linefromme—enough!Idon’tknowhim;Idon’t lovehimanymore.Iwill . . .

forgethim.”

Shecouldnotgoon.

“Calm yourself, calm yourself! Sit here, Nastenka,” I said, making her sit

downontheseat.

“I am calm. Don’t trouble. It’s nothing! It’s only tears, they will soon dry.

Why,doyouimagineIshalldoawaywithmyself,thatIshallthrowmyselfintothe

river?”

Myheartwasfull:Itriedtospeak,butIcouldnot.

“Listen,”shesaidtakingmyhand.“Tellme:youwouldn’thavebehavedlike

this,wouldyou?Youwouldnothaveabandonedagirlwhohadcome toyouof

herself, youwouldnothave thrown intoher facea shameless tauntatherweak

foolishheart?Youwouldhavetakencareofher?Youwouldhaverealizedthatshe

was alone, that she did not know how to look after herself, that she could not

guardherself fromlovingyou, that itwasnother fault,nother fault—thatshe

haddonenothing....Ohdear,ohdear!”

“Nastenka!” I cried at last, unable to control my emotion. “Nastenka, you

tortureme!Youwoundmyheart,youarekillingme,Nastenka!Icannotbesilent!

Imustspeakatlast,giveutterancetowhatissurginginmyheart!”

AsIsaidthisIgotupfromtheseat.Shetookmyhandandlookedatmein

surprise.

“Whatisthematterwithyou?”shesaidatlast.

“Listen,”Isaidresolutely.“Listentome,Nastenka!WhatIamgoingtosayto

younowisallnonsense,allimpossible,allstupid!Iknowthatthiscanneverbe,

but I cannot be silent. For the sake of what you are suffering now, I beg you

beforehandtoforgiveme!”

“Whatisit?Whatisit?”shesaiddryinghertearsandlookingatmeintently,

whileastrangecuriositygleamedinherastonishedeyes.“Whatisthematter?”

“It’simpossible,butIloveyou,Nastenka!Thereitis!Noweverythingistold,”

Isaidwithawaveofmyhand.“Nowyouwillseewhetheryoucangoontalkingto

measyoudidjustnow,whetheryoucanlistentowhatIamgoingtosaytoyou.”

...

“Well,what then?”Nastenka interruptedme.“Whatof it? Iknewyou loved

melongago,onlyIalwaysthoughtthatyousimply likedmeverymuch. . . .Oh

dear,ohdear!”

“Atfirstitwassimplyliking,Nastenka,butnow,now!Iamjustinthesame

positionasyouwerewhenyouwenttohimwithyourbundle.Inaworseposition

thanyou,Nastenka,becausehecaredfornooneelseasyoudo.”

“Whatareyousayingtome!Idon’tunderstandyouintheleast.Buttellme,

what’s this for; Idon’tmeanwhat for,butwhyareyou . . . sosuddenly. . . .Oh

dear,Iamtalkingnonsense!Butyou....”

AndNastenka broke off in confusion.Her cheeks flamed; she dropped her

eyes.

“What’stobedone,Nastenka,whatamItodo?Iamtoblame.Ihaveabused

your....Butno,no,Iamnottoblame,Nastenka;Ifeelthat,Iknowthat,because

myheart tellsme Iamright, for I cannothurtyou inanyway, I cannotwound

you!Iwasyourfriend,butIamstillyourfriend,Ihavebetrayednotrust.Heremy

tears are falling, Nastenka. Let them flow, let them flow — they don’t hurt

anybody.Theywilldry,Nastenka.”

“Sit down, sit down,” she said, making me sit down on the seat. “Oh, my

God!”

“No,Nastenka,Iwon’tsitdown;Icannotstayhereanylonger,youcannotsee

meagain;Iwilltellyoueverythingandgoaway.Ionlywanttosaythatyouwould

neverhavefoundoutthatIlovedyou.Ishouldhavekeptmysecret.Iwouldnot

haveworriedyouatsuchamomentwithmyegoism.No!ButIcouldnotresistit

now;youspokeofityourself,itisyourfault,yourfaultandnotmine.Youcannot

drivemeawayfromyou.”...

“No,no,Idon’tdriveyouaway,no!”saidNastenka,concealingherconfusion

asbestshecould,poorchild.

“Youdon’tdrivemeaway?No!ButImeanttorunfromyoumyself.Iwillgo

away, but first I will tell you all, forwhen youwere crying here I could not sit

unmoved,whenyouwept,whenyouwereintortureatbeing—atbeing—Iwill

speakofit,Nastenka—atbeingforsaken,atyourlovebeingrepulsed,Ifeltthatin

myhearttherewassomuchloveforyou,Nastenka,somuchlove!Anditseemed

sobitterthatIcouldnothelpyouwithmylove,thatmyheartwasbreakingandI

...Icouldnotbesilent,Ihadtospeak,Nastenka,Ihadtospeak!”

“Yes,yes! tellme, talk tome,” saidNastenkawithan indescribablegesture.

“PerhapsyouthinkitstrangethatItalktoyoulikethis,but...speak!Iwilltell

youafterwards!Iwilltellyoueverything.”

“Youaresorryforme,Nastenka,youaresimplysorryforme,mydearlittle

friend!What’sdonecan’tbemended.Whatissaidcannotbetakenback.Isn’tthat

so?Well, now you know.That’s the starting-point.Verywell.Now it’s all right,

onlylisten.WhenyouweresittingcryingIthoughttomyself(oh,letmetellyou

whatIwasthinking!),Ithought,that(ofcourseitcannotbe,Nastenka),Ithought

thatyou...Ithoughtthatyousomehow...quiteapartfromme,hadceasedto

lovehim.Then—Ithoughtthatyesterdayandthedaybeforeyesterday,Nastenka

—thenIwould—Icertainlywould—havesucceededinmakingyouloveme;you

know, you said yourself,Nastenka, that you almost lovedme.Well, what next?

Well,that’snearlyallIwantedtotellyou;allthatislefttosayishowitwouldbeif

you lovedme,only that,nothingmore!Listen,myfriend—foranywayyouare

myfriend—Iam,ofcourse,apoor,humbleman,ofnogreatconsequence;but

that’snotthepoint(Idon’tseemtobeabletosaywhatImean,Nastenka,Iamso

confused),onlyIwouldloveyou,Iwouldloveyouso,thatevenifyoustill loved

him,evenifyouwentonlovingthemanIdon’tknow,youwouldneverfeelthat

mylovewasaburdentoyou.Youwouldonlyfeeleveryminutethatatyourside

wasbeatingagrateful,gratefulheart,awarmheart ready foryoursake. . . .Oh

Nastenka,Nastenka!Whathaveyoudonetome?”

“Don’tcry;Idon’twantyoutocry,”saidNastenkagettingupquicklyfromthe

seat.“Comealong,getup,comewithme,don’tcry,don’tcry,”shesaid,dryingher

tearswithherhandkerchief;“letusgonow;maybeIwilltellyousomething....If

hehasforsakenmenow,ifhehasforgottenme,thoughIstilllovehim(Idonot

wanttodeceiveyou)...butlisten,answerme.IfIweretoloveyou,forinstance,

thatis, ifIonly. . . .Ohmyfriend,myfriend!Tothink,tothinkhowIwounded

you,whenI laughedatyour love,whenIpraisedyoufornotfallingin lovewith

me.Ohdear!HowwasitIdidnotforeseethis,howwasitIdidnotforeseethis,

howcouldIhavebeensostupid?But....Well,Ihavemadeupmymind,Iwilltell

you.”

“Lookhere,Nastenka,doyouknowwhat?I’llgoaway,that’swhatI’lldo.Iam

simplytormentingyou.Hereyouareremorsefulforhavinglaughedatme,andI

won’t have you . . . in addition to your sorrow. . . . Of course it is my fault,

Nastenka,butgood-bye!”

“Stay,listentome:canyouwait?”

“Whatfor?How?”

“Ilovehim;butIshallgetoverit,Imustgetoverit,Icannotfailtogetoverit;

Iamgettingoverit,Ifeelthat....Whoknows?Perhapsitwillallendto-day,forI

hatehim,forhehasbeenlaughingatme,whileyouhavebeenweepingherewith

me, foryouhavenotrepulsedmeashehas, foryou lovemewhilehehasnever

lovedme,forinfact,Iloveyoumyself....Yes,Iloveyou!Iloveyouasyoulove

me;Ihavetoldyousobefore,youheardityourself—Iloveyoubecauseyouare

betterthanheis,becauseyouarenoblerthanheis,because,becausehe——”

Thepoorgirl’semotionwassoviolentthatshecouldnotsaymore;shelaid

herheaduponmyshoulder,thenuponmybosom,andweptbitterly.Icomforted

her, Ipersuadedher,butshecouldnotstopcrying; shekeptpressingmyhand,

andsayingbetweenhersobs:“Wait,wait,itwillbeoverinaminute!Iwanttotell

you...youmustn’tthinkthatthesetears—it’snothing,it’sweakness,waittillit’s

over.” . . . At last she left off crying, dried her eyes andwewalked on again. I

wantedtospeak,butshestillbeggedmetowait.Weweresilent. . . .At lastshe

pluckedupcourageandbegantospeak.

“It’s like this,” shebegan inaweakandquiveringvoice, inwhich,however,

therewasanotethatpiercedmyheartwithasweetpang;“don’tthinkthatIamso

lightand inconstant,don’t think that I can forgetandchangesoquickly. Ihave

lovedhimforawholeyear,andIswearbyGodthatIhavenever,never,evenin

thought,beenunfaithfultohim....Hehasdespisedme,hehasbeenlaughingat

me—Godforgivehim!Buthehasinsultedmeandwoundedmyheart.I...Ido

not love him, for I can only love what ismagnanimous, what understandsme,

what is generous; for I am like thatmyself and he is notworthy ofme—well,

that’senoughofhim.Hehasdonebetterthanifhehaddeceivedmyexpectations

later,andshownmelaterwhathewas....Well,it’sover!Butwhoknows,mydear

friend,”shewentonpressingmyhand,“whoknows,perhapsmywholelovewasa

mistakenfeeling,adelusion—perhapsitbeganinmischief,innonsense,because

Iwaskeptsostrictlybygrandmother?PerhapsIoughttoloveanotherman,not

him,adifferentman,whowouldhavepityonmeand...and....Butdon’tletus

say anymore about that,”Nastenka broke off, breathlesswith emotion, “I only

wantedtotellyou...Iwantedtotellyouthatif,althoughIlovehim(no,didlove

him),if,inspiteofthisyoustillsay....Ifyoufeelthatyourloveissogreatthatit

mayatlastdrivefrommyheartmyoldfeeling—ifyouwillhavepityonme—if

youdonotwanttoleavemealonetomyfate,withouthope,withoutconsolation—

ifyouarereadytolovemealwaysasyoudonow—Isweartoyouthatgratitude

...thatmylovewillbeatlastworthyofyourlove....Willyoutakemyhand?”

“Nastenka!”Icriedbreathlesswithsobs.“Nastenka,ohNastenka!”

“Enough, enough! Well, now it’s quite enough,” she said, hardly able to

controlherself.“Well,nowallhasbeensaid,hasn’tit!Hasn’tit?Youarehappy—

Iamhappytoo.Notanotherwordaboutit,wait;spareme...talkofsomething

else,forGod’ssake.”

“Yes,Nastenka,yes!Enoughaboutthat,nowIamhappy.I——Yes,Nastenka,

yes,letustalkofotherthings,letusmakehasteandtalk.Yes!Iamready.”

Andwedidnotknowwhattosay:welaughed,wewept,wesaidthousandsof

things meaningless and incoherent; at one moment we walked along the

pavement,thensuddenlyturnedbackandcrossedtheroad;thenwestoppedand

wentbackagaintotheembankment;wewerelikechildren.

“I am livingalonenow,Nastenka,” Ibegan, “but to-morrow!Of course you

know, Nastenka, I am poor, I have only got twelve hundred roubles, but that

doesn’tmatter.”

“Of course not, and granny has her pension, so shewill be no burden.We

musttakegranny.”

“Ofcoursewemusttakegranny.Butthere’sMatrona.”

“Yes,andwe’vegotFyoklatoo!”

“Matrona is a goodwoman, but she has one fault: she has no imagination,

Nastenka,absolutelynone;butthatdoesn’tmatter.”

“That’s all right — they can live together; only you must move to us to-

morrow.”

“Toyou?Howso?Allright,Iamready.”

“Yes,hirearoomfromus.Wehaveatopfloor,it’sempty.Wehadanoldlady

lodging there, but she has gone away; and I know grannywould like to have a

youngman.Isaidtoher,‘Whyayoungman?’Andshesaid,‘Oh,becauseIamold;

only don’t you fancy, Nastenka, that I want him as a husband for you.’ So I

guesseditwaswiththatidea.”

“Oh,Nastenka!”

Andwebothlaughed.

“Come,that’senough,that’senough.Butwheredoyoulive?I’veforgotten.”

“Overthatway,nearXbridge,Barannikov’sBuildings.”

“It’sthatbighouse?”

“Yes,thatbighouse.”

“Oh,Iknow,anicehouse;onlyyouknowyouhadbettergiveitupandcome

tousassoonaspossible.”

“To-morrow,Nastenka, to-morrow; Iowea little formy rent therebut that

doesn’tmatter.Ishallsoongetmysalary.”

“AnddoyouknowIwillperhapsgivelessons;Iwill learnsomethingmyself

andthengivelessons.”

“Capital!AndIshallsoongetabonus.”

“Sobyto-morrowyouwillbemylodger.”

“Andwewill go toTheBarberof Seville, for they are soon going to give it

again.”

“Yes, we’ll go,” said Nastenka, “but better see something else and notThe

BarberofSeville.”

“Verywell,somethingelse.Ofcoursethatwillbebetter,Ididnotthink——”

As we talked like this we walked along in a sort of delirium, a sort of

intoxication, as though we did not know what was happening to us. At one

momentwestoppedandtalkedforalongtimeatthesameplace;thenwewenton

again,andgoodnessknowswherewewent;andagaintearsandagainlaughter.All

ofasuddenNastenkawouldwanttogohome,andIwouldnotdaretodetainher

butwouldwant to seeher to thehouse;we setoff, and inaquarterof anhour

foundourselvesat theembankmentbyourseat.Thenshewouldsigh,andtears

wouldcomeintohereyesagain;Iwouldturnchillwithdismay....Butshewould

pressmyhandandforcemetowalk,totalk,tochatterasbefore.

“It’s timeIwashomeat last; I think itmustbevery late,”Nastenkasaidat

last.“Wemustgiveoverbeingchildish.”

“Yes,Nastenka,onlyIshan’tsleepto-night;Iamnotgoinghome.”

“Idon’tthinkIshallsleepeither;onlyseemehome.”

“Ishouldthinkso!”

“Onlythistimewereallymustgettothehouse.”

“Wemust,wemust.”

“Honourbright?Foryouknowonemustgohomesometime!”

“Honourbright,”Iansweredlaughing.

“Well,comealong!”

“Comealong!Lookatthesky,Nastenka.Look!To-morrowitwillbealovely

day;what a blue sky,what amoon! Look; that yellow cloud is covering it now,

look,look!No,ithaspassedby.Look,look!”

ButNastenkadidnotlookatthecloud;shestoodmuteasthoughturnedto

stone;aminute latershehuddled timidlycloseup tome.Herhandtrembled in

myhand;Ilookedather.Shepressedstillmorecloselytome.

Atthatmomentayoungmanpassedbyus.Hesuddenlystopped,lookedatus

intently,andthenagaintookafewstepson.Myheartbeganthrobbing.

“Whoisit,Nastenka?”Isaidinanundertone.

“It’she,”sheansweredinawhisper,huddlinguptome,stillmoreclosely,still

moretremulously....Icouldhardlystandonmyfeet.

“Nastenka,Nastenka! It’s you!” I heard a voice behind us and at the same

momenttheyoungmantookseveralstepstowardsus.

MyGod,howshecriedout!Howshestarted!Howshetoreherselfoutofmy

armsand rushed tomeethim! I stoodand lookedat them,utterly crushed.But

shehadhardlygivenhimherhand,hadhardlyflungherselfintohisarms,when

sheturnedtomeagain,wasbesidemeagaininaflash,andbeforeIknewwhereI

wasshethrewbotharmsroundmyneckandgavemeawarm,tenderkiss.Then,

without sayingaword tome, she rushedback tohimagain, tookhishand,and

drewhimafterher.

Istoodalongtimelookingafterthem.Atlastthetwovanishedfrommysight.

MORNING

Mynightendedwiththemorning.Itwasawetday.Therainwasfallingand

beatingdisconsolatelyuponmywindowpane; itwasdark in the roomandgrey

outside.MyheadachedandIwasgiddy;feverwasstealingovermylimbs.

“There’saletterforyou,sir;thepostmanbroughtit,”Matronasaidstooping

overme.

“Aletter?Fromwhom?”Icriedjumpingupfrommychair.

“Idon’tknow,sir,betterlook—maybeitiswrittentherewhomitisfrom.”

Ibroketheseal.Itwasfromher!

“Oh,forgiveme,forgiveme!Ibegyouonmykneestoforgiveme!Ideceived

you andmyself. It was a dream, amirage. . . .My heart aches for you to-day;

forgiveme,forgiveme!

“Don’tblameme,forIhavenotchangedtoyouintheleast.ItoldyouthatI

wouldloveyou,Iloveyounow,Imorethanloveyou.Oh,myGod!IfonlyIcould

loveyoubothatonce!Oh,ifonlyyouwerehe!”

[“Oh, if only hewere you,” echoed inmymind. I remembered yourwords,

Nastenka!]

“GodknowswhatIwoulddoforyounow!Iknowthatyouaresadanddreary.

Ihavewoundedyou,butyouknowwhenonelovesawrongissoonforgotten.And

youloveme.

“Thankyou,yes,thankyouforthatlove!Foritwillliveinmymemorylikea

sweet dreamwhich lingers long after awakening; for I shall remember for ever

that instantwhenyouopenedyourhearttomelikeabrotherandsogenerously

acceptedthegiftofmyshatteredhearttocareforit,nurseit,andhealit....Ifyou

forgiveme,thememoryofyouwillbeexaltedbyafeelingofeverlastinggratitude

whichwillneverbeeffacedfrommysoul....Iwilltreasurethatmemory:Iwillbe

true to it, I will not betray it, I will not betray my heart: it is too constant. It

returnedsoquicklyyesterdaytohimtowhomithasalwaysbelonged.

“Weshallmeet,youwillcometous,youwillnotleaveus,youwillbeforever

afriend,abrothertome.Andwhenyouseemeyouwillgivemeyourhand . . .

yes?Youwill give it tome, youhave forgivenme,haven’t you?You lovemeas

before?

“Oh, love me, do not forsake me, because I love you so at this moment,

becauseIamworthyofyourlove,becauseIwilldeserveit...mydear!Nextweek

Iamtobemarriedtohim.Hehascomebackinlove,hehasneverforgottenme.

Youwillnotbeangryatmywritingabouthim.But Iwant tocomeandseeyou

withhim;youwilllikehim,won’tyou?

Ireadthatletteroverandoveragainforalongtime;tearsgushedtomyeyes.

AtlastitfellfrommyhandsandIhidmyface.

“Dearie!Isay,dearie——”Matronabegan.

“Whatisit,Matrona?”

“Forgiveme,rememberandloveyour

“NASTENKA.”

“Ihavetakenallthecobwebsofftheceiling;youcanhaveaweddingorgivea

party.”

IlookedatMatrona.Shewasstillahearty,youngisholdwoman,butIdon’t

knowwhyallatonceIsuddenlypicturedherwithlustrelesseyes,awrinkledface,

bent,decrepit....Idon’tknowwhyIsuddenlypicturedmyroomgrownoldlike

Matrona.Thewallsandthe floors lookeddiscoloured,everythingseemeddingy;

thespiders’webswerethickerthanever.Idon’tknowwhy,butwhenIlookedout

ofthewindowitseemedtomethatthehouseoppositehadgrownoldanddingy

too, that the stucco on the columns was peeling off and crumbling, that the

corniceswerecrackedandblackened,and that thewalls,ofavividdeepyellow,

werepatchy.

Either the sunbeams suddenly peeping out from the clouds for a moment

were hidden again behind a veil of rain, and everythinghad growndingy again

beforemyeyes;orperhapsthewholevistaofmyfutureflashedbeforemesosad

andforbidding,andIsawmyselfjustasIwasnow,fifteenyearshence,older,in

the same room, just as solitary, with the sameMatrona grown no cleverer for

thosefifteenyears.

ButtoimaginethatIshouldbearyouagrudge,Nastenka!ThatIshouldcasta

darkcloudoveryourserene,untroubledhappiness;thatbymybitterreproachesI

should cause distress to your heart, should poison it with secret remorse and

shouldforceittothrobwithanguishatthemomentofbliss;thatIshouldcrusha

singleoneof those tenderblossomswhichyouhave twined inyourdark tresses

whenyougowithhimtothealtar....Ohnever,never!Mayyourskybeclear,may

your sweet smile be bright and untroubled, and may you be blessed for that

moment of blissful happiness which you gave to another, lonely and grateful

heart!

MyGod, awholemomentofhappiness! Is that too little for thewholeof a

man’slife?