I have never yet written to you a single time, I think, and here I am
writing now.... I have chosen a strange time, have I not? This is what
has prompted me to it: _Mon cousin Théodore_ has been to see me to-day,
and--how shall I say it?... and has informed me, in the strictest
privacy (he never imparts anything in any other way), that he is in love
with the daughter of some gentleman here, and this time is bent on
marrying without fail, and that he has already taken the first step--he
has explained his intentions! As a matter of course, I hastened to
congratulate him on an event so pleasant for him; he has long stood in
need of an explanation ... but inwardly I was, I confess, somewhat
amazed. Although I knew that everything was over between you, yet it
seemed to me.... In a word, I was amazed. I was preparing to go out
visiting to-day, but I have remained at home, and intend to have a
little chat with you. If you do not care to listen to me, throw this
letter into the fire immediately. I declare to you that I wish to be
frank, although I feel that you have a perfect right to take me for a
decidedly-intrusive man. Observe, however, that I would not have taken
pen in hand if I had not known that your sister is not with you:
Théodore told me that she will be away all summer visiting your aunt,
Madame B***. May God grant her all good things!
So, then, this is the way it has all turned out.... But I shall not
offer you my friendship, and so forth; in general, I avoid solemn
speeches, and “intimate” effusions. In beginning to write this letter, I
have simply obeyed some momentary impulse: if any other feeling is
hiding within me, let it remain hidden from sight for the present.
Neither shall I attempt to console you. In consoling others, people
generally desire to rid themselves, as speedily as possible, of the
unpleasant feeling of involuntary, self-conceited compassion.... I
understand sincere, warm sympathy ... but such sympathy is not to be got
from every one.... Please be angry with me.... If you are angry, you
will probably read my epistle to the end.
But what right have I to write to you, to talk about my friendship, my
feelings, about consolation? None whatever--positively, none whatever;
and I am bound to admit that, and I rely solely upon your kindness.
Do you know what the beginning of my letter resembles? This: a certain
Mr. N. N. entered the drawing-room of a lady who was not in the least
expecting him,--who, perhaps, was expecting another man.... He divined
that he had come at the wrong time, but there was nothing to be done....
He sat down, and began to talk.... God knows what about: poetry, the
beauties of nature, the advantages of a good education ... in a word, he
talked the most frightful nonsense.... But in the meanwhile the first
five minutes had elapsed; he sat on; the lady resigned herself to her
fate, and lo! Mr. N. N. recovered himself, sighed, and began to
converse--to the best of his ability.
But, despite all this idle chatter, I feel somewhat awkward,
nevertheless. I seem to see before me your perplexed, even somewhat
angry face: I feel conscious that it is almost impossible for you not to
assume that I have some secret intentions or other, and therefore,
having perpetrated a piece of folly, like a Roman I wrap myself in my
toga and await in silence your ultimate condemnation....
But, in particular: Will you permit me to continue to write to you?