_From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch_
VILLAGE OF ... NO, June 30, 1840.
How grateful I am to you for your letter, Alexyéi Petróvitch! How much
good it has done me! I see that you really are a good and trustworthy
man, and therefore I shall not dissimulate before you. I trust you. I
know that you will not make a bad use of my frankness and that you will
give me friendly advice. That is the point.
You noticed at the end of my letter a phrase which did not entirely
please you. This is what it referred to. There is a neighbour here ...
he was not here in your day, and you have not seen him. He ... I might
marry him, if I wished; he is a man who is still young, cultured,
wealthy. There are no obstacles on the side of my relatives; on the
contrary, they--I know this for certain--desire this marriage; he is a
fine man, and I think he loves me.... But he is so languid and petty,
all his desires are so narrow, that I cannot help recognising my
superiority over him; he feels this, and seems to take delight in it,
and precisely that repels me from him; I cannot respect him, although he
has an excellent heart. What am I to do, tell me? Think for me and
write me your opinion sincerely.
But how grateful I am to you for your letter!... Do you know, I have
sometimes been visited by such bitter thoughts.... Do you know, I have
gone so far as almost to feel ashamed of every--I will not say
exalted--but of every trustful feeling. I have shut my book in vexation
when it spoke of hope and happiness; I have turned away from the
cloudless sky, from the fresh verdure of the trees, from everything that
smiled and was glad. What a painful condition this was! I say “was” ...
as though it had passed!
I do not know whether it has passed; I know that if it does not return I
shall be indebted to you for it. You see, Alexyéi Petróvitch, how much
good you have done, perhaps without yourself suspecting it! Now, in the
very heart of summer, the days are magnificent, the sky is blue,
bright.... It cannot be more beautiful in Italy. But you are sitting in
a stifling and dusty town, you are walking on the scorching pavements.
What possesses you to do it? You ought, at least, to remove to a villa
somewhere. They say that beyond Peterhoff, on the seashore, there are
charming places.
I should like to write more to you, but it is impossible: such a sweet
perfume has been wafted up to me from the garden that I cannot remain
in the house. I shall put on my hat and go for a stroll.... Farewell
until another time, kind Alexyéi Petróvitch.
Yours truly,
M. B.
P.S. I have forgotten to tell you ... just imagine: that wit, of whom I
recently wrote you,--just imagine: he has made me a declaration of love,
and in the most fiery terms! At first I thought that he was making fun
of me; but he wound up with a formal proposal. What do you think of
that, after all his calumnies? But he is positively too old. Last night,
to pique him, I sat down at the piano in front of the open window in the
moonlight, and played Beethoven. It was so delightful to me to feel its
cold light on my face, so consolatory to send forth upon the perfumed
night air the noble sounds of music, athwart which, at times, the song
of the nightingale was audible! It is a long time since I have been so
happy, but do you write to me concerning the thing I asked you about in
the beginning of my letter: it is very important.