A few years ago I was in Dresden. I was staying at an hotel. From early
morning till late evening I strolled about the town, and did not think
it necessary to make acquaintance with my neighbours; at last it
reached my ears in some chance way that there was a Russian in the
hotel--lying ill. I went to see him, and found a man in galloping
consumption. I had begun to be tired of Dresden; I stayed with my new
acquaintance. It's dull work sitting with a sick man, but even dulness
is sometimes agreeable; moreover, my patient was not low-spirited and
was very ready to talk. We tried to kill time in all sorts of ways; We
played 'Fools,' the two of us together, and made fun of the doctor. My
compatriot used to tell this very bald-headed German all sorts of
fictions about himself, which the doctor had always 'long ago
anticipated.' He used to mimic his astonishment at any new, exceptional
symptom, to throw his medicines out of window, and so on. I observed
more than once, however, to my friend that it would be as well to send
for a good doctor before it was too late, that his complaint was not to
be trifled with, and so on. But Alexey (my new friend's name was Alexey
Petrovitch S----) always turned off my advice with jests at the expense
of doctors in general, and his own in particular; and at last one rainy
autumn evening he answered my urgent entreaties with such a mournful
look, he shook his head so sorrowfully and smiled so strangely, that I
felt somewhat disconcerted. The same night Alexey was worse, and the
next day he died. Just before his death his usual cheerfulness deserted
him; he tossed about uneasily in his bed, sighed, looked round him in
anguish ... clutched at my hand, and whispered with an effort, 'But
it's hard to die, you know ... dropped his head on the pillow, and shed
tears. I did not know what to say to him, and sat in silence by his
bed. But Alexey soon got the better of these last, late regrets.... 'I
say,' he said to me, 'our doctor'll come to-day and find me dead.... I
can fancy his face.'... And the dying man tried to mimic him. He asked
me to send all his things to Russia to his relations, with the
exception of a small packet which he gave me as a souvenir.
This packet contained letters--a girl's letters to Alexey, and copies
of his letters to her. There were fifteen of them. Alexey Petrovitch
S---- had known Marya Alexandrovna B---- long before, in their
childhood, I fancy. Alexey Petrovitch had a cousin, Marya Alexandrovna
had a sister. In former years they had all lived together; then they
had been separated, and had not seen each other for a long while. Later
on, they had chanced one summer to be all together again in the
country, and they had fallen in love--Alexey's cousin with Marya
Alexandrovna, and Alexey with her sister. The summer had passed by, the
autumn came; they parted. Alexey, like a sensible person, soon came to
the conclusion that he was not in love at all, and had effected a very
satisfactory parting from his charmer. His cousin had continued writing
to Marya Alexandrovna for nearly two years longer ... but he too
perceived at last that he was deceiving her and himself in an
unconscionable way, and he too dropped the correspondence.
I could tell you something about Marya Alexandrovna, gentle reader, but
you will find out what she was from her letters. Alexey wrote his first
letter to her soon after she had finally broken with his cousin. He was
at that time in Petersburg; he went suddenly abroad, fell ill, and died
at Dresden. I resolved to print his correspondence with Marya
Alexandrovna, and trust the reader will look at it with indulgence, as
these letters are not love-letters--Heaven forbid! Love-letters are as
a rule only read by two persons (they read them over a thousand times
to make up), and to a third person they are unendurable, if not
ridiculous.
I