ST. PETERSBURG, _July_ 8, 1840.
DEAR MARYA ALEXANDROVNA,--Here is my opinion in a couple of words: both
the old bachelor and the young suitor--overboard with them both! There
is no need even to consider it. Neither of them is worthy of
you--that's as clear as that twice two makes four. The young neighbour
is very likely a good-natured person, but that's enough about him! I am
convinced that there is nothing in common between him and you, and you
can fancy how amusing it would be for you to live together! Besides,
why be in a hurry? Is it a possible thing that a woman like you--I
don't want to pay compliments, and that's why I don't expatiate
further--that such a woman should meet no one who would be capable of
appreciating her? No, Marya Alexandrovna, listen to me, if you really
believe that I am your friend, and that my advice is of use. But
confess, it was agreeable to see the old scoffer at your feet.... If I
had been in your place, I'd have kept him singing Beethoven's Adelaïda
and gazing at the moon the whole night long.
Enough of them, though,--your adorers! It's not of them I want to talk
to you to-day. I am in a strange, half-irritated, half-emotional state
of mind to-day, in consequence of a letter I got yesterday. I am
enclosing a copy of it to you. This letter was written by one of my
friends of long ago, a colleague in the service, a good-natured but
rather limited person. He went abroad two years ago, and till now has
not written to me once. Here is his letter.--_N.B._ He is very
good-looking.
'CHER ALEXIS,--I am in Naples, sitting at the window in my room, in
Chiaja. The weather is superb. I have been staring a long while at the
sea, then I was seized with impatience, and suddenly the brilliant idea
entered my head of writing a letter to you. I always felt drawn to you,
my dear boy--on my honour I did. And so now I feel an inclination to
pour out my soul into your bosom ... that's how one expresses it, I
believe, in your exalted language. And why I've been overcome with
impatience is this. I'm expecting a friend--a woman; we're going
together to Baiae to eat oysters and oranges, and see the tanned
shepherds in red caps dance the tarantella, to bask in the sun, like
lizards--in short, to enjoy life to the utmost. My dear boy, I am more
happy than I can possibly tell you.
If only I had your style--oh! what a picture I would draw for you! But
unfortunately, as you are aware, I'm an illiterate person. The woman I
am expecting, and who has kept me now more than a hour continually
starting and looking at the door, loves me--but how I love her I fancy
even your fluent pen could not describe.
'I must tell you that it is three months since I got to know her, and
from the very first day of our acquaintance my love mounts continually
_crescendo_, like a chromatic scale, higher and higher, and at the
present moment I am simply in the seventh heaven. I jest, but in
reality my devotion to this woman is something extraordinary,
supernatural. Fancy, I scarcely talk to her, I can do nothing but stare
at her, and laugh like a fool. I sit at her feet, I feel that I'm
awfully silly and happy, simply inexcusably happy. It sometimes happens
that she lays her hand on my head.... Well, I tell you, simply ... But
there, you can't understand it; you 're a philosopher and always were a
philosopher. Her name is Nina, Ninetta, as you like; she's the daughter
of a rich merchant here. Fine as any of your Raphaels; fiery as
gunpowder, gay, so clever that it's amazing how she can care for a fool
like me; she sings like a bird, and her eyes ...
'Please excuse this unintentional break.... I fancied the door
creaked.... No, she's not coming yet, the heartless wretch! You will
ask me how all this is going to end, and what I intend to do with
myself, and whether I shall stay here long? I know nothing about it, my
boy, and I don't want to. What will be, will be.... Why, if one were to
be for ever stopping and considering ... 'She! ... she's running up
the staircase, singing.... She is here. Well, my boy, good-bye.... I've
no time for you now, I'm so sorry. She has bespattered the whole
letter; she slapped a wet nosegay down on the paper. For the first
moment, she thought I was writing to a woman; when she knew that it was
to a friend, she told me to send her greetings, and ask you if you have
any flowers, and whether they are sweet? Well, good-bye. ... If you
could hear her laughing. Silver can't ring like it; and the good-nature
in every note of it--you want to kiss her little feet for it. We are
going, going. Don't mind the untidy smudges, and envy yours, M.'
The letter was in fact bespattered all over, and smelt of
orange-blossom ... two white petals had stuck to the paper. This letter
has agitated me.... I remember my stay in Naples.... The weather was
magnificent then too--May was just beginning; I had just reached
twenty-two; but I knew no Ninetta. I sauntered about alone, consumed
with a thirst for bliss, at once torturing and sweet, so sweet that it
was, as it were, like bliss itself. ... Ah, what is it to be young! ...
I remember I went out once for a row in the bay. There were two of us;
the boatman and I ... what did you imagine? What a night it was, and
what a sky, what stars, how they quivered and broke on the waves! with
what delicate flame the water flashed and glimmered under the oars,
what delicious fragrance filled the whole sea--cannot describe this,
'eloquent' though my style may be. In the harbour was a French ship of
the line. It was all red with lights; long streaks of red, the
reflection of the lighted windows, stretched over the dark sea. The
captain of the ship was giving a ball. The gay music floated across to
me in snatches at long intervals. I recall in particular the trill of a
little flute in the midst of the deep blare of the trumpets; it seemed
to flit, like a butterfly, about my boat. I bade the man row to the
ship; twice he took me round it. ... I caught glimpses at the windows
of women's figures, borne gaily round in the whirl-wind of the
waltz.... I told the boatman to row away, far away, straight into the
darkness.... I remember a long while the music persistently pursued
me.... At last the sounds died away. I stood up in the boat, and in the
dumb agony of desire stretched out my arms to the sea.... Oh! how my
heart ached at that moment! How bitter was my loneliness to me! With
what rapture would I have abandoned myself utterly then, utterly ...
utterly, if there had been any one to abandon myself to! With what a
bitter emotion in my soul I flung myself down in the bottom of the boat
and, like Repetilov, asked to be taken anywhere, anywhere away! But my
friend here has experienced nothing like that. And why should he? He
has managed things far more wisely than I. He is living ... while I ...
He may well call me a philosopher.... Strange! they call you a
philosopher too.... What has brought this calamity on both of us?
I am not living.... But who is to blame for that? Why am I staying on
here, in Petersburg? what am I doing here? why am I wearing away day
after day? why don't I go into the country? What is amiss with our
steppes? has not one free breathing space in them? is one cramped in
them? A strange craze to pursue dreams, when happiness is perhaps
within reach! Resolved! I am going, going to-morrow, if I can. I am
going home--that is, to you,--it's just the same; we're only twenty
versts from one another. Why, after all, grow stale here! And how was
it this idea did not strike me sooner? Dear Marya Alexadrovna, we shall
soon see each other. It's extraordinary, though, that this idea never
entered my head before! I ought to have gone long, long ago. Good-bye
till we meet, Marya Alexandrovna.
_July_ 9.
I purposely gave myself twenty-four hours for reflection, and am now
absolutely convinced that I have no reason to stay here. The dust in
the streets is so penetrating that my eyes are bad. To-day I am
beginning to pack, the day after to-morrow I shall most likely start,
and within ten days I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I trust
you will welcome me as in old days. By the way, your sister is still
staying at your aunt's, isn't she?
Marya Alexandrovna, let me press your hand warmly, and say from my
heart, Good-bye till we meet. I had been getting ready to go away, but
that letter has hastened my project. Supposing the letter proves
nothing, supposing even Ninetta would not please any one else, me for
instance, still I am going; that's decided now. Till we meet, yours,