VILLAGE OF X----, _January_ 1841.
I have written to you several times, Alexey Petrovitch ... you have not
answered. Are you living? Or perhaps you are tired of our
correspondence; perhaps you have found yourself some diversion more
agreeable than what can be afforded for you by the letters of a
provincial young lady. You remembered me, it is easy to see, simply
from want of anything better to do. If that's so, I wish you all
happiness. If you do not even now answer me, I will not trouble you
further. It only remains for me to regret my indiscretion in having
allowed myself to be agitated for nothing, in having held out a hand to
a friend, and having come for one minute out of my lonely corner. I
must remain in it for ever, must lock myself up--that is my apportioned
lot, the lot of all old maids. I ought to accustom myself to this idea.
It's useless to come out into the light of day, needless to wish for
fresh air, when the lungs cannot bear it. By the way, we are now hemmed
in all round by deadly drifts of snow. For the future I will be
wiser.... People don't die of dreariness; but of misery, perhaps, one
might perish. If I am wrong, prove it to me. But I fancy I am not
wrong. In any case, good-bye. I wish you all happiness.