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author: Tanishk Soam
published: 2026-06-16
canonical: https://creatorlanehq.com/u/tech_nishk/p/white-nights-fyodor-dostoyevsky-pdf
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# White Nights Fyodor Dostoyevsky PDF

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First	Night Second	Night Third	Night Fourth	Night T ABLE

OF C ONTENTS

I t	was	a	wonderful	night,	such	a	night	as	is	only	possible	when	we	are	young, dear	reader.	The	sky	was	so	starry,	so	bright	that,	looking	at	it,	one	could	not help	asking	oneself	whether	ill-humoured	and	capricious	people	could	live under	such	a	sky.	That	is	a	youthful	question	too,	dear	reader,	very	youthful,	but may	the	Lord	put	it	more	frequently	into	your	heart!	.	.	.	Speaking	of	capricious and	ill-humoured	people,	I	cannot	help	recalling	my	moral	condition	all	that	day. From	early	morning	I	had	been	oppressed	by	a	strange	despondency.	It	suddenly seemed	to	me	that	I	was	lonely,	that	every	one	was	forsaking	me	and	going	away from	me.	Of	course,	any	one	is	entitled	to	ask	who	“every	one”	was.	For	though	I had	been	living	almost	eight	years	in	Petersburg	I	had	hardly	an	acquaintance.	But what	did	I	want	with	acquaintances?	I	was	acquainted	with	all	Petersburg	as	it was;	that	was	why	I	felt	as	though	they	were	all	deserting	me	when	all	Petersburg packed	up	and	went	to	its	summer	villa.	I	felt	afraid	of	being	left	alone,	and	for three	whole	days	I	wandered	about	the	town	in	profound	dejection,	not	knowing what	to	do	with	myself.	Whether	I	walked	in	the	Nevsky,	went	to	the	Gardens	or sauntered	 on	 the	 embankment,	 there	 was	 not	 one	 face	 of	 those	 I	 had	 been accustomed	to	meet	at	the	same	time	and	place	all	the	year.	They,	of	course,	do not	know	me,	but	I	know	them.	I	know	them	intimately,	I	have	almost	made	a study	of	their	faces,	and	am	delighted	when	they	are	gay,	and	downcast	when	they are	under	a	cloud.	I	have	almost	struck	up	a	friendship	with	one	old	man	whom	I meet	every	blessed	day,	at	the	same	hour	in	Fontanka.	Such	a	grave,	pensive countenance;	he	is	always	whispering	to	himself	and	brandishing	his	left	arm, while	in	his	right	hand	he	holds	a	long	gnarled	stick	with	a	gold	knob.	He	even notices	me	and	takes	a	warm	interest	in	me.	If	I	happen	not	to	be	at	a	certain	time in	the	same	spot	in	Fontanka,	I	am	certain	he	feels	disappointed.	That	is	how	it	is that	we	almost	bow	to	each	other,	especially	when	we	are	both	in	good	humour. The	other	day,	when	we	had	not	seen	each	other	for	two	days	and	met	on	the third,	we	were	actually	touching	our	hats,	but,	realizing	in	time,	dropped	our hands	and	passed	each	other	with	a	look	of	interest. I	know	the	houses	too.	As	I	walk	along	they	seem	to	run	forward	in	the	streets to	look	out	at	me	from	every	window,	and	almost	to	say:	“Good-morning!	How	do you	do?	I	am	quite	well,	thank	God,	and	I	am	to	have	a	new	storey	in	May,”	or, F IRST N IGHT

“How	are	you?	I	am	being	redecorated	to-morrow;”	or,	“I	was	almost	burnt	down and	had	such	a	fright,”	and	so	on.	I	have	my	favourites	among	them,	some	are dear	friends;	one	of	them	intends	to	be	treated	by	the	architect	this	summer.	I shall	go	every	day	on	purpose	to	see	that	the	operation	is	not	a	failure.	God	forbid! But	I	shall	never	forget	an	incident	with	a	very	pretty	little	house	of	a	light	pink colour.	It	was	such	a	charming	little	brick	house,	it	looked	so	hospitably	at	me,	and so	proudly	at	its	ungainly	neighbours,	that	my	heart	rejoiced	whenever	I	happened to	pass	it.	Suddenly	last	week	I	walked	along	the	street,	and	when	I	looked	at	my friend	 I	 heard	 a	 plaintive,	 “They	 are	 painting	 me	 yellow!”	 The	 villains!	 The barbarians!	They	had	spared	nothing,	neither	columns,	nor	cornices,	and	my	poor little	friend	was	as	yellow	as	a	canary.	It	almost	made	me	bilious.	And	to	this	day	I have	not	had	the	courage	to	visit	my	poor	disfigured	friend,	painted	the	colour	of the	Celestial	Empire. So	 now	 you	 understand,	 reader,	 in	 what	 sense	 I	 am	 acquainted	 with	 all Petersburg. I	have	mentioned	already	that	I	had	felt	worried	for	three	whole	days	before	I guessed	the	cause	of	my	uneasiness.	And	I	felt	ill	at	ease	in	the	street	—	this	one had	gone	and	that	one	had	gone,	and	what	had	become	of	the	other?	—	and	at home	I	did	not	feel	like	myself	either.	For	two	evenings	I	was	puzzling	my	brains to	think	what	was	amiss	in	my	corner;	why	I	felt	so	uncomfortable	in	it.	And	in perplexity	I	scanned	my	grimy	green	walls,	my	ceiling	covered	with	a	spider’s	web, the	growth	of	which	Matrona	has	so	successfully	encouraged.	I	looked	over	all	my furniture,	examined	every	chair,	wondering	whether	the	trouble	lay	there	(for	if one	chair	is	not	standing	in	the	same	position	as	it	stood	the	day	before,	I	am	not myself).	I	looked	at	the	window,	but	it	was	all	in	vain	.	.	.	I	was	not	a	bit	the	better for	it!	I	even	bethought	me	to	send	for	Matrona,	and	was	giving	her	some	fatherly admonitions	in	regard	to	the	spider’s	web	and	sluttishness	in	general;	but	she simply	stared	at	me	in	amazement	and	went	away	without	saying	a	word,	so	that the	spider’s	web	is	comfortably	hanging	in	its	place	to	this	day.	I	only	at	last	this morning	realized	what	was	wrong.	Aie!	Why,	they	are	giving	me	the	slip	and making	off	to	their	summer	villas!	Forgive	the	triviality	of	the	expression,	but	I	am in	no	mood	for	fine	language	.	.	.	for	everything	that	had	been	in	Petersburg	had gone	 or	 was	 going	 away	 for	 the	 holidays;	 for	 every	 respectable	 gentleman	 of dignified	appearance	who	took	a	cab	was	at	once	transformed,	in	my	eyes,	into	a respectable	head	of	a	household	who	after	his	daily	duties	were	over,	was	making

his	way	to	the	bosom	of	his	family,	to	the	summer	villa;	for	all	the	passers-by	had now	quite	a	peculiar	air	which	seemed	to	say	to	every	one	they	met:	“We	are	only here	for	the	moment,	gentlemen,	and	in	another	two	hours	we	shall	be	going	off	to the	summer	villa.”	If	a	window	opened	after	delicate	fingers,	white	as	snow,	had tapped	upon	the	pane,	and	the	head	of	a	pretty	girl	was	thrust	out,	calling	to	a street-seller	with	pots	of	flowers	—	at	once	on	the	spot	I	fancied	that	those	flowers were	being	bought	not	simply	in	order	to	enjoy	the	flowers	and	the	spring	in	stuffy town	lodgings,	but	because	they	would	all	be	very	soon	moving	into	the	country and	could	take	the	flowers	with	them.	What	is	more,	I	made	such	progress	in	my new	peculiar	sort	of	investigation	that	I	could	distinguish	correctly	from	the	mere air	of	each	in	what	summer	villa	he	was	living.	The	inhabitants	of	Kamenny	and Aptekarsky	Islands	or	of	the	Peterhof	Road	were	marked	by	the	studied	elegance of	their	manner,	their	fashionable	summer	suits,	and	the	fine	carriages	in	which they	drove	to	town.	Visitors	to	Pargolovo	and	places	further	away	impressed	one at	first	sight	by	their	reasonable	and	dignified	air;	the	tripper	to	Krestovsky	Island could	be	recognized	by	his	look	of	irrepressible	gaiety.	If	I	chanced	to	meet	a	long procession	 of	 waggoners	 walking	 lazily	 with	 the	 reins	 in	 their	 hands	 beside waggons	loaded	with	regular	mountains	of	furniture,	tables,	chairs,	ottomans	and sofas	and	domestic	utensils	of	all	sorts,	frequently	with	a	decrepit	cook	sitting	on the	top	of	it	all,	guarding	her	master’s	property	as	though	it	were	the	apple	of	her eye;	or	if	I	saw	boats	heavily	loaded	with	household	goods	crawling	along	the	Neva or	Fontanka	to	the	Black	River	or	the	Islands	—	the	waggons	and	the	boats	were multiplied	tenfold,	a	hundredfold,	in	my	eyes.	I	fancied	that	everything	was	astir and	moving,	everything	was	going	in	regular	caravans	to	the	summer	villas.	It seemed	as	though	Petersburg	threatened	to	become	a	wilderness,	so	that	at	last	I felt	ashamed,	mortified	and	sad	that	I	had	nowhere	to	go	for	the	holidays	and	no reason	to	go	away.	I	was	ready	to	go	away	with	every	waggon,	to	drive	off	with every	 gentleman	 of	 respectable	 appearance	 who	 took	 a	 cab;	 but	 no	 one	 — absolutely	no	one	—	invited	me;	it	seemed	they	had	forgotten	me,	as	though	really I	were	a	stranger	to	them! I	took	long	walks,	succeeding,	as	I	usually	did,	in	quite	forgetting	where	I	was, when	I	suddenly	found	myself	at	the	city	gates.	Instantly	I	felt	lighthearted,	and	I passed	 the	 barrier	 and	 walked	 between	 cultivated	 fields	 and	 meadows, unconscious	of	fatigue,	and	feeling	only	all	over	as	though	a	burden	were	falling off	my	soul.	All	the	passers-by	gave	me	such	friendly	looks	that	they	seemed

almost	 greeting	 me,	 they	 all	 seemed	 so	 pleased	 at	 something.	 They	 were	 all smoking	cigars,	every	one	of	them.	And	I	felt	pleased	as	I	never	had	before.	It	was as	though	I	had	suddenly	found	myself	in	Italy	—	so	strong	was	the	effect	of	nature upon	a	half-sick	townsman	like	me,	almost	stifling	between	city	walls. There	is	something	inexpressibly	touching	in	nature	round	Petersburg,	when at	the	approach	of	spring	she	puts	forth	all	her	might,	all	the	powers	bestowed	on her	by	Heaven,	when	she	breaks	into	leaf,	decks	herself	out	and	spangles	herself with	flowers.	.	.	.	Somehow	I	cannot	help	being	reminded	of	a	frail,	consumptive girl,	at	whom	one	sometimes	looks	with	compassion,	sometimes	with	sympathetic love,	whom	sometimes	one	simply	does	not	notice;	though	suddenly	in	one	instant she	 becomes,	 as	 though	 by	 chance,	 inexplicably	 lovely	 and	 exquisite,	 and, impressed	 and	 intoxicated,	 one	 cannot	 help	 asking	 oneself	 what	 power	 made those	sad,	pensive	eyes	flash	with	such	fire?	What	summoned	the	blood	to	those pale,	wan	cheeks?	What	bathed	with	passion	those	soft	features?	What	set	that bosom	heaving?	What	so	suddenly	called	strength,	life	and	beauty	into	the	poor girl’s	face,	making	it	gleam	with	such	a	smile,	kindle	with	such	bright,	sparkling laughter?	You	look	round,	you	seek	for	some	one,	you	conjecture.	.	.	.	But	the moment	passes,	and	next	day	you	meet,	maybe,	the	same	pensive	and	preoccupied look	as	before,	the	same	pale	face,	the	same	meek	and	timid	movements,	and	even signs	of	remorse,	traces	of	a	mortal	anguish	and	regret	for	the	fleeting	distraction. .	.	.	And	you	grieve	that	the	momentary	beauty	has	faded	so	soon	never	to	return, that	it	flashed	upon	you	so	treacherously,	so	vainly,	grieve	because	you	had	not even	time	to	love	her.	.	.	. And	yet	my	night	was	better	than	my	day!	This	was	how	it	happened. I	came	back	to	the	town	very	late,	and	it	had	struck	ten	as	I	was	going	towards my	lodgings.	My	way	lay	along	the	canal	embankment,	where	at	that	hour	you never	meet	a	soul.	It	is	true	that	I	live	in	a	very	remote	part	of	the	town.	I	walked along	singing,	for	when	I	am	happy	I	am	always	humming	to	myself	like	every happy	 man	 who	 has	 no	 friend	 or	 acquaintance	 with	 whom	 to	 share	 his	 joy. Suddenly	I	had	a	most	unexpected	adventure. Leaning	on	the	canal	railing	stood	a	woman	with	her	elbows	on	the	rail,	she was	apparently	looking	with	great	attention	at	the	muddy	water	of	the	canal.	She was	wearing	a	very	charming	yellow	hat	and	a	jaunty	little	black	mantle.	“She’s	a girl,	and	I	am	sure	she	is	dark,”	I	thought.	She	did	not	seem	to	hear	my	footsteps,

and	did	not	even	stir	when	I	passed	by	with	bated	breath	and	loudly	throbbing heart. “Strange,”	I	thought;	“she	must	be	deeply	absorbed	in	something,”	and	all	at once	I	stopped	as	though	petrified.	I	heard	a	muffled	sob.	Yes!	I	was	not	mistaken, the	girl	was	crying,	and	a	minute	later	I	heard	sob	after	sob.	Good	Heavens!	My heart	sank.	And	timid	as	I	was	with	women,	yet	this	was	such	a	moment!	.	.	.	I turned,	took	a	step	towards	her,	and	should	certainly	have	pronounced	the	word “Madam!”	if	I	had	not	known	that	that	exclamation	has	been	uttered	a	thousand times	in	every	Russian	society	novel.	It	was	only	that	reflection	stopped	me.	But while	I	was	seeking	for	a	word,	the	girl	came	to	herself,	looked	round,	started,	cast down	her	eyes	and	slipped	by	me	along	the	embankment.	I	at	once	followed	her; but	she,	divining	this,	left	the	embankment,	crossed	the	road	and	walked	along	the pavement.	I	dared	not	cross	the	street	after	her.	My	heart	was	fluttering	like	a captured	bird.	All	at	once	a	chance	came	to	my	aid. Along	the	same	side	of	the	pavement	there	suddenly	came	into	sight,	not	far from	 the	 girl,	 a	 gentleman	 in	 evening	 dress,	 of	 dignified	 years,	 though	 by	 no means	of	dignified	carriage;	he	was	staggering	and	cautiously	leaning	against	the wall.	The	girl	flew	straight	as	an	arrow,	with	the	timid	haste	one	sees	in	all	girls who	do	not	want	any	one	to	volunteer	to	accompany	them	home	at	night,	and	no doubt	the	staggering	gentleman	would	not	have	pursued	her,	if	my	good	luck	had not	prompted	him. Suddenly,	without	a	word	to	any	one,	the	gentleman	set	off	and	flew	full	speed in	pursuit	of	my	unknown	lady.	She	was	racing	like	the	wind,	but	the	staggering gentleman	was	overtaking	—	overtook	her.	The	girl	uttered	a	shriek,	and	.	.	.	I	bless my	luck	for	the	excellent	knotted	stick,	which	happened	on	that	occasion	to	be	in my	right	hand.	In	a	flash	I	was	on	the	other	side	of	the	street;	in	a	flash	the obtrusive	 gentleman	 had	 taken	 in	 the	 position,	 had	 grasped	 the	 irresistible argument,	fallen	back	without	a	word,	and	only	when	we	were	very	far	away protested	against	my	action	in	rather	vigorous	language.	But	his	words	hardly reached	us. “Give	 me	 your	 arm,”	 I	 said	 to	 the	 girl.	 “And	 he	 won’t	 dare	 to	 annoy	 us further.” She	took	my	arm	without	a	word,	still	trembling	with	excitement	and	terror. Oh,	obtrusive	gentleman!	How	I	blessed	you	at	that	moment!	I	stole	a	glance	at

her,	she	was	very	charming	and	dark	—	I	had	guessed	right. On	her	black	eyelashes	there	still	glistened	a	tear	—	from	her	recent	terror	or her	former	grief	—	I	don’t	know.	But	there	was	already	a	gleam	of	a	smile	on	her lips.	She	too	stole	a	glance	at	me,	faintly	blushed	and	looked	down. “There,	you	see;	why	did	you	drive	me	away?	If	I	had	been	here,	nothing would	have	happened.	.	.	.	” “But	I	did	not	know	you;	I	thought	that	you	too.	.	.	.	” “Why,	do	you	know	me	now?” “A	little!	Here,	for	instance,	why	are	you	trembling?” “Oh,	you	are	right	at	the	first	guess!”	I	answered,	delighted	that	my	girl	had intelligence;	that	is	never	out	of	place	in	company	with	beauty.	“Yes,	from	the	first glance	you	have	guessed	the	sort	of	man	you	have	to	do	with.	Precisely;	I	am	shy with	women,	I	am	agitated,	I	don’t	deny	it,	as	much	so	as	you	were	a	minute	ago when	that	gentleman	alarmed	you.	I	am	in	some	alarm	now.	It’s	like	a	dream,	and I	never	guessed	even	in	my	sleep	that	I	should	ever	talk	with	any	woman.” “What?	Really?	.	.	.	” “Yes;	if	my	arm	trembles,	it	is	because	it	has	never	been	held	by	a	pretty	little hand	like	yours.	I	am	a	complete	stranger	to	women;	that	is,	I	have	never	been used	to	them.	You	see,	I	am	alone.	.	.	.	I	don’t	even	know	how	to	talk	to	them. Here,	I	don’t	know	now	whether	I	have	not	said	something	silly	to	you!	Tell	me frankly;	I	assure	you	beforehand	that	I	am	not	quick	to	take	offence?	.	.	.	” “No,	nothing,	nothing,	quite	the	contrary.	And	if	you	insist	on	my	speaking frankly,	I	will	tell	you	that	women	like	such	timidity;	and	if	you	want	to	know more,	I	like	it	too,	and	I	won’t	drive	you	away	till	I	get	home.” “You	will	make	me,”	I	said,	breathless	with	delight,	“lose	my	timidity,	and then	farewell	to	all	my	chances.	.	.	.	” “Chances!	What	chances	—	of	what?	That’s	not	so	nice.” “I	beg	your	pardon,	I	am	sorry,	it	was	a	slip	of	the	tongue;	but	how	can	you expect	one	at	such	a	moment	to	have	no	desire.	.	.	.	” “To	be	liked,	eh?” “Well,	yes;	but	do,	for	goodness’	sake,	be	kind.	Think	what	I	am!	Here,	I	am

twenty-six	and	I	have	never	seen	any	one.	How	can	I	speak	well,	tactfully,	and	to the	point?	It	will	seem	better	to	you	when	I	have	told	you	everything	openly.	.	.	.	I don’t	know	how	to	be	silent	when	my	heart	is	speaking.	Well,	never	mind.	.	.	. Believe	me,	not	one	woman,	never,	never!	No	acquaintance	of	any	sort!	And	I	do nothing	but	dream	every	day	that	at	last	I	shall	meet	some	one.	Oh,	if	only	you knew	how	often	I	have	been	in	love	in	that	way.	.	.	.	” “How?	With	whom?	.	.	.	” “Why,	with	no	one,	with	an	ideal,	with	the	one	I	dream	of	in	my	sleep.	I	make up	regular	romances	in	my	dreams.	Ah,	you	don’t	know	me!	It’s	true,	of	course,	I have	met	two	or	three	women,	but	what	sort	of	women	were	they?	They	were	all landladies,	that.	.	.	.	But	I	shall	make	you	laugh	if	I	tell	you	that	I	have	several times	thought	of	speaking,	just	simply	speaking,	to	some	aristocratic	lady	in	the street,	when	she	is	alone,	I	need	hardly	say;	speaking	to	her,	of	course,	timidly, respectfully,	passionately;	telling	her	that	I	am	perishing	in	solitude,	begging	her not	to	send	me	away;	saying	that	I	have	no	chance	of	making	the	acquaintance	of any	woman;	impressing	upon	her	that	it	is	a	positive	duty	for	a	woman	not	to repulse	so	timid	a	prayer	from	such	a	luckless	man	as	me.	That,	in	fact,	all	I	ask	is, that	she	should	say	two	or	three	sisterly	words	with	sympathy,	should	not	repulse me	at	first	sight;	should	take	me	on	trust	and	listen	to	what	I	say;	should	laugh	at me	if	she	likes,	encourage	me,	say	two	words	to	me,	only	two	words,	even	though we	never	meet	again	afterwards!	.	.	.	But	you	are	laughing;	however,	that	is	why	I am	telling	you.	.	.	.	” “Don’t	be	vexed;	I	am	only	laughing	at	your	being	your	own	enemy,	and	if	you had	tried	you	would	have	succeeded,	perhaps,	even	though	it	had	been	in	the street;	the	simpler	the	better.	.	.	.	No	kind-hearted	woman,	unless	she	were	stupid or,	still	more,	vexed	about	something	at	the	moment,	could	bring	herself	to	send you	away	without	those	two	words	which	you	ask	for	so	timidly.	.	.	.	But	what	am	I saying?	Of	course	she	would	take	you	for	a	madman.	I	was	judging	by	myself;	I know	a	good	deal	about	other	people’s	lives.” “Oh,	thank	you,”	I	cried;	“you	don’t	know	what	you	have	done	for	me	now!” “I	am	glad!	I	am	glad!	But	tell	me	how	did	you	find	out	that	I	was	the	sort	of woman	 with	 whom	 .	 .	 .	 well,	 whom	 you	 think	 worthy	 .	 .	 .	 of	 attention	 and friendship	.	.	.	in	fact,	not	a	landlady	as	you	say?	What	made	you	decide	to	come up	to	me?”

“What	made	me?	.	.	.	But	you	were	alone;	that	gentleman	was	too	insolent;	it’s night.	You	must	admit	that	it	was	a	duty.	.	.	.	” “No,	no;	I	mean	before,	on	the	other	side	—	you	know	you	meant	to	come	up to	me.” “On	the	other	side?	Really	I	don’t	know	how	to	answer;	I	am	afraid	to.	.	.	.	Do you	know	I	have	been	happy	to-day?	I	walked	along	singing;	I	went	out	into	the country;	I	have	never	had	such	happy	moments.	You	.	.	.	perhaps	it	was	my	fancy. .	.	.	Forgive	me	for	referring	to	it;	I	fancied	you	were	crying,	and	I	.	.	.	could	not bear	to	hear	it	.	.	.	it	made	my	heart	ache.	.	.	.	Oh,	my	goodness!	Surely	I	might	be troubled	about	you?	Surely	there	was	no	harm	in	feeling	brotherly	compassion	for you.	.	.	.	I	beg	your	pardon,	I	said	compassion.	.	.	.	Well,	in	short,	surely	you	would not	be	offended	at	my	involuntary	impulse	to	go	up	to	you?	.	.	.	” “Stop,	that’s	enough,	don’t	talk	of	it,”	said	the	girl,	looking	down,	and	pressing my	hand.	“It’s	my	fault	for	having	spoken	of	it;	but	I	am	glad	I	was	not	mistaken	in you.	.	.	.	But	here	I	am	home;	I	must	go	down	this	turning,	it’s	two	steps	from	here. .	.	.	Good-bye,	thank	you!	.	.	.	” “Surely	.	.	.	surely	you	don’t	mean	.	.	.	that	we	shall	never	see	each	other again?	.	.	.	Surely	this	is	not	to	be	the	end?” “You	see,”	said	the	girl,	laughing,	“at	first	you	only	wanted	two	words,	and now.	.	.	.	However,	I	won’t	say	anything	.	.	.	perhaps	we	shall	meet.	.	.	.	” “I	shall	come	here	to-morrow,”	I	said.	“Oh,	forgive	me,	I	am	already	making demands.	.	.	.	” “Yes,	you	are	not	very	patient	.	.	.	you	are	almost	insisting.” “Listen,	listen!”	I	interrupted	her.	“Forgive	me	if	I	tell	you	something	else.	.	.	. I	tell	you	what,	I	can’t	help	coming	here	to-morrow,	I	am	a	dreamer;	I	have	so little	real	life	that	I	look	upon	such	moments	as	this	now,	as	so	rare,	that	I	cannot help	going	over	such	moments	again	in	my	dreams.	I	shall	be	dreaming	of	you	all night,	a	whole	week,	a	whole	year.	I	shall	certainly	come	here	to-morrow,	just	here to	this	place,	just	at	the	same	hour,	and	I	shall	be	happy	remembering	to-day.	This place	is	dear	to	me	already.	I	have	already	two	or	three	such	places	in	Petersburg.	I once	shed	tears	over	memories	.	.	.	like	you.	.	.	.	Who	knows,	perhaps	you	were weeping	ten	minutes	ago	over	some	memory.	.	.	.	But,	forgive	me,	I	have	forgotten myself	again;	perhaps	you	have	once	been	particularly	happy	here.	.	.	.	”

“Very	good,”	said	the	girl,	“perhaps	I	will	come	here	to-morrow,	too,	at	ten o’clock.	I	see	that	I	can’t	forbid	you.	.	.	.	The	fact	is,	I	have	to	be	here;	don’t imagine	that	I	am	making	an	appointment	with	you;	I	tell	you	beforehand	that	I have	to	be	here	on	my	own	account.	But	.	.	.	well,	I	tell	you	straight	out,	I	don’t mind	if	you	do	come.	To	begin	with,	something	unpleasant	might	happen	as	it	did to-day,	but	never	mind	that.	.	.	.	In	short,	I	should	simply	like	to	see	you	.	.	.	to	say two	words	to	you.	Only,	mind,	you	must	not	think	the	worse	of	me	now!	Don’t think	I	make	appointments	so	lightly.	.	.	.	I	shouldn’t	make	it	except	that.	.	.	.	But let	that	be	my	secret!	Only	a	compact	beforehand.	.	.	.	” “A	compact!	Speak,	tell	me,	tell	me	all	beforehand;	I	agree	to	anything,	I	am ready	for	anything,”	I	cried	delighted.	“I	answer	for	myself,	I	will	be	obedient, respectful	.	.	.	you	know	me.	.	.	.	” “It’s	just	because	I	do	know	you	that	I	ask	you	to	come	to-morrow,”	said	the girl,	laughing.	“I	know	you	perfectly.	But	mind	you	will	come	on	the	condition,	in the	first	place	(only	be	good,	do	what	I	ask	—	you	see,	I	speak	frankly),	you	won’t fall	in	love	with	me.	.	.	.	That’s	impossible,	I	assure	you.	I	am	ready	for	friendship; here’s	my	hand.	.	.	.	But	you	mustn’t	fall	in	love	with	me,	I	beg	you!” “I	swear,”	I	cried,	gripping	her	hand.	.	.	. “Hush,	don’t	swear,	I	know	you	are	ready	to	flare	up	like	gunpowder.	Don’t think	ill	of	me	for	saying	so.	If	only	you	knew.	.	.	.	I,	too,	have	no	one	to	whom	I can	say	a	word,	whose	advice	I	can	ask.	Of	course,	one	does	not	look	for	an	adviser in	the	street;	but	you	are	an	exception.	I	know	you	as	though	we	had	been	friends for	twenty	years.	.	.	.	You	won’t	deceive	me,	will	you?	.	.	.	” “You	will	see	.	.	.	the	only	thing	is,	I	don’t	know	how	I	am	going	to	survive	the next	twenty-four	hours.” “Sleep	soundly.	Good-night,	and	remember	that	I	have	trusted	you	already. But	you	exclaimed	so	nicely	just	now,	‘Surely	one	can’t	be	held	responsible	for every	feeling,	even	for	brotherly	sympathy!’	Do	you	know,	that	was	so	nicely	said, that	the	idea	struck	me	at	once,	that	I	might	confide	in	you?” “For	God’s	sake	do;	but	about	what?	What	is	it?” “Wait	till	to-morrow.	Meanwhile,	let	that	be	a	secret.	So	much	the	better	for you;	it	will	give	it	a	faint	flavour	of	romance.	Perhaps	I	will	tell	you	to-morrow, and	perhaps	not.	.	.	.	I	will	talk	to	you	a	little	more	beforehand;	we	will	get	to	know

each	other	better.	.	.	.	” “Oh	yes,	I	will	tell	you	all	about	myself	to-morrow!	But	what	has	happened?	It is	as	though	a	miracle	had	befallen	me.	.	.	.	My	God,	where	am	I?	Come,	tell	me aren’t	you	glad	that	you	were	not	angry	and	did	not	drive	me	away	at	the	first moment,	as	any	other	woman	would	have	done?	In	two	minutes	you	have	made me	happy	for	ever.	Yes,	happy;	who	knows,	perhaps,	you	have	reconciled	me	with myself,	solved	my	doubts!	.	.	.	Perhaps	such	moments	come	upon	me.	.	.	.	But	there I	will	tell	you	all	about	it	to-morrow,	you	shall	know	everything,	everything.	.	.	.	” “Very	well,	I	consent;	you	shall	begin.	.	.	.	” “Agreed.” “Good-bye	till	to-morrow!” “Till	to-morrow!” And	we	parted.	I	walked	about	all	night;	I	could	not	make	up	my	mind	to	go home.	I	was	so	happy.	.	.	.	To-morrow!

“W ell,	so	you	have	survived!”	she	said,	pressing	both	my	hands. “I’ve	been	here	for	the	last	two	hours;	you	don’t	know	what	a state	I	have	been	in	all	day.” “I	know,	I	know.	But	to	business.	Do	you	know	why	I	have	come?	Not	to	talk nonsense,	as	I	did	yesterday.	I	tell	you	what,	we	must	behave	more	sensibly	in future.	I	thought	a	great	deal	about	it	last	night.” “In	what	way	—	in	what	must	we	be	more	sensible?	I	am	ready	for	my	part; but,	really,	nothing	more	sensible	has	happened	to	me	in	my	life	than	this,	now.” “Really?	In	the	first	place,	I	beg	you	not	to	squeeze	my	hands	so;	secondly,	I must	tell	you	that	I	spent	a	long	time	thinking	about	you	and	feeling	doubtful	to- day.” “And	how	did	it	end?” “How	did	it	end?	The	upshot	of	it	is	that	we	must	begin	all	over	again,	because the	conclusion	I	reached	to-day	was	that	I	don’t	know	you	at	all;	that	I	behaved like	a	baby	last	night,	like	a	little	girl;	and,	of	course,	the	fact	of	it	is,	that	it’s	my soft	heart	that	is	to	blame	—	that	is,	I	sang	my	own	praises,	as	one	always	does	in the	end	when	one	analyses	one’s	conduct.	And	therefore	to	correct	my	mistake, I’ve	made	up	my	mind	to	find	out	all	about	you	minutely.	But	as	I	have	no	one from	whom	I	can	find	out	anything,	you	must	tell	me	everything	fully	yourself. Well,	what	sort	of	man	are	you?	Come,	make	haste	—	begin	—	tell	me	your	whole history.” “My	history!”	I	cried	in	alarm.	“My	history!	But	who	has	told	you	I	have	a history?	I	have	no	history.	.	.	.	” “Then	how	have	you	lived,	if	you	have	no	history?”	she	interrupted,	laughing. “Absolutely	without	any	history!	I	have	lived,	as	they	say,	keeping	myself	to myself,	that	is,	utterly	alone	—	alone,	entirely	alone.	Do	you	know	what	it	means	to be	alone?” “But	how	alone?	Do	you	mean	you	never	saw	any	one?” “Oh	no,	I	see	people,	of	course;	but	still	I	am	alone.” S ECOND N IGHT

“Why,	do	you	never	talk	to	any	one?” “Strictly	speaking,	with	no	one.” “Who	are	you	then?	Explain	yourself!	Stay,	I	guess:	most	likely,	like	me	you have	a	grandmother.	She	is	blind	and	will	never	let	me	go	anywhere,	so	that	I	have almost	forgotten	how	to	talk;	and	when	I	played	some	pranks	two	years	ago,	and she	saw	there	was	no	holding	me	in,	she	called	me	up	and	pinned	my	dress	to hers,	and	ever	since	we	sit	like	that	for	days	together;	she	knits	a	stocking,	though she’s	blind,	and	I	sit	beside	her,	sew	or	read	aloud	to	her	—	it’s	such	a	queer	habit, here	for	two	years	I’ve	been	pinned	to	her.	.	.	.	” “Good	Heavens!	what	misery!	But	no,	I	haven’t	a	grandmother	like	that.” “Well,	if	you	haven’t	why	do	you	sit	at	home?	.	.	.	” “Listen,	do	you	want	to	know	the	sort	of	man	I	am?” “Yes,	yes!” “In	the	strict	sense	of	the	word?” “In	the	very	strictest	sense	of	the	word.” “Very	well,	I	am	a	type!” “Type,	type!	What	sort	of	type?”	cried	the	girl,	laughing,	as	though	she	had not	had	a	chance	of	laughing	for	a	whole	year.	“Yes,	it’s	very	amusing	talking	to you.	Look,	here’s	a	seat,	let	us	sit	down.	No	one	is	passing	here,	no	one	will	hear us,	and	—	begin	your	history.	For	it’s	no	good	your	telling	me,	I	know	you	have	a history;	only	you	are	concealing	it.	To	begin	with,	what	is	a	type?” “A	type?	A	type	is	an	original,	it’s	an	absurd	person!”	I	said,	infected	by	her childish	 laughter.	 “It’s	 a	 character.	 Listen;	 do	 you	 know	 what	 is	 meant	 by	 a dreamer?” “A	 dreamer!	 Indeed	 I	 should	 think	 I	 do	 know.	 I	 am	 a	 dreamer	 myself. Sometimes,	as	I	sit	by	grandmother,	all	sorts	of	things	come	into	my	head.	Why, when	one	begins	dreaming	one	lets	one’s	fancy	run	away	with	one	—	why,	I	marry a	 Chinese	 Prince!	 .	 .	 .	 Though	 sometimes	 it	 is	 a	 good	 thing	 to	 dream!	 But, goodness	 knows!	 Especially	 when	 one	 has	 something	 to	 think	 of	 apart	 from dreams,”	added	the	girl,	this	time	rather	seriously. “Excellent!	If	you	have	been	married	to	a	Chinese	Emperor,	you	will	quite

understand	me.	Come,	listen.	.	.	.	But	one	minute,	I	don’t	know	your	name	yet.” “At	last!	You	have	been	in	no	hurry	to	think	of	it!” “Oh,	my	goodness!	It	never	entered	my	head,	I	felt	quite	happy	as	it	was.	.	.	.	” “My	name	is	Nastenka.” “Nastenka!	And	nothing	else?” “Nothing	else!	Why,	is	not	that	enough	for	you,	you	insatiable	person?” “Not	enough?	On	the	contrary,	it’s	a	great	deal,	a	very	great	deal,	Nastenka; you	kind	girl,	if	you	are	Nastenka	for	me	from	the	first.” “Quite	so!	Well?” “Well,	listen,	Nastenka,	now	for	this	absurd	history.” I	sat	down	beside	her,	assumed	a	pedantically	serious	attitude,	and	began	as though	reading	from	a	manuscript:— “There	 are,	 Nastenka,	 though	 you	 may	 not	 know	 it,	 strange	 nooks	 in Petersburg.	It	seems	as	though	the	same	sun	as	shines	for	all	Petersburg	people does	 not	 peep	 into	 those	 spots,	 but	 some	 other	 different	 new	 one,	 bespoken expressly	for	those	nooks,	and	it	throws	a	different	light	on	everything.	In	these corners,	dear	Nastenka,	quite	a	different	life	is	lived,	quite	unlike	the	life	that	is surging	round	us,	but	such	as	perhaps	exists	in	some	unknown	realm,	not	among us	in	our	serious,	over-serious,	time.	Well,	that	life	is	a	mixture	of	something purely	fantastic,	fervently	ideal,	with	something	(alas!	Nastenka)	dingily	prosaic and	ordinary,	not	to	say	incredibly	vulgar.” “Foo!	Good	Heavens!	What	a	preface!	What	do	I	hear?” “Listen,	 Nastenka.	 (It	 seems	 to	 me	 I	 shall	 never	 be	 tired	 of	 calling	 you Nastenka.)	Let	me	tell	you	that	in	these	corners	live	strange	people	—	dreamers. The	dreamer	—	if	you	want	an	exact	definition	—	is	not	a	human	being,	but	a creature	of	an	intermediate	sort.	For	the	most	part	he	settles	in	some	inaccessible corner,	as	though	hiding	from	the	light	of	day;	once	he	slips	into	his	corner,	he grows	to	it	like	a	snail,	or,	anyway,	he	is	in	that	respect	very	much	like	that remarkable	creature,	which	is	an	animal	and	a	house	both	at	once,	and	is	called	a tortoise.	Why	do	you	suppose	he	is	so	fond	of	his	four	walls,	which	are	invariably painted	green,	grimy,	dismal	and	reeking	unpardonably	of	tobacco	smoke?	Why	is

it	that	when	this	absurd	gentleman	is	visited	by	one	of	his	few	acquaintances	(and he	ends	by	getting	rid	of	all	his	friends),	why	does	this	absurd	person	meet	him with	such	embarrassment,	changing	countenance	and	overcome	with	confusion, as	though	he	had	only	just	committed	some	crime	within	his	four	walls;	as	though he	had	been	forging	counterfeit	notes,	or	as	though	he	were	writing	verses	to	be sent	to	a	journal	with	an	anonymous	letter,	in	which	he	states	that	the	real	poet	is dead,	and	that	his	friend	thinks	it	his	sacred	duty	to	publish	his	things?	Why,	tell me,	Nastenka,	why	is	it	conversation	is	not	easy	between	the	two	friends?	Why	is there	no	laughter?	Why	does	no	lively	word	fly	from	the	tongue	of	the	perplexed newcomer,	 who	 at	 other	 times	 may	 be	 very	 fond	 of	 laughter,	 lively	 words, conversation	about	the	fair	sex,	and	other	cheerful	subjects?	And	why	does	this friend,	probably	a	new	friend	and	on	his	first	visit	—	for	there	will	hardly	be	a second,	 and	 the	 friend	 will	 never	 come	 again	 —	 why	 is	 the	 friend	 himself	 so confused,	so	tongue-tied,	in	spite	of	his	wit	(if	he	has	any),	as	he	looks	at	the downcast	face	of	his	host,	who	in	his	turn	becomes	utterly	helpless	and	at	his	wits’ end	 after	 gigantic	 but	 fruitless	 efforts	 to	 smooth	 things	 over	 and	 enliven	 the conversation,	to	show	his	knowledge	of	polite	society,	to	talk,	too,	of	the	fair	sex, and	by	such	humble	endeavour,	to	please	the	poor	man,	who	like	a	fish	out	of water	has	mistakenly	come	to	visit	him?	Why	does	the	gentleman,	all	at	once remembering	some	very	necessary	business	which	never	existed,	suddenly	seize his	hat	and	hurriedly	make	off,	snatching	away	his	hand	from	the	warm	grip	of	his host,	who	was	trying	his	utmost	to	show	his	regret	and	retrieve	the	lost	position? Why	does	the	friend	chuckle	as	he	goes	out	of	the	door,	and	swear	never	to	come and	see	this	queer	creature	again,	though	the	queer	creature	is	really	a	very	good fellow,	and	at	the	same	time	he	cannot	refuse	his	imagination	the	little	diversion of	comparing	the	queer	fellow’s	countenance	during	their	conversation	with	the expression	 of	 an	 unhappy	 kitten	 treacherously	 captured,	 roughly	 handled, frightened	 and	 subjected	 to	 all	 sorts	 of	 indignities	 by	 children,	 till,	 utterly crestfallen,	it	hides	away	from	them	under	a	chair	in	the	dark,	and	there	must needs	at	its	leisure	bristle	up,	spit,	and	wash	its	insulted	face	with	both	paws,	and long	afterwards	look	angrily	at	life	and	nature,	and	even	at	the	bits	saved	from	the master’s	dinner	for	it	by	the	sympathetic	housekeeper?” “Listen,”	 interrupted	 Nastenka,	 who	 had	 listened	 to	 me	 all	 the	 time	 in amazement,	opening	her	eyes	and	her	little	mouth.	“Listen;	I	don’t	know	in	the least	why	it	happened	and	why	you	ask	me	such	absurd	questions;	all	I	know	is,

that	this	adventure	must	have	happened	word	for	word	to	you.” “Doubtless,”	I	answered,	with	the	gravest	face. “Well,	since	there	is	no	doubt	about	it,	go	on,”	said	Nastenka,	“because	I	want very	much	to	know	how	it	will	end.” “You	want	to	know,	Nastenka,	what	our	hero,	that	is	I—	for	the	hero	of	the whole	business	was	my	humble	self	—	did	in	his	corner?	You	want	to	know	why	I lost	my	head	and	was	upset	for	the	whole	day	by	the	unexpected	visit	of	a	friend? You	want	to	know	why	I	was	so	startled,	why	I	blushed	when	the	door	of	my	room was	opened,	why	I	was	not	able	to	entertain	my	visitor,	and	why	I	was	crushed under	the	weight	of	my	own	hospitality?” “Why,	yes,	yes,”	answered	Nastenka,	“that’s	the	point.	Listen.	You	describe	it all	splendidly,	but	couldn’t	you	perhaps	describe	it	a	little	less	splendidly?	You	talk as	though	you	were	reading	it	out	of	a	book.” “Nastenka,”	I	answered	in	a	stern	and	dignified	voice,	hardly	able	to	keep from	laughing,	“dear	Nastenka,	I	know	I	describe	splendidly,	but,	excuse	me,	I don’t	know	how	else	to	do	it.	At	this	moment,	dear	Nastenka,	at	this	moment	I	am like	the	spirit	of	King	Solomon	when,	after	lying	a	thousand	years	under	seven seals	in	his	urn,	those	seven	seals	were	at	last	taken	off.	At	this	moment,	Nastenka, when	we	have	met	at	last	after	such	a	long	separation	—	for	I	have	known	you	for ages,	Nastenka,	because	I	have	been	looking	for	some	one	for	ages,	and	that	is	a sign	that	it	was	you	I	was	looking	for,	and	it	was	ordained	that	we	should	meet now	—	at	this	moment	a	thousand	valves	have	opened	in	my	head,	and	I	must	let myself	flow	in	a	river	of	words,	or	I	shall	choke.	And	so	I	beg	you	not	to	interrupt me,	Nastenka,	but	listen	humbly	and	obediently,	or	I	will	be	silent.” “No,	no,	no!	Not	at	all.	Go	on!	I	won’t	say	a	word!” “I	will	continue.	There	is,	my	friend	Nastenka,	one	hour	in	my	day	which	I like	extremely.	That	is	the	hour	when	almost	all	business,	work	and	duties	are over,	and	every	one	is	hurrying	home	to	dinner,	to	lie	down,	to	rest,	and	on	the way	all	are	cogitating	on	other	more	cheerful	subjects	relating	to	their	evenings, their	nights,	and	all	the	rest	of	their	free	time.	At	that	hour	our	hero	—	for	allow me,	Nastenka,	to	tell	my	story	in	the	third	person,	for	one	feels	awfully	ashamed	to tell	it	in	the	first	person	—	and	so	at	that	hour	our	hero,	who	had	his	work	too,	was pacing	along	after	the	others.	But	a	strange	feeling	of	pleasure	set	his	pale,	rather

crumpled-looking	face	working.	He	looked	not	with	indifference	on	the	evening glow	which	was	slowly	fading	on	the	cold	Petersburg	sky.	When	I	say	he	looked,	I am	lying:	he	did	not	look	at	it,	but	saw	it	as	it	were	without	realizing,	as	though tired	or	preoccupied	with	some	other	more	interesting	subject,	so	that	he	could scarcely	spare	a	glance	for	anything	about	him.	He	was	pleased	because	till	next day	he	was	released	from	business	irksome	to	him,	and	happy	as	a	schoolboy	let out	from	the	class-room	to	his	games	and	mischief.	Take	a	look	at	him,	Nastenka; you	will	see	at	once	that	joyful	emotion	has	already	had	an	effect	on	his	weak nerves	and	morbidly	excited	fancy.	You	see	he	is	thinking	of	something.	.	.	.	Of dinner,	do	you	imagine?	Of	the	evening?	What	is	he	looking	at	like	that?	Is	it	at that	gentleman	of	dignified	appearance	who	is	bowing	so	picturesquely	to	the	lady who	rolls	by	in	a	carriage	drawn	by	prancing	horses?	No,	Nastenka;	what	are	all those	trivialities	to	him	now!	He	is	rich	now	with	his own	individual life;	he	has suddenly	become	rich,	and	it	is	not	for	nothing	that	the	fading	sunset	sheds	its farewell	gleams	so	gaily	before	him,	and	calls	forth	a	swarm	of	impressions	from his	warmed	heart.	Now	he	hardly	notices	the	road,	on	which	the	tiniest	details	at other	 times	 would	 strike	 him.	 Now	 ‘the	 Goddess	 of	 Fancy’	 (if	 you	 have	 read Zhukovsky,	dear	Nastenka)	has	already	with	fantastic	hand	spun	her	golden	warp and	begun	weaving	upon	it	patterns	of	marvellous	magic	life	—	and	who	knows, maybe,	her	fantastic	hand	has	borne	him	to	the	seventh	crystal	heaven	far	from the	excellent	granite	pavement	on	which	he	was	walking	his	way?	Try	stopping him	now,	ask	him	suddenly	where	he	is	standing	now,	through	what	streets	he	is going	—	he	will,	probably	remember	nothing,	neither	where	he	is	going	nor	where he	is	standing	now,	and	flushing	with	vexation	he	will	certainly	tell	some	lie	to save	appearances.	That	is	why	he	starts,	almost	cries	out,	and	looks	round	with horror	 when	 a	 respectable	 old	 lady	 stops	 him	 politely	 in	 the	 middle	 of	 the pavement	 and	 asks	 her	 way.	 Frowning	 with	 vexation	 he	 strides	 on,	 scarcely noticing	that	more	than	one	passer-by	smiles	and	turns	round	to	look	after	him, and	that	a	little	girl,	moving	out	of	his	way	in	alarm,	laughs	aloud,	gazing	open- eyed	at	his	broad	meditative	smile	and	gesticulations.	But	fancy	catches	up	in	its playful	flight	the	old	woman,	the	curious	passers-by,	and	the	laughing	child,	and the	peasants	spending	their	nights	in	their	barges	on	Fontanka	(our	hero,	let	us suppose,	is	walking	along	the	canal-side	at	that	moment),	and	capriciously	weaves every	one	and	everything	into	the	canvas	like	a	fly	in	a	spider’s	web.	And	it	is	only after	the	queer	fellow	has	returned	to	his	comfortable	den	with	fresh	stores	for	his

mind	to	work	on,	has	sat	down	and	finished	his	dinner,	that	he	comes	to	himself, when	Matrona	who	waits	upon	him	—	always	thoughtful	and	depressed	—	clears the	 table	 and	 gives	 him	 his	 pipe;	 he	 comes	 to	 himself	 then	 and	 recalls	 with surprise	 that	 he	 has	 dined,	 though	 he	 has	 absolutely	 no	 notion	 how	 it	 has happened.	It	has	grown	dark	in	the	room;	his	soul	is	sad	and	empty;	the	whole kingdom	of	fancies	drops	to	pieces	about	him,	drops	to	pieces	without	a	trace, without	a	sound,	floats	away	like	a	dream,	and	he	cannot	himself	remember	what he	was	dreaming.	But	a	vague	sensation	faintly	stirs	his	heart	and	sets	it	aching, some	 new	 desire	 temptingly	 tickles	 and	 excites	 his	 fancy,	 and	 imperceptibly evokes	a	swarm	of	fresh	phantoms.	Stillness	reigns	in	the	little	room;	imagination is	fostered	by	solitude	and	idleness;	it	is	faintly	smouldering,	faintly	simmering, like	the	water	with	which	old	Matrona	is	making	her	coffee	as	she	moves	quietly about	in	the	kitchen	close	by.	Now	it	breaks	out	spasmodically;	and	the	book, picked	up	aimlessly	and	at	random,	drops	from	my	dreamer’s	hand	before	he	has reached	the	third	page.	His	imagination	is	again	stirred	and	at	work,	and	again	a new	world,	a	new	fascinating	life	opens	vistas	before	him.	A	fresh	dream	—	fresh happiness!	A	fresh	rush	of	delicate,	voluptuous	poison!	What	is	real	life	to	him!	To his	corrupted	eyes	we	live,	you	and	I,	Nastenka,	so	torpidly,	slowly,	insipidly;	in his	eyes	we	are	all	so	dissatisfied	with	our	fate,	so	exhausted	by	our	life!	And,	truly, see	how	at	first	sight	everything	is	cold,	morose,	as	though	ill-humoured	among us.	.	.	.	Poor	things!	thinks	our	dreamer.	And	it	is	no	wonder	that	he	thinks	it! Look	 at	 these	 magic	 phantasms,	 which	 so	 enchantingly,	 so	 whimsically,	 so carelessly	and	freely	group	before	him	in	such	a	magic,	animated	picture,	in	which the	most	prominent	figure	in	the	foreground	is	of	course	himself,	our	dreamer,	in his	 precious	 person.	 See	 what	 varied	 adventures,	 what	 an	 endless	 swarm	 of ecstatic	dreams.	You	ask,	perhaps,	what	he	is	dreaming	of.	Why	ask	that?	—	why, of	everything	.	.	.	of	the	lot	of	the	poet,	first	unrecognized,	then	crowned	with laurels;	of	friendship	with	Hoffmann,	St.	Bartholomew’s	Night,	of	Diana	Vernon, of	playing	the	hero	at	the	taking	of	Kazan	by	Ivan	Vassilyevitch,	of	Clara	Mowbray, of	Effie	Deans,	of	the	council	of	the	prelates	and	Huss	before	them,	of	the	rising	of the	 dead	 in	 ‘Robert	 the	 Devil’	 (do	 you	 remember	 the	 music,	 it	 smells	 of	 the churchyard!),	of	Minna	and	Brenda,	of	the	battle	of	Berezina,	of	the	reading	of	a poem	at	Countess	V.	D.‘s,	of	Danton,	of	Cleopatra ei	suoi	amanti ,	of	a	little	house in	Kolomna,	of	a	little	home	of	one’s	own	and	beside	one	a	dear	creature	who listens	to	one	on	a	winter’s	evening,	opening	her	little	mouth	and	eyes	as	you	are

listening	to	me	now,	my	angel.	.	.	.	No,	Nastenka,	what	is	there,	what	is	there	for him,	voluptuous	sluggard,	in	this	life,	for	which	you	and	I	have	such	a	longing?	He thinks	 that	 this	 is	 a	 poor	 pitiful	 life,	 not	 foreseeing	 that	 for	 him	 too,	 maybe, sometime	the	mournful	hour	may	strike,	when	for	one	day	of	that	pitiful	life	he would	give	all	his	years	of	phantasy,	and	would	give	them	not	only	for	joy	and	for happiness,	 but	 without	 caring	 to	 make	 distinctions	 in	 that	 hour	 of	 sadness, remorse	and	unchecked	grief.	But	so	far	that	threatening	has	not	arrived	—	he desires	nothing,	because	he	is	superior	to	all	desire,	because	he	has	everything, because	he	is	satiated,	because	he	is	the	artist	of	his	own	life,	and	creates	it	for himself	every	hour	to	suit	his	latest	whim.	And	you	know	this	fantastic	world	of fairyland	 is	 so	 easily,	 so	 naturally	 created!	 As	 though	 it	 were	 not	 a	 delusion! Indeed,	he	is	ready	to	believe	at	some	moments	that	all	this	life	is	not	suggested	by feeling,	is	not	mirage,	not	a	delusion	of	the	imagination,	but	that	it	is	concrete, real,	substantial!	Why	is	it,	Nastenka,	why	is	it	at	such	moments	one	holds	one’s breath?	Why,	by	what	sorcery,	through	what	incomprehensible	caprice,	is	the pulse	quickened,	does	a	tear	start	from	the	dreamer’s	eye,	while	his	pale	moist cheeks	glow,	 while	 his	whole	 being	 is	suffused	 with	an	inexpressible	 sense	 of consolation?	Why	is	it	that	whole	sleepless	nights	pass	like	a	flash	in	inexhaustible gladness	 and	 happiness,	 and	 when	 the	 dawn	 gleams	 rosy	 at	 the	 window	 and daybreak	floods	the	gloomy	room	with	uncertain,	fantastic	light,	as	in	Petersburg, our	dreamer,	worn	out	and	exhausted,	flings	himself	on	his	bed	and	drops	asleep with	thrills	of	delight	in	his	morbidly	overwrought	spirit,	and	with	a	weary	sweet ache	in	his	heart?	Yes,	Nastenka,	one	deceives	oneself	and	unconsciously	believes that	real	true	passion	is	stirring	one’s	soul;	one	unconsciously	believes	that	there is	something	living,	tangible	in	one’s	immaterial	dreams!	And	is	it	delusion?	Here love,	for	instance,	is	bound	up	with	all	its	fathomless	joy,	all	its	torturing	agonies in	his	bosom.	.	.	.	Only	look	at	him,	and	you	will	be	convinced!	Would	you	believe, looking	at	him,	dear	Nastenka,	that	he	has	never	known	her	whom	he	loves	in	his ecstatic	dreams?	Can	it	be	that	he	has	only	seen	her	in	seductive	visions,	and	that this	passion	has	been	nothing	but	a	dream?	Surely	they	must	have	spent	years hand	in	hand	together	—	alone	the	two	of	them,	casting	off	all	the	world	and	each uniting	his	or	her	life	with	the	other’s?	Surely	when	the	hour	of	parting	came	she must	have	lain	sobbing	and	grieving	on	his	bosom,	heedless	of	the	tempest	raging under	the	sullen	sky,	heedless	of	the	wind	which	snatches	and	bears	away	the tears	from	her	black	eyelashes?	Can	all	of	that	have	been	a	dream	—	and	that

garden,	dejected,	forsaken,	run	wild,	with	its	little	moss-grown	paths,	solitary, gloomy,	where	they	used	to	walk	so	happily	together,	where	they	hoped,	grieved, loved,	loved	each	other	so	long,	“so	long	and	so	fondly?”	And	that	queer	ancestral house	 where	 she	 spent	 so	 many	 years	 lonely	 and	 sad	 with	 her	 morose	 old husband,	 always	 silent	 and	 splenetic,	 who	 frightened	 them,	 while	 timid	 as children	they	hid	their	love	from	each	other?	What	torments	they	suffered,	what agonies	of	terror,	how	innocent,	how	pure	was	their	love,	and	how	(I	need	hardly say,	Nastenka)	malicious	people	were!	And,	good	Heavens!	surely	he	met	her afterwards,	far	from	their	native	shores,	under	alien	skies,	in	the	hot	south	in	the divinely	eternal	city,	in	the	dazzling	splendour	of	the	ball	to	the	crash	of	music,	in a palazzo (it	must	be	in	a palazzo ),	drowned	in	a	sea	of	lights,	on	the	balcony, wreathed	in	myrtle	and	roses,	where,	recognizing	him,	she	hurriedly	removes	her mask	and	whispering,	‘I	am	free,’	flings	herself	trembling	into	his	arms,	and	with	a cry	of	rapture,	clinging	to	one	another,	in	one	instant	they	forget	their	sorrow	and their	parting	and	all	their	agonies,	and	the	gloomy	house	and	the	old	man	and	the dismal	garden	in	that	distant	land,	and	the	seat	on	which	with	a	last	passionate kiss	she	tore	herself	away	from	his	arms	numb	with	anguish	and	despair.	.	.	.	Oh, Nastenka,	you	must	admit	that	one	would	start,	betray	confusion,	and	blush	like	a schoolboy	who	has	just	stuffed	in	his	pocket	an	apple	stolen	from	a	neighbour’s garden,	when	your	uninvited	visitor,	some	stalwart,	lanky	fellow,	a	festive	soul fond	of	a	joke,	opens	your	door	and	shouts	out	as	though	nothing	were	happening: ‘My	dear	boy,	I	have	this	minute	come	from	Pavlovsk.’	My	goodness!	the	old	count is	 dead,	 unutterable	 happiness	 is	 close	 at	 hand	 —	 and	 people	 arrive	 from Pavlovsk!” Finishing	my	pathetic	appeal,	I	paused	pathetically.	I	remembered	that	I	had an	 intense	 desire	 to	 force	 myself	 to	 laugh,	 for	 I	 was	 already	 feeling	 that	 a malignant	demon	was	stirring	within	me,	that	there	was	a	lump	in	my	throat,	that my	chin	was	beginning	to	twitch,	and	that	my	eyes	were	growing	more	and	more moist. I	expected	Nastenka,	who	listened	to	me	opening	her	clever	eyes,	would	break into	her	childish,	irrepressible	laugh;	and	I	was	already	regretting	that	I	had	gone so	far,	that	I	had	unnecessarily	described	what	had	long	been	simmering	in	my heart,	about	which	I	could	speak	as	though	from	a	written	account	of	it,	because	I had	long	ago	passed	judgment	on	myself	and	now	could	not	resist	reading	it, making	my	confession,	without	expecting	to	be	understood;	but	to	my	surprise	she

was	 silent,	 waiting	 a	 little,	 then	 she	 faintly	 pressed	 my	 hand	 and	 with	 timid sympathy	asked	— “Surely	you	haven’t	lived	like	that	all	your	life?” “All	my	life,	Nastenka,”	I	answered;	“all	my	life,	and	it	seems	to	me	I	shall	go on	so	to	the	end.” “No,	that	won’t	do,”	she	said	uneasily,	“that	must	not	be;	and	so,	maybe,	I shall	spend	all	my	life	beside	grandmother.	Do	you	know,	it	is	not	at	all	good	to live	like	that?” “I	know,	Nastenka,	I	know!”	I	cried,	unable	to	restrain	my	feelings	longer. “And	I	realize	now,	more	than	ever,	that	I	have	lost	all	my	best	years!	And	now	I know	it	and	feel	it	more	painfully	from	recognizing	that	God	has	sent	me	you,	my good	angel,	to	tell	me	that	and	show	it.	Now	that	I	sit	beside	you	and	talk	to	you	it is	strange	for	me	to	think	of	the	future,	for	in	the	future	—	there	is	loneliness again,	again	this	musty,	useless	life;	and	what	shall	I	have	to	dream	of	when	I	have been	so	happy	in	reality	beside	you!	Oh,	may	you	be	blessed,	dear	girl,	for	not having	repulsed	me	at	first,	for	enabling	me	to	say	that	for	two	evenings,	at	least,	I have	lived.” “Oh,	no,	no!”	cried	Nastenka	and	tears	glistened	in	her	eyes.	“No,	it	mustn’t be	so	any	more;	we	must	not	part	like	that!	what	are	two	evenings?” “Oh,	Nastenka,	Nastenka!	Do	you	know	how	far	you	have	reconciled	me	to myself?	Do	you	know	now	that	I	shall	not	think	so	ill	of	myself,	as	I	have	at	some moments?	Do	you	know	that,	maybe,	I	shall	leave	off	grieving	over	the	crime	and sin	of	my	life?	for	such	a	life	is	a	crime	and	a	sin.	And	do	not	imagine	that	I	have been	exaggerating	anything	—	for	goodness’	sake	don’t	think	that,	Nastenka:	for	at times	such	misery	comes	over	me,	such	misery.	.	.	.	Because	it	begins	to	seem	to me	at	such	times	that	I	am	incapable	of	beginning	a	life	in	real	life,	because	it	has seemed	to	me	that	I	have	lost	all	touch,	all	instinct	for	the	actual,	the	real;	because at	last	I	have	cursed	myself;	because	after	my	fantastic	nights	I	have	moments	of returning	sobriety,	which	are	awful!	Meanwhile,	you	hear	the	whirl	and	roar	of	the crowd	in	the	vortex	of	life	around	you;	you	hear,	you	see,	men	living	in	reality;	you see	that	life	for	them	is	not	forbidden,	that	their	life	does	not	float	away	like	a dream,	like	a	vision;	that	their	life	is	being	eternally	renewed,	eternally	youthful, and	 not	 one	 hour	 of	 it	 is	 the	 same	 as	 another;	 while	 fancy	 is	 so	 spiritless,

monotonous	to	vulgarity	and	easily	scared,	the	slave	of	shadows,	of	the	idea,	the slave	of	the	first	cloud	that	shrouds	the	sun,	and	overcasts	with	depression	the true	Petersburg	heart	so	devoted	to	the	sun	—	and	what	is	fancy	in	depression! One	feels	that	this inexhaustible fancy	is	weary	at	last	and	worn	out	with	continual exercise,	because	one	is	growing	into	manhood,	outgrowing	one’s	old	ideals:	they are	being	shattered	into	fragments,	into	dust;	if	there	is	no	other	life	one	must build	one	up	from	the	fragments.	And	meanwhile	the	soul	longs	and	craves	for something	else!	And	in	vain	the	dreamer	rakes	over	his	old	dreams,	as	though seeking	a	spark	among	the	embers,	to	fan	them	into	flame,	to	warm	his	chilled heart	by	the	rekindled	fire,	and	to	rouse	up	in	it	again	all	that	was	so	sweet,	that touched	his	heart,	that	set	his	blood	boiling,	drew	tears	from	his	eyes,	and	so luxuriously	deceived	him!	Do	you	know,	Nastenka,	the	point	I	have	reached?	Do you	know	that	I	am	forced	now	to	celebrate	the	anniversary	of	my	own	sensations, the	anniversary	of	that	which	was	once	so	sweet,	which	never	existed	in	reality	— for	this	anniversary	is	kept	in	memory	of	those	same	foolish,	shadowy	dreams	— and	to	do	this	because	those	foolish	dreams	are	no	more,	because	I	have	nothing to	earn	them	with;	you	know	even	dreams	do	not	come	for	nothing!	Do	you	know that	I	love	now	to	recall	and	visit	at	certain	dates	the	places	where	I	was	once happy	 in	 my	 own	 way?	 I	 love	 to	 build	 up	 my	 present	 in	 harmony	 with	 the irrevocable	past,	and	I	often	wander	like	a	shadow,	aimless,	sad	and	dejected, about	the	streets	and	crooked	lanes	of	Petersburg.	What	memories	they	are!	To remember,	for	instance,	that	here	just	a	year	ago,	just	at	this	time,	at	this	hour,	on this	pavement,	I	wandered	just	as	lonely,	just	as	dejected	as	to-day.	And	one remembers	that	then	one’s	dreams	were	sad,	and	though	the	past	was	no	better one	feels	as	though	it	had	somehow	been	better,	and	that	life	was	more	peaceful, that	one	was	free	from	the	black	thoughts	that	haunt	one	now;	that	one	was	free from	the	gnawing	of	conscience	—	the	gloomy,	sullen	gnawing	which	now	gives	me no	rest	by	day	or	by	night.	And	one	asks	oneself	where	are	one’s	dreams.	And	one shakes	one’s	head	and	says	how	rapidly	the	years	fly	by!	And	again	one	asks oneself	what	has	one	done	with	one’s	years.	Where	have	you	buried	your	best days?	Have	you	lived	or	not?	Look,	one	says	to	oneself,	look	how	cold	the	world	is growing.	Some	more	years	will	pass,	and	after	them	will	come	gloomy	solitude; then	will	come	old	age	trembling	on	its	crutch,	and	after	it	misery	and	desolation. Your	fantastic	world	will	grow	pale,	your	dreams	will	fade	and	die	and	will	fall	like the	yellow	leaves	from	the	trees.	.	.	.	Oh,	Nastenka!	you	know	it	will	be	sad	to	be

left	 alone,	 utterly	 alone,	 and	 to	 have	 not	 even	 anything	 to	 regret	 —	 nothing, absolutely	nothing	.	.	.	for	all	that	you	have	lost,	all	that,	all	was	nothing,	stupid, simple	nullity,	there	has	been	nothing	but	dreams!” “Come,	don’t	work	on	my	feelings	any	more,”	said	Nastenka,	wiping	away	a tear	which	was	trickling	down	her	cheek.	“Now	it’s	over!	Now	we	shall	be	two together.	Now,	whatever	happens	to	me,	we	will	never	part.	Listen;	I	am	a	simple girl,	I	have	not	had	much	education,	though	grandmother	did	get	a	teacher	for	me, but	truly	I	understand	you,	for	all	that	you	have	described	I	have	been	through myself,	when	grandmother	pinned	me	to	her	dress.	Of	course,	I	should	not	have described	it	so	well	as	you	have;	I	am	not	educated,”	she	added	timidly,	for	she was	still	feeling	a	sort	of	respect	for	my	pathetic	eloquence	and	lofty	style;	“but	I am	very	glad	that	you	have	been	quite	open	with	me.	Now	I	know	you	thoroughly, all	of	you.	And	do	you	know	what?	I	want	to	tell	you	my	history	too,	all	without concealment,	and	after	that	you	must	give	me	advice.	You	are	a	very	clever	man; will	you	promise	to	give	me	advice?” “Ah,	Nastenka,”	I	cried,	“though	I	have	never	given	advice,	still	less	sensible advice,	yet	I	see	now	that	if	we	always	go	on	like	this	that	it	will	be	very	sensible, and	that	each	of	us	will	give	the	other	a	great	deal	of	sensible	advice!	Well,	my pretty	Nastenka,	what	sort	of	advice	do	you	want?	Tell	me	frankly;	at	this	moment I	am	so	gay	and	happy,	so	bold	and	sensible,	that	it	won’t	be	difficult	for	me	to	find words.” “No,	no!”	Nastenka	interrupted,	laughing.	“I	don’t	only	want	sensible	advice,	I want	warm	brotherly	advice,	as	though	you	had	been	fond	of	me	all	your	life!” “Agreed,	Nastenka,	agreed!”	I	cried	delighted;	“and	if	I	had	been	fond	of	you for	twenty	years,	I	couldn’t	have	been	fonder	of	you	than	I	am	now.” “Your	hand,”	said	Nastenka. “Here	it	is,”	said	I,	giving	her	my	hand. “And	so	let	us	begin	my	history!” NASTENKA’S	HISTORY “Half	my	story	you	know	already	—	that	is,	you	know	that	I	have	an	old grandmother.	.	.	.	” “If	the	other	half	is	as	brief	as	that	.	.	.	”	I	interrupted,	laughing.

“Be	quiet	and	listen.	First	of	all	you	must	agree	not	to	interrupt	me,	or	else, perhaps	I	shall	get	in	a	muddle!	Come,	listen	quietly. “I	have	an	old	grandmother.	I	came	into	her	hands	when	I	was	quite	a	little girl,	for	my	father	and	mother	are	dead.	It	must	be	supposed	that	grandmother was	once	richer,	for	now	she	recalls	better	days.	She	taught	me	French,	and	then got	a	teacher	for	me.	When	I	was	fifteen	(and	now	I	am	seventeen)	we	gave	up having	lessons.	It	was	at	that	time	that	I	got	into	mischief;	what	I	did	I	won’t	tell you;	it’s	enough	to	say	that	it	wasn’t	very	important.	But	grandmother	called	me	to her	one	morning	and	said	that	as	she	was	blind	she	could	not	look	after	me;	she took	a	pin	and	pinned	my	dress	to	hers,	and	said	that	we	should	sit	like	that	for the	rest	of	our	lives	if,	of	course,	I	did	not	become	a	better	girl.	In	fact,	at	first	it was	impossible	to	get	away	from	her:	I	had	to	work,	to	read	and	to	study	all	beside grandmother.	I	tried	to	deceive	her	once,	and	persuaded	Fekla	to	sit	in	my	place. Fekla	is	our	charwoman,	she	is	deaf.	Fekla	sat	there	instead	of	me;	grandmother was	asleep	in	her	armchair	at	the	time,	and	I	went	off	to	see	a	friend	close	by. Well,	it	ended	in	trouble.	Grandmother	woke	up	while	I	was	out,	and	asked	some questions;	 she	 thought	 I	 was	 still	 sitting	 quietly	 in	 my	 place.	 Fekla	 saw	 that grandmother	 was	 asking	 her	 something,	 but	 could	 not	 tell	 what	 it	 was;	 she wondered	what	to	do,	undid	the	pin	and	ran	away.	.	.	.	” At	this	point	Nastenka	stopped	and	began	laughing.	I	laughed	with	her.	She left	off	at	once. “I	tell	you	what,	don’t	you	laugh	at	grandmother.	I	laugh	because	it’s	funny. .	.	.	What	can	I	do,	since	grandmother	is	like	that;	but	yet	I	am	fond	of	her	in	a way.	Oh,	well,	I	did	catch	it	that	time.	I	had	to	sit	down	in	my	place	at	once,	and after	that	I	was	not	allowed	to	stir. “Oh,	I	forgot	to	tell	you	that	our	house	belongs	to	us,	that	is	to	grandmother; it	is	a	little	wooden	house	with	three	windows	as	old	as	grandmother	herself,	with a	little	upper	storey;	well,	there	moved	into	our	upper	storey	a	new	lodger.” “Then	you	had	an	old	lodger,”	I	observed	casually. “Yes,	of	course,”	answered	Nastenka,	“and	one	who	knew	how	to	hold	his tongue	better	than	you	do.	In	fact,	he	hardly	ever	used	his	tongue	at	all.	He	was	a dumb,	blind,	lame,	dried-up	little	old	man,	so	that	at	last	he	could	not	go	on	living, he	died;	so	then	we	had	to	find	a	new	lodger,	for	we	could	not	live	without	a	lodger

—	the	rent,	together	with	grandmother’s	pension,	is	almost	all	we	have.	But	the new	lodger,	as	luck	would	have	it,	was	a	young	man,	a	stranger	not	of	these	parts. As	 he	 did	 not	 haggle	 over	 the	 rent,	 grandmother	 accepted	 him,	 and	 only afterwards	she	asked	me:	‘Tell	me,	Nastenka,	what	is	our	lodger	like	—	is	he	young or	old?’	I	did	not	want	to	lie,	so	I	told	grandmother	that	he	wasn’t	exactly	young and	that	he	wasn’t	old. “‘And	is	he	pleasant	looking?’	asked	grandmother. “Again	I	did	not	want	to	tell	a	lie:	‘Yes,	he	is	pleasant	looking,	grandmother,’	I said.	And	grandmother	said:	‘Oh,	what	a	nuisance,	what	a	nuisance!	I	tell	you	this, grandchild,	that	you	may	not	be	looking	after	him.	What	times	these	are!	Why	a paltry	lodger	like	this,	and	he	must	be	pleasant	looking	too;	it	was	very	different	in the	old	days!’” “Grandmother	was	always	regretting	the	old	days	—	she	was	younger	in	old days,	and	the	sun	was	warmer	in	old	days,	and	cream	did	not	turn	so	sour	in	old days	—	it	was	always	the	old	days!	I	would	sit	still	and	hold	my	tongue	and	think to	myself:	why	did	grandmother	suggest	it	to	me?	Why	did	she	ask	whether	the lodger	was	young	and	good-looking?	But	that	was	all,	I	just	thought	it,	began counting	my	stitches	again,	went	on	knitting	my	stocking,	and	forgot	all	about	it. “Well,	one	morning	the	lodger	came	in	to	see	us;	he	asked	about	a	promise	to paper	his	rooms.	One	thing	led	to	another.	Grandmother	was	talkative,	and	she said:	‘Go,	Nastenka,	into	my	bedroom	and	bring	me	my	reckoner.’	I	jumped	up	at once;	I	blushed	all	over,	I	don’t	know	why,	and	forgot	I	was	sitting	pinned	to grandmother;	instead	of	quietly	undoing	the	pin,	so	that	the	lodger	should	not	see —	I	jumped	so	that	grandmother’s	chair	moved.	When	I	saw	that	the	lodger	knew all	about	me	now,	I	blushed,	stood	still	as	though	I	had	been	shot,	and	suddenly began	to	cry	—	I	felt	so	ashamed	and	miserable	at	that	minute,	that	I	didn’t	know where	to	look!	Grandmother	called	out,	‘What	are	you	waiting	for?’	and	I	went	on worse	than	ever.	When	the	lodger	saw,	saw	that	I	was	ashamed	on	his	account,	he bowed	and	went	away	at	once! “After	that	I	felt	ready	to	die	at	the	least	sound	in	the	passage.	‘It’s	the	lodger,’ I	kept	thinking;	I	stealthily	undid	the	pin	in	case.	But	it	always	turned	out	not	to be,	he	never	came.	A	fortnight	passed;	the	lodger	sent	word	through	Fyokla	that he	had	a	great	number	of	French	books,	and	that	they	were	all	good	books	that	I might	read,	so	would	not	grandmother	like	me	to	read	them	that	I	might	not	be

dull?	 Grandmother	 agreed	 with	 gratitude,	 but	 kept	 asking	 if	 they	 were	 moral books,	for	if	the	books	were	immoral	it	would	be	out	of	the	question,	one	would learn	evil	from	them.” “‘And	what	should	I	learn,	grandmother?	What	is	there	written	in	them?’ “‘Ah,’	she	said,	‘what’s	described	in	them,	is	how	young	men	seduce	virtuous girls;	how,	on	the	excuse	that	they	want	to	marry	them,	they	carry	them	off	from their	parents’	houses;	how	afterwards	they	leave	these	unhappy	girls	to	their	fate, and	 they	 perish	 in	 the	 most	 pitiful	 way.	 I	 read	 a	 great	 many	 books,’	 said grandmother,	‘and	it	is	all	so	well	described	that	one	sits	up	all	night	and	reads them	on	the	sly.	So	mind	you	don’t	read	them,	Nastenka,’	said	she.	‘What	books has	he	sent?’ “‘They	are	all	Walter	Scott’s	novels,	grandmother.’ “‘Walter	Scott’s	novels!	But	stay,	isn’t	there	some	trick	about	it?	Look,	hasn’t he	stuck	a	love-letter	among	them?’ “‘No,	grandmother,’	I	said,	‘there	isn’t	a	love-letter.’ “‘But	look	under	the	binding;	they	sometimes	stuff	it	under	the	bindings,	the rascals!’ “‘No,	grandmother,	there	is	nothing	under	the	binding.’ “‘Well,	that’s	all	right.’ “So	we	began	reading	Walter	Scott,	and	in	a	month	or	so	we	had	read	almost half.	Then	he	sent	us	more	and	more.	He	sent	us	Pushkin,	too;	so	that	at	last	I could	not	get	on	without	a	book	and	left	off	dreaming	of	how	fine	it	would	be	to marry	a	Chinese	Prince. “That’s	how	things	were	when	I	chanced	one	day	to	meet	our	lodger	on	the stairs.	Grandmother	had	sent	me	to	fetch	something.	He	stopped,	I	blushed	and he	 blushed;	 he	 laughed,	 though,	 said	 good-morning	 to	 me,	 asked	 after grandmother,	and	said,	‘Well,	have	you	read	the	books?’	I	answered	that	I	had. ‘Which	did	you	like	best?’	he	asked.	I	said,	‘Ivanhoe,	and	Pushkin	best	of	all,’	and so	our	talk	ended	for	that	time. “A	week	later	I	met	him	again	on	the	stairs.	That	time	grandmother	had	not sent	me,	I	wanted	to	get	something	for	myself.	It	was	past	two,	and	the	lodger used	to	come	home	at	that	time.	‘Good-afternoon,’	said	he.	I	said	good-afternoon,

too. “‘Aren’t	you	dull,’	he	said,	‘sitting	all	day	with	your	grandmother?’ “When	he	asked	that,	I	blushed,	I	don’t	know	why;	I	felt	ashamed,	and	again	I felt	offended	—	I	suppose	because	other	people	had	begun	to	ask	me	about	that.	I wanted	to	go	away	without	answering,	but	I	hadn’t	the	strength. “‘Listen,’	he	said,	‘you	are	a	good	girl.	Excuse	my	speaking	to	you	like	that,	but I	assure	you	that	I	wish	for	your	welfare	quite	as	much	as	your	grandmother.	Have you	no	friends	that	you	could	go	and	visit?’ “I	told	him	I	hadn’t	any,	that	I	had	had	no	friend	but	Mashenka,	and	she	had gone	away	to	Pskov. “‘Listen,’	he	said,	‘would	you	like	to	go	to	the	theatre	with	me?’ “‘To	the	theatre.	What	about	grandmother?’ “‘But	you	must	go	without	your	grandmother’s	knowing	it,’	he	said. “‘No,’	I	said,	‘I	don’t	want	to	deceive	grandmother.	Good-bye.’ “‘Well,	good-bye,’	he	answered,	and	said	nothing	more. “Only	after	dinner	he	came	to	see	us;	sat	a	long	time	talking	to	grandmother; asked	her	whether	she	ever	went	out	anywhere,	whether	she	had	acquaintances, and	suddenly	said:	‘I	have	taken	a	box	at	the	opera	for	this	evening;	they	are	giving The	Barber	of	Seville .	My	friends	meant	to	go,	but	afterwards	refused,	so	the	ticket is	left	on	my	hands.’	‘ The	Barber	of	Seville ,’	cried	grandmother;	‘why,	the	same they	used	to	act	in	old	days?’ “‘Yes,	it’s	the	same	barber,’	he	said,	and	glanced	at	me.	I	saw	what	it	meant and	turned	crimson,	and	my	heart	began	throbbing	with	suspense. “‘To	be	sure,	I	know	it,’	said	grandmother;	‘why,	I	took	the	part	of	Rosina myself	in	old	days,	at	a	private	performance!’ “‘So	wouldn’t	you	like	to	go	to-day?’	said	the	lodger.	‘Or	my	ticket	will	be wasted.’ “‘By	 all	 means	 let	 us	 go,’	 said	 grandmother;	 why	 shouldn’t	 we?	 And	 my Nastenka	here	has	never	been	to	the	theatre.’ “My	goodness,	what	joy!	We	got	ready	at	once,	put	on	our	best	clothes,	and

set	 off.	 Though	 grandmother	 was	 blind,	 still	 she	 wanted	 to	 hear	 the	 music; besides,	she	is	a	kind	old	soul,	what	she	cared	most	for	was	to	amuse	me,	we should	never	have	gone	of	ourselves. “What	my	impressions	of The	Barber	of	Seville were	I	won’t	tell	you;	but	all that	evening	our	lodger	looked	at	me	so	nicely,	talked	so	nicely,	that	I	saw	at	once that	he	had	meant	to	test	me	in	the	morning	when	he	proposed	that	I	should	go with	him	alone.	Well,	it	was	joy!	I	went	to	bed	so	proud,	so	gay,	my	heart	beat	so that	I	was	a	little	feverish,	and	all	night	I	was	raving	about The	Barber	of	Seville . “I	expected	that	he	would	come	and	see	us	more	and	more	often	after	that, but	it	wasn’t	so	at	all.	He	almost	entirely	gave	up	coming.	He	would	just	come	in about	once	a	month,	and	then	only	to	invite	us	to	the	theatre.	We	went	twice again.	Only	I	wasn’t	at	all	pleased	with	that;	I	saw	that	he	was	simply	sorry	for	me because	I	was	so	hardly	treated	by	grandmother,	and	that	was	all.	As	time	went on,	I	grew	more	and	more	restless,	I	couldn’t	sit	still,	I	couldn’t	read,	I	couldn’t work;	sometimes	I	laughed	and	did	something	to	annoy	grandmother,	at	another time	I	would	cry.	At	last	I	grew	thin	and	was	very	nearly	ill.	The	opera	season	was over,	and	our	lodger	had	quite	given	up	coming	to	see	us;	whenever	we	met	— always	on	the	same	staircase,	of	course	—	he	would	bow	so	silently,	so	gravely,	as though	he	did	not	want	to	speak,	and	go	down	to	the	front	door,	while	I	went	on standing	in	the	middle	of	the	stairs,	as	red	as	a	cherry,	for	all	the	blood	rushed	to my	head	at	the	sight	of	him. “Now	the	end	is	near.	Just	a	year	ago,	in	May,	the	lodger	came	to	us	and	said to	grandmother	that	he	had	finished	his	business	here,	and	that	he	must	go	back to	 Moscow	 for	 a	 year.	 When	 I	 heard	 that,	 I	 sank	 into	 a	 chair	 half	 dead; grandmother	did	not	notice	anything;	and	having	informed	us	that	he	should	be leaving	us,	he	bowed	and	went	away. “What	was	I	to	do?	I	thought	and	thought	and	fretted	and	fretted,	and	at	last	I made	up	my	mind.	Next	day	he	was	to	go	away,	and	I	made	up	my	mind	to	end	it all	that	evening	when	grandmother	went	to	bed.	And	so	it	happened.	I	made	up	all my	clothes	in	a	parcel	—	all	the	linen	I	needed	—	and	with	the	parcel	in	my	hand, more	dead	than	alive,	went	upstairs	to	our	lodger.	I	believe	I	must	have	stayed	an hour	on	the	staircase.	When	I	opened	his	door	he	cried	out	as	he	looked	at	me.	He thought	I	was	a	ghost,	and	rushed	to	give	me	some	water,	for	I	could	hardly	stand up.	My	heart	beat	so	violently	that	my	head	ached,	and	I	did	not	know	what	I	was

doing.	When	I	recovered	I	began	by	laying	my	parcel	on	his	bed,	sat	down	beside it,	hid	my	face	in	my	hands	and	went	into	floods	of	tears.	I	think	he	understood	it all	at	once,	and	looked	at	me	so	sadly	that	my	heart	was	torn. “‘Listen,’	he	began,	‘listen,	Nastenka,	I	can’t	do	anything;	I	am	a	poor	man,	for I	have	nothing,	not	even	a	decent	berth.	How	could	we	live,	if	I	were	to	marry you?’ “We	talked	a	long	time;	but	at	last	I	got	quite	frantic,	I	said	I	could	not	go	on living	with	grandmother,	that	I	should	run	away	from	her,	that	I	did	not	want	to be	pinned	to	her,	and	that	I	would	go	to	Moscow	if	he	liked,	because	I	could	not live	without	him.	Shame	and	pride	and	love	were	all	clamouring	in	me	at	once, and	I	fell	on	the	bed	almost	in	convulsions,	I	was	so	afraid	of	a	refusal. “He	sat	for	some	minutes	in	silence,	then	got	up,	came	up	to	me	and	took	me by	the	hand. “‘Listen,	my	dear	good	Nastenka,	listen;	I	swear	to	you	that	if	I	am	ever	in	a position	to	marry,	you	shall	make	my	happiness.	I	assure	you	that	now	you	are	the only	one	who	could	make	me	happy.	Listen,	I	am	going	to	Moscow	and	shall	be there	just	a	year;	I	hope	to	establish	my	position.	When	I	come	back,	if	you	still love	me,	I	swear	that	we	will	be	happy.	Now	it	is	impossible,	I	am	not	able,	I	have not	the	right	to	promise	anything.	Well,	I	repeat,	if	it	is	not	within	a	year	it	will certainly	be	some	time;	that	is,	of	course,	if	you	do	not	prefer	any	one	else,	for	I cannot	and	dare	not	bind	you	by	any	sort	of	promise.’ “That	was	what	he	said	to	me,	and	next	day	he	went	away.	We	agreed	together not	to	say	a	word	to	grandmother:	that	was	his	wish.	Well,	my	history	is	nearly finished	now.	Just	a	year	has	past.	He	has	arrived;	he	has	been	here	three	days, and,	and	——” “And	what?”	I	cried,	impatient	to	hear	the	end. “And	 up	 to	 now	 has	 not	 shown	 himself!”	 answered	 Nastenka,	 as	 though screwing	up	all	her	courage.	“There’s	no	sign	or	sound	of	him.” Here	she	stopped,	paused	for	a	minute,	bent	her	head,	and	covering	her	face with	her	hands	broke	into	such	sobs	that	it	sent	a	pang	to	my	heart	to	hear	them.	I had	not	in	the	least	expected	such	a dénouement . “Nastenka,”	I	began	timidly	in	an	ingratiating	voice,	“Nastenka!	For	goodness’

sake	don’t	cry!	How	do	you	know?	Perhaps	he	is	not	here	yet.	.	.	.	” “He	is,	he	is,”	Nastenka	repeated.	“He	is	here,	and	I	know	it.	We made	an agreement at	the	time,	that	evening,	before	he	went	away:	when	we	said	all	that	I have	told	you,	and	had	come	to	an	understanding,	then	we	came	out	here	for	a walk	on	this	embankment.	It	was	ten	o’clock;	we	sat	on	this	seat.	I	was	not	crying then;	it	was	sweet	to	me	to	hear	what	he	said.	.	.	.	And	he	said	that	he	would	come to	 us	 directly	 he	 arrived,	 and	 if	 I	 did	 not	 refuse	 him,	 then	 we	 would	 tell grandmother	about	it	all.	Now	he	is	here,	I	know	it,	and	yet	he	does	not	come!” And	again	she	burst	into	tears. “Good	God,	can	I	do	nothing	to	help	you	in	your	sorrow?”	I	cried	jumping	up from	the	seat	in	utter	despair.	“Tell	me,	Nastenka,	wouldn’t	it	be	possible	for	me	to go	to	him?” “Would	that	be	possible?”	she	asked	suddenly,	raising	her	head. “No,	of	course	not,”	I	said	pulling	myself	up;	“but	I	tell	you	what,	write	a letter.” “No,	that’s	impossible,	I	can’t	do	that,”	she	answered	with	decision,	bending her	head	and	not	looking	at	me. “How	impossible	—	why	is	it	impossible?”	I	went	on,	clinging	to	my	idea. “But,	Nastenka,	it	depends	what	sort	of	letter;	there	are	letters	and	letters	and.	.	.	. Ah,	Nastenka,	I	am	right;	trust	to	me,	trust	to	me,	I	will	not	give	you	bad	advice.	It can	all	be	arranged!	You	took	the	first	step	—	why	not	now?” “I	can’t.	I	can’t!	It	would	seem	as	though	I	were	forcing	myself	on	him.	.	.	.	” “Ah,	my	good	little	Nastenka,”	I	said,	hardly	able	to	conceal	a	smile;	“no,	no, you	have	a	right	to,	in	fact,	because	he	made	you	a	promise.	Besides,	I	can	see from	everything	that	he	is	a	man	of	delicate	feeling;	that	he	behaved	very	well,”	I went	on,	more	and	more	carried	away	by	the	logic	of	my	own	arguments	and convictions.	“How	did	he	behave?	He	bound	himself	by	a	promise:	he	said	that	if he	married	at	all	he	would	marry	no	one	but	you;	he	gave	you	full	liberty	to	refuse him	at	once.	.	.	.	Under	such	circumstances	you	may	take	the	first	step;	you	have the	right;	you	are	in	the	privileged	position	—	if,	for	instance,	you	wanted	to	free him	from	his	promise.	.	.	.	” “Listen;	how	would	you	write?”

“Write	what?” “This	letter.” “I	tell	you	how	I	would	write:	‘Dear	Sir.’	.	.	.	” “Must	I	really	begin	like	that,	‘Dear	Sir’?” “You	certainly	must!	Though,	after	all,	I	don’t	know,	I	imagine.	.	.	.	” “Well,	well,	what	next?” “‘Dear	Sir	—	I	must	apologize	for	——’	But,	no,	there’s	no	need	to	apologize; the	fact	itself	justifies	everything.	Write	simply:— “Yes,	 yes;	 that’s	 exactly	 what	 I	 was	 thinking!”	 cried	 Nastenka,	 and	 her	 eyes beamed	with	delight.	“Oh,	you	have	solved	my	difficulties:	God	has	sent	you	to me!	Thank	you,	thank	you!” “What	for?	What	for?	For	God’s	sending	me?”	I	answered,	looking	delighted at	her	joyful	little	face.	“Why,	yes;	for	that	too.” “Ah,	Nastenka!	Why,	one	thanks	some	people	for	being	alive	at	the	same	time with	one;	I	thank	you	for	having	met	me,	for	my	being	able	to	remember	you	all my	life!” “Well,	 enough,	 enough!	 But	 now	 I	 tell	 you	 what,	 listen:	 we	 made	 an agreement	then	that	as	soon	as	he	arrived	he	would	let	me	know,	by	leaving	a letter	with	some	good	simple	people	of	my	acquaintance	who	know	nothing	about it;	or,	if	it	were	impossible	to	write	a	letter	to	me,	for	a	letter	does	not	always	tell everything,	he	would	be	here	at	ten	o’clock	on	the	day	he	arrived,	where	we	had arranged	to	meet.	I	know	he	has	arrived	already;	but	now	it’s	the	third	day,	and there’s	no	sign	of	him	and	no	letter.	It’s	impossible	for	me	to	get	away	from grandmother	in	the	morning.	Give	my	letter	to-morrow	to	those	kind	people	I “‘I	am	writing	to	you.	Forgive	me	my	impatience;	but	I	have been	happy	for	a	whole	year	in	hope;	am	I	to	blame	for	being	unable	to	endure	a	day	of	doubt	now? Now	that	you	have	come,	perhaps	you	have	changed	your	mind.	If	so,	this	letter	is	to	tell	you	that	I do	not	repine,	nor	blame	you.	I	do	not	blame	you	because	I	have	no	power	over	your	heart,	such	is my	fate!“‘You	are	an	honourable	man.	You	will	not	smile	or	be	vexed at	these	impatient	lines.	Remember	they	are	written	by	a	poor	girl;	that	she	is	alone;	that	she	has no	one	to	direct	her,	no	one	to	advise	her,	and	that	she	herself	could	never	control	her	heart.	But forgive	me	that	a	doubt	has	stolen	—	if	only	for	one	instant	—	into	my	heart.	You	are	not	capable	of insulting,	even	in	thought,	her	who	so	loved	and	so	loves	you.’”

spoke	to	you	about:	they	will	send	it	on	to	him,	and	if	there	is	an	answer	you	bring it	to-morrow	at	ten	o’clock.” “But	the	letter,	the	letter!	You	see,	you	must	write	the	letter	first!	So	perhaps it	must	all	be	the	day	after	to-morrow.” “The	letter	.	.	.	”	said	Nastenka,	a	little	confused,	“the	letter	.	.	.	but.	.	.	.	” But	she	did	not	finish.	At	first	she	turned	her	little	face	away	from	me,	flushed like	a	rose,	and	suddenly	I	felt	in	my	hand	a	letter	which	had	evidently	been written	 long	 before,	 all	 ready	 and	 sealed	 up.	 A	 familiar	 sweet	 and	 charming reminiscence	floated	through	my	mind. “R,	o	—	Ro;	s,	i	—	si;	n,	a	—	na,”	I	began. “Rosina!”	we	both	hummed	together;	I	almost	embracing	her	with	delight, while	she	blushed	as	only	she	could	blush,	and	laughed	through	the	tears	which gleamed	like	pearls	on	her	black	eyelashes. “Come,	enough,	enough!	Good-bye	now,”	she	said	speaking	rapidly.	“Here	is the	letter,	here	is	the	address	to	which	you	are	to	take	it.	Good-bye,	till	we	meet again!	Till	to-morrow!” She	pressed	both	my	hands	warmly,	nodded	her	head,	and	flew	like	an	arrow down	her	side	street.	I	stood	still	for	a	long	time	following	her	with	my	eyes. “Till	to-morrow!	till	to-morrow!”	was	ringing	in	my	ears	as	she	vanished	from my	sight.

T o-day	was	a	gloomy,	rainy	day	without	a	glimmer	of	sunlight,	like	the	old age	before	me.	I	am	oppressed	by	such	strange	thoughts,	such	gloomy sensations;	questions	still	so	obscure	to	me	are	crowding	into	my	brain	— and	I	seem	to	have	neither	power	nor	will	to	settle	them.	It’s	not	for	me	to	settle	all this! To-day	 we	 shall	 not	 meet.	 Yesterday,	 when	 we	 said	 good-bye,	 the	 clouds began	gathering	over	the	sky	and	a	mist	rose.	I	said	that	to-morrow	it	would	be	a bad	day;	she	made	no	answer,	she	did	not	want	to	speak	against	her	wishes;	for her	that	day	was	bright	and	clear,	not	one	cloud	should	obscure	her	happiness. “If	it	rains	we	shall	not	see	each	other,”	she	said,	“I	shall	not	come.” I	thought	that	she	would	not	notice	to-day’s	rain,	and	yet	she	has	not	come. Yesterday	was	our	third	interview,	our	third	white	night.	.	.	. But	how	fine	joy	and	happiness	makes	any	one!	How	brimming	over	with	love the	 heart	 is!	 One	 seems	 longing	 to	 pour	 out	 one’s	 whole	 heart;	 one	 wants everything	to	be	gay,	everything	to	be	laughing.	And	how	infectious	that	joy	is! There	was	such	a	softness	in	her	words,	such	a	kindly	feeling	in	her	heart	towards me	yesterday.	.	.	.	How	solicitous	and	friendly	she	was;	how	tenderly	she	tried	to give	me	courage!	Oh,	the	coquetry	of	happiness!	While	I	.	.	.	I	took	it	all	for	the genuine	thing,	I	thought	that	she.	.	.	. But,	my	God,	how	could	I	have	thought	it?	How	could	I	have	been	so	blind, when	everything	had	been	taken	by	another	already,	when	nothing	was	mine; when,	in	fact,	her	very	tenderness	to	me,	her	anxiety,	her	love	.	.	.	yes,	love	for	me, was	nothing	else	but	joy	at	the	thought	of	seeing	another	man	so	soon,	desire	to include	me,	too,	in	her	happiness?	.	.	.	When	he	did	not	come,	when	we	waited	in vain,	she	frowned,	she	grew	timid	and	discouraged.	Her	movements,	her	words, were	no	longer	so	light,	so	playful,	so	gay;	and,	strange	to	say,	she	redoubled	her attentiveness	to	me,	as	though	instinctively	desiring	to	lavish	on	me	what	she desired	 for	 herself	 so	 anxiously,	 if	 her	 wishes	 were	 not	 accomplished.	 My Nastenka	was	so	downcast,	so	dismayed,	that	I	think	she	realized	at	last	that	I loved	her,	and	was	sorry	for	my	poor	love.	So	when	we	are	unhappy	we	feel	the unhappiness	of	others	more;	feeling	is	not	destroyed	but	concentrated.	.	.	. T HIRD N IGHT

I	 went	 to	 meet	 her	 with	 a	 full	 heart,	 and	 was	 all	 impatience.	 I	 had	 no presentiment	that	I	should	feel	as	I	do	now,	that	it	would	not	all	end	happily.	She was	 beaming	 with	 pleasure;	 she	 was	 expecting	 an	 answer.	 The	 answer	 was himself.	He	was	to	come,	to	run	at	her	call.	She	arrived	a	whole	hour	before	I	did. At	first	she	giggled	at	everything,	laughed	at	every	word	I	said.	I	began	talking,	but relapsed	into	silence. “Do	you	know	why	I	am	so	glad,”	she	said,	“so	glad	to	look	at	you?	—	why	I like	you	so	much	to-day?” “Well?”	I	asked,	and	my	heart	began	throbbing. “I	like	you	because	you	have	not	fallen	in	love	with	me.	You	know	that	some men	in	your	place	would	have	been	pestering	and	worrying	me,	would	have	been sighing	and	miserable,	while	you	are	so	nice!” Then	she	wrung	my	hand	so	hard	that	I	almost	cried	out.	She	laughed. “Goodness,	what	a	friend	you	are!”	she	began	gravely	a	minute	later.	“God sent	you	to	me.	What	would	have	happened	to	me	if	you	had	not	been	with	me now?	How	disinterested	you	are!	How	truly	you	care	for	me!	When	I	am	married we	will	be	great	friends,	more	than	brother	and	sister;	I	shall	care	almost	as	I	do for	him.	.	.	.	” I	felt	horribly	sad	at	that	moment,	yet	something	like	laughter	was	stirring	in my	soul. “You	are	very	much	upset,”	I	said;	“you	are	frightened;	you	think	he	won’t come.” “Oh	dear!”	she	answered;	“if	I	were	less	happy,	I	believe	I	should	cry	at	your lack	of	faith,	at	your	reproaches.	However,	you	have	made	me	think	and	have given	me	a	lot	to	think	about;	but	I	shall	think	later,	and	now	I	will	own	that	you are	right.	Yes,	I	am	somehow	not	myself;	I	am	all	suspense,	and	feel	everything	as it	were	too	lightly.	But	hush!	that’s	enough	about	feelings.	.	.	.	” At	that	moment	we	heard	footsteps,	and	in	the	darkness	we	saw	a	figure coming	towards	us.	We	both	started;	she	almost	cried	out;	I	dropped	her	hand	and made	a	movement	as	though	to	walk	away.	But	we	were	mistaken,	it	was	not	he. “What	are	you	afraid	of?	Why	did	you	let	go	of	my	hand?”	she	said,	giving	it	to me	again.	“Come,	what	is	it?	We	will	meet	him	together;	I	want	him	to	see	how

fond	we	are	of	each	other.” “How	 fond	 we	 are	 of	 each	 other!”	 I	 cried.	 (“Oh,	 Nastenka,	 Nastenka,”	 I thought,	“how	much	you	have	told	me	in	that	saying!	Such	fondness	at certain moments	makes	the	heart	cold	and	the	soul	heavy.	Your	hand	is	cold,	mine	burns like	fire.	How	blind	you	are,	Nastenka!	.	.	.	Oh,	how	unbearable	a	happy	person	is sometimes!	But	I	could	not	be	angry	with	you!”) At	last	my	heart	was	too	full. “Listen,	Nastenka!”	I	cried.	“Do	you	know	how	it	has	been	with	me	all	day.” “Why,	how,	how?	Tell	me	quickly!	Why	have	you	said	nothing	all	this	time?” “To	begin	with,	Nastenka,	when	I	had	carried	out	all	your	commissions,	given the	letter,	gone	to	see	your	good	friends,	then	.	.	.	then	I	went	home	and	went	to bed.” “Is	that	all?”	she	interrupted,	laughing. “Yes,	almost	all,”	I	answered	restraining	myself,	for	foolish	tears	were	already starting	into	my	eyes.	“I	woke	an	hour	before	our	appointment,	and	yet,	as	it	were, I	had	not	been	asleep.	I	don’t	know	what	happened	to	me.	I	came	to	tell	you	all about	 it,	 feeling	 as	 though	 time	 were	 standing	 still,	 feeling	 as	 though	 one sensation,	one	feeling	must	remain	with	me	from	that	time	for	ever;	feeling	as though	one	minute	must	go	on	for	all	eternity,	and	as	though	all	life	had	come	to	a standstill	for	me.	.	.	.	When	I	woke	up	it	seemed	as	though	some	musical	motive long	familiar,	heard	somewhere	in	the	past,	forgotten	and	voluptuously	sweet,	had come	back	to	me	now.	It	seemed	to	me	that	it	had	been	clamouring	at	my	heart	all my	life,	and	only	now.	.	.	.	” “Oh	my	goodness,	my	goodness,”	Nastenka	interrupted,	“what	does	all	that mean?	I	don’t	understand	a	word.” “Ah,	Nastenka,	I	wanted	somehow	to	convey	to	you	that	strange	impression. .	.	.	”	I	began	in	a	plaintive	voice,	in	which	there	still	lay	hid	a	hope,	though	a	very faint	one. “Leave	off.	Hush!”	she	said,	and	in	one	instant	the	sly	puss	had	guessed. Suddenly	she	became	extraordinarily	talkative,	gay,	mischievous;	she	took	my arm,	laughed,	wanted	me	to	laugh	too,	and	every	confused	word	I	uttered	evoked from	her	prolonged	ringing	laughter.	.	.	.	I	began	to	feel	angry,	she	had	suddenly

begun	flirting. “Do	you	know,”	she	began,	“I	feel	a	little	vexed	that	you	are	not	in	love	with me?	 There’s	 no	 understanding	 human	 nature!	 But	 all	 the	 same,	 Mr. Unapproachable,	you	cannot	blame	me	for	being	so	simple;	I	tell	you	everything, everything,	whatever	foolish	thought	comes	into	my	head.” “Listen!	That’s	eleven,	I	believe,”	I	said	as	the	slow	chime	of	a	bell	rang	out from	a	distant	tower.	She	suddenly	stopped,	left	off	laughing	and	began	to	count. “Yes,	it’s	eleven,”	she	said	at	last	in	a	timid,	uncertain	voice. I	regretted	at	once	that	I	had	frightened	her,	making	her	count	the	strokes, and	I	cursed	myself	for	my	spiteful	impulse;	I	felt	sorry	for	her,	and	did	not	know how	to	atone	for	what	I	had	done. I	began	comforting	her,	seeking	for	reasons	for	his	not	coming,	advancing various	arguments,	proofs.	No	one	could	have	been	easier	to	deceive	than	she	was at	that	moment;	and,	indeed,	any	one	at	such	a	moment	listens	gladly	to	any consolation,	whatever	it	may	be,	and	is	overjoyed	if	a	shadow	of	excuse	can	be found. “And	indeed	it’s	an	absurd	thing,”	I	began,	warming	to	my	task	and	admiring the	extraordinary	clearness	of	my	argument,	“why,	he	could	not	have	come;	you have	muddled	and	confused	me,	Nastenka,	so	that	I	too,	have	lost	count	of	the time.	.	.	.	Only	think:	he	can	scarcely	have	received	the	letter;	suppose	he	is	not able	to	come,	suppose	he	is	going	to	answer	the	letter,	could	not	come	before	to- morrow.	I	will	go	for	it	as	soon	as	it’s	light	to-morrow	and	let	you	know	at	once. Consider,	there	are	thousands	of	possibilities;	perhaps	he	was	not	at	home	when the	letter	came,	and	may	not	have	read	it	even	now!	Anything	may	happen,	you know.” “Yes,	yes!”	said	Nastenka.	“I	did	not	think	of	that.	Of	course	anything	may happen?”	she	went	on	in	a	tone	that	offered	no	opposition,	though	some	other	far- away	thought	could	be	heard	like	a	vexatious	discord	in	it.	“I	tell	you	what	you must	do,”	she	said,	“you	go	as	early	as	possible	to-morrow	morning,	and	if	you	get anything	let	me	know	at	once.	You	know	where	I	live,	don’t	you?” And	she	began	repeating	her	address	to	me. Then	she	suddenly	became	so	tender,	so	solicitous	with	me.	She	seemed	to

listen	attentively	to	what	I	told	her;	but	when	I	asked	her	some	question	she	was silent,	was	confused,	and	turned	her	head	away.	I	looked	into	her	eyes	—	yes,	she was	crying. “How	can	you?	How	can	you?	Oh,	what	a	baby	you	are!	what	childishness!	.	.	. Come,	come!” She	tried	to	smile,	to	calm	herself,	but	her	chin	was	quivering	and	her	bosom was	still	heaving. “I	was	thinking	about	you,”	she	said	after	a	minute’s	silence.	“You	are	so	kind that	I	should	be	a	stone	if	I	did	not	feel	it.	Do	you	know	what	has	occurred	to	me now?	I	was	comparing	you	two.	Why	isn’t	he	you?	Why	isn’t	he	like	you?	He	is	not as	good	as	you,	though	I	love	him	more	than	you.” I	made	no	answer.	She	seemed	to	expect	me	to	say	something. “Of	course,	it	may	be	that	I	don’t	understand	him	fully	yet.	You	know	I	was always	as	it	were	afraid	of	him;	he	was	always	so	grave,	as	it	were	so	proud.	Of course	I	know	it’s	only	that	he	seems	like	that,	I	know	there	is	more	tenderness	in his	heart	than	in	mine.	.	.	.	I	remember	how	he	looked	at	me	when	I	went	in	to	him —	do	you	remember?	—	with	my	bundle;	but	yet	I	respect	him	too	much,	and doesn’t	that	show	that	we	are	not	equals?” “No,	 Nastenka,	 no,”	 I	 answered,	 “it	 shows	 that	 you	 love	 him	 more	 than anything	in	the	world,	and	far	more	than	yourself.” “Yes,	supposing	that	is	so,”	answered	Nastenka	naïvely.	“But	do	you	know what	 strikes	 me	 now?	 Only	 I	 am	 not	 talking	 about	 him	 now,	 but	 speaking generally;	all	this	came	into	my	mind	some	time	ago.	Tell	me,	how	is	it	that	we can’t	all	be	like	brothers	together?	Why	is	it	that	even	the	best	of	men	always	seem to	hide	something	from	other	people	and	to	keep	something	back?	Why	not	say straight	out	what	is	in	one’s	heart,	when	one	knows	that	one	is	not	speaking	idly? As	it	is	every	one	seems	harsher	than	he	really	is,	as	though	all	were	afraid	of doing	injustice	to	their	feelings,	by	being	too	quick	to	express	them.” “Oh,	Nastenka,	what	you	say	is	true;	but	there	are	many	reasons	for	that,”	I broke	in	suppressing	my	own	feelings	at	that	moment	more	than	ever. “No,	no!”	she	answered	with	deep	feeling.	“Here	you,	for	instance,	are	not	like other	people!	I	really	don’t	know	how	to	tell	you	what	I	feel;	but	it	seems	to	me

that	you,	for	instance	.	.	.	at	the	present	moment	.	.	.	it	seems	to	me	that	you	are sacrificing	something	for	me,”	she	added	timidly,	with	a	fleeting	glance	at	me. “Forgive	me	for	saying	so,	I	am	a	simple	girl	you	know.	I	have	seen	very	little	of life,	and	I	really	sometimes	don’t	know	how	to	say	things,”	she	added	in	a	voice that	 quivered	 with	 some	 hidden	 feeling,	 while	 she	 tried	 to	 smile;	 “but	 I	 only wanted	to	tell	you	that	I	am	grateful,	that	I	feel	it	all	too.	.	.	.	Oh,	may	God	give	you happiness	for	it!	What	you	told	me	about	your	dreamer	is	quite	untrue	now	—	that is,	I	mean,	it’s	not	true	of	you.	You	are	recovering,	you	are	quite	a	different	man from	what	you	described.	If	you	ever	fall	in	love	with	some	one,	God	give	you happiness	with	her!	I	won’t	wish	anything	for	her,	for	she	will	be	happy	with	you.	I know,	I	am	a	woman	myself,	so	you	must	believe	me	when	I	tell	you	so.” She	ceased	speaking,	and	pressed	my	hand	warmly.	I	too	could	not	speak without	emotion.	Some	minutes	passed. “Yes,	it’s	clear	he	won’t	come	to-night,”	she	said	at	last	raising	her	head.	“It’s late.” “He	will	come	to-morrow,”	I	said	in	the	most	firm	and	convincing	tone. “Yes,”	she	added	with	no	sign	of	her	former	depression.	“I	see	for	myself	now that	he	could	not	come	till	to-morrow.	Well,	good-bye,	till	to-morrow.	If	it	rains perhaps	I	shall	not	come.	But	the	day	after	to-morrow,	I	shall	come.	I	shall	come for	certain,	whatever	happens;	be	sure	to	be	here,	I	want	to	see	you,	I	will	tell	you everything.” And	then	when	we	parted	she	gave	me	her	hand	and	said,	looking	at	me candidly:	“We	shall	always	be	together,	shan’t	we?” Oh,	Nastenka,	Nastenka!	If	only	you	knew	how	lonely	I	am	now! As	soon	as	it	struck	nine	o’clock	I	could	not	stay	indoors,	but	put	on	my things,	and	went	out	in	spite	of	the	weather.	I	was	there,	sitting	on	our	seat.	I	went to	 her	 street,	 but	 I	 felt	 ashamed,	 and	 turned	 back	 without	 looking	 at	 their windows,	when	I	was	two	steps	from	her	door.	I	went	home	more	depressed	than	I had	ever	been	before.	What	a	damp,	dreary	day!	If	it	had	been	fine	I	should	have walked	about	all	night.	.	.	. But	to-morrow,	to-morrow!	To-morrow	she	will	tell	me	everything.	The	letter has	not	come	to-day,	however.	But	that	was	to	be	expected.	They	are	together	by now.	.	.	.

M y	God,	how	it	has	all	ended!	What	it	has	all	ended	in!	I	arrived	at	nine o’clock.	She	was	already	there.	I	noticed	her	a	good	way	off;	she	was standing	as	she	had	been	that	first	time,	with	her	elbows	on	the	railing, and	she	did	not	hear	me	coming	up	to	her. “Nastenka!”	I	called	to	her,	suppressing	my	agitation	with	an	effort. She	turned	to	me	quickly. “Well?”	she	said.	“Well?	Make	haste!” I	looked	at	her	in	perplexity. “Well,	 where	 is	 the	 letter?	 Have	 you	 brought	 the	 letter?”	 she	 repeated clutching	at	the	railing. “No,	there	is	no	letter,”	I	said	at	last.	“Hasn’t	he	been	to	you	yet?”	She	turned fearfully	pale	and	looked	at	me	for	a	long	time	without	moving.	I	had	shattered	her last	hope. “Well,	God	be	with	him,”	she	said	at	last	in	a	breaking	voice;	“God	be	with him	if	he	leaves	me	like	that.” She	dropped	her	eyes,	then	tried	to	look	at	me	and	could	not.	For	several minutes	she	was	struggling	with	her	emotion.	All	at	once	she	turned	away,	leaning her	elbows	against	the	railing	and	burst	into	tears. “Oh	don’t,	don’t!”	I	began;	but	looking	at	her	I	had	not	the	heart	to	go	on,	and what	was	I	to	say	to	her? “Don’t	try	and	comfort	me,”	she	said;	“don’t	talk	about	him;	don’t	tell	me	that he	will	come,	that	he	has	not	cast	me	off	so	cruelly	and	so	inhumanly	as	he	has. What	for	—	what	for?	Can	there	have	been	something	in	my	letter,	that	unlucky letter?” At	that	point	sobs	stifled	her	voice;	my	heart	was	torn	as	I	looked	at	her. “Oh,	how	inhumanly	cruel	it	is!”	she	began	again.	“And	not	a	line,	not	a	line! He	might	at	least	have	written	that	he	does	not	want	me,	that	he	rejects	me	—	but not	a	line	for	three	days!	How	easy	it	is	for	him	to	wound,	to	insult	a	poor, defenceless	girl,	whose	only	fault	is	that	she	loves	him!	Oh,	what	I’ve	suffered F OURTH N IGHT

during	these	three	days!	Oh,	dear!	When	I	think	that	I	was	the	first	to	go	to	him, that	I	humbled	myself	before	him,	cried,	that	I	begged	of	him	a	little	love!	.	.	.	and after	that!	Listen,”	she	said,	turning	to	me,	and	her	black	eyes	flashed,	“it	isn’t	so! It	can’t	be	so;	it	isn’t	natural.	Either	you	are	mistaken	or	I;	perhaps	he	has	not received	the	letter?	Perhaps	he	still	knows	nothing	about	it?	How	could	any	one	— judge	for	yourself,	tell	me,	for	goodness’	sake	explain	it	to	me,	I	can’t	understand	it —	how	could	any	one	behave	with	such	barbarous	coarseness	as	he	has	behaved	to me?	 Not	 one	 word!	 Why,	 the	 lowest	 creature	 on	 earth	 is	 treated	 more compassionately.	Perhaps	he	has	heard	something,	perhaps	some	one	has	told him	something	about	me,”	she	cried,	turning	to	me	inquiringly:	“What	do	you think?” “Listen,	Nastenka,	I	shall	go	to	him	to-morrow	in	your	name.” “Yes?” “I	will	question	him	about	everything;	I	will	tell	him	everything.” “Yes,	yes?” “You	write	a	letter.	Don’t	say	no,	Nastenka,	don’t	say	no!	I	will	make	him respect	your	action,	he	shall	hear	all	about	it,	and	if	——” “No,	my	friend,	no,”	she	interrupted.	“Enough!	Not	another	word,	not	another line	from	me	—	enough!	I	don’t	know	him;	I	don’t	love	him	any	more.	I	will	.	.	. forget	him.” She	could	not	go	on. “Calm	yourself,	calm	yourself!	Sit	here,	Nastenka,”	I	said,	making	her	sit down	on	the	seat. “I	am	calm.	Don’t	trouble.	It’s	nothing!	It’s	only	tears,	they	will	soon	dry. Why,	do	you	imagine	I	shall	do	away	with	myself,	that	I	shall	throw	myself	into	the river?” My	heart	was	full:	I	tried	to	speak,	but	I	could	not. “Listen,”	she	said	taking	my	hand.	“Tell	me:	you	wouldn’t	have	behaved	like this,	would	you?	You	would	not	have	abandoned	a	girl	who	had	come	to	you	of herself,	you	would	not	have	thrown	into	her	face	a	shameless	taunt	at	her	weak foolish	heart?	You	would	have	taken	care	of	her?	You	would	have	realized	that	she was	alone,	that	she	did	not	know	how	to	look	after	herself,	that	she	could	not

guard	herself	from	loving	you,	that	it	was	not	her	fault,	not	her	fault	—	that	she had	done	nothing.	.	.	.	Oh	dear,	oh	dear!” “Nastenka!”	I	cried	at	last,	unable	to	control	my	emotion.	“Nastenka,	you torture	me!	You	wound	my	heart,	you	are	killing	me,	Nastenka!	I	cannot	be	silent! I	must	speak	at	last,	give	utterance	to	what	is	surging	in	my	heart!” As	I	said	this	I	got	up	from	the	seat.	She	took	my	hand	and	looked	at	me	in surprise. “What	is	the	matter	with	you?”	she	said	at	last. “Listen,”	I	said	resolutely.	“Listen	to	me,	Nastenka!	What	I	am	going	to	say	to you	now	is	all	nonsense,	all	impossible,	all	stupid!	I	know	that	this	can	never	be, but	I	cannot	be	silent.	For	the	sake	of	what	you	are	suffering	now,	I	beg	you beforehand	to	forgive	me!” “What	is	it?	What	is	it?”	she	said	drying	her	tears	and	looking	at	me	intently, while	a	strange	curiosity	gleamed	in	her	astonished	eyes.	“What	is	the	matter?” “It’s	impossible,	but	I	love	you,	Nastenka!	There	it	is!	Now	everything	is	told,” I	said	with	a	wave	of	my	hand.	“Now	you	will	see	whether	you	can	go	on	talking	to me	as	you	did	just	now,	whether	you	can	listen	to	what	I	am	going	to	say	to	you.” .	.	. “Well,	what	then?”	Nastenka	interrupted	me.	“What	of	it?	I	knew	you	loved me	long	ago,	only	I	always	thought	that	you	simply	liked	me	very	much.	.	.	.	Oh dear,	oh	dear!” “At	first	it	was	simply	liking,	Nastenka,	but	now,	now!	I	am	just	in	the	same position	as	you	were	when	you	went	to	him	with	your	bundle.	In	a	worse	position than	you,	Nastenka,	because	he	cared	for	no	one	else	as	you	do.” “What	are	you	saying	to	me!	I	don’t	understand	you	in	the	least.	But	tell	me, what’s	this	for;	I	don’t	mean	what	for,	but	why	are	you	.	.	.	so	suddenly.	.	.	.	Oh dear,	I	am	talking	nonsense!	But	you.	.	.	.	” And	Nastenka	broke	off	in	confusion.	Her	cheeks	flamed;	she	dropped	her eyes. “What’s	to	be	done,	Nastenka,	what	am	I	to	do?	I	am	to	blame.	I	have	abused your.	.	.	.	But	no,	no,	I	am	not	to	blame,	Nastenka;	I	feel	that,	I	know	that,	because my	heart	tells	me	I	am	right,	for	I	cannot	hurt	you	in	any	way,	I	cannot	wound

you!	I	was	your	friend,	but	I	am	still	your	friend,	I	have	betrayed	no	trust.	Here	my tears	 are	 falling,	 Nastenka.	 Let	 them	 flow,	 let	 them	 flow	 —	 they	 don’t	 hurt anybody.	They	will	dry,	Nastenka.” “Sit	down,	sit	down,”	she	said,	making	me	sit	down	on	the	seat.	“Oh,	my God!” “No,	Nastenka,	I	won’t	sit	down;	I	cannot	stay	here	any	longer,	you	cannot	see me	again;	I	will	tell	you	everything	and	go	away.	I	only	want	to	say	that	you	would never	have	found	out	that	I	loved	you.	I	should	have	kept	my	secret.	I	would	not have	worried	you	at	such	a	moment	with	my	egoism.	No!	But	I	could	not	resist	it now;	you	spoke	of	it	yourself,	it	is	your	fault,	your	fault	and	not	mine.	You	cannot drive	me	away	from	you.”	.	.	. “No,	no,	I	don’t	drive	you	away,	no!”	said	Nastenka,	concealing	her	confusion as	best	she	could,	poor	child. “You	don’t	drive	me	away?	No!	But	I	meant	to	run	from	you	myself.	I	will	go away,	but	first	I	will	tell	you	all,	for	when	you	were	crying	here	I	could	not	sit unmoved,	when	you	wept,	when	you	were	in	torture	at	being	—	at	being	—	I	will speak	of	it,	Nastenka	—	at	being	forsaken,	at	your	love	being	repulsed,	I	felt	that	in my	heart	there	was	so	much	love	for	you,	Nastenka,	so	much	love!	And	it	seemed so	bitter	that	I	could	not	help	you	with	my	love,	that	my	heart	was	breaking	and	I .	.	.	I	could	not	be	silent,	I	had	to	speak,	Nastenka,	I	had	to	speak!” “Yes,	yes!	tell	me,	talk	to	me,”	said	Nastenka	with	an	indescribable	gesture. “Perhaps	you	think	it	strange	that	I	talk	to	you	like	this,	but	.	.	.	speak!	I	will	tell you	afterwards!	I	will	tell	you	everything.” “You	are	sorry	for	me,	Nastenka,	you	are	simply	sorry	for	me,	my	dear	little friend!	What’s	done	can’t	be	mended.	What	is	said	cannot	be	taken	back.	Isn’t	that so?	Well,	now	you	know.	That’s	the	starting-point.	Very	well.	Now	it’s	all	right, only	listen.	When	you	were	sitting	crying	I	thought	to	myself	(oh,	let	me	tell	you what	I	was	thinking!),	I	thought,	that	(of	course	it	cannot	be,	Nastenka),	I	thought that	you	.	.	.	I	thought	that	you	somehow	.	.	.	quite	apart	from	me,	had	ceased	to love	him.	Then	—	I	thought	that	yesterday	and	the	day	before	yesterday,	Nastenka —	then	I	would	—	I	certainly	would	—	have	succeeded	in	making	you	love	me;	you know,	you	said	yourself,	Nastenka,	that	you	almost	loved	me.	Well,	what	next? Well,	that’s	nearly	all	I	wanted	to	tell	you;	all	that	is	left	to	say	is	how	it	would	be	if

you	loved	me,	only	that,	nothing	more!	Listen,	my	friend	—	for	any	way	you	are my	friend	—	I	am,	of	course,	a	poor,	humble	man,	of	no	great	consequence;	but that’s	not	the	point	(I	don’t	seem	to	be	able	to	say	what	I	mean,	Nastenka,	I	am	so confused),	only	I	would	love	you,	I	would	love	you	so,	that	even	if	you	still	loved him,	even	if	you	went	on	loving	the	man	I	don’t	know,	you	would	never	feel	that my	love	was	a	burden	to	you.	You	would	only	feel	every	minute	that	at	your	side was	beating	a	grateful,	grateful	heart,	a	warm	heart	ready	for	your	sake.	.	.	.	Oh Nastenka,	Nastenka!	What	have	you	done	to	me?” “Don’t	cry;	I	don’t	want	you	to	cry,”	said	Nastenka	getting	up	quickly	from	the seat.	“Come	along,	get	up,	come	with	me,	don’t	cry,	don’t	cry,”	she	said,	drying	her tears	with	her	handkerchief;	“let	us	go	now;	maybe	I	will	tell	you	something.	.	.	.	If he	has	forsaken	me	now,	if	he	has	forgotten	me,	though	I	still	love	him	(I	do	not want	to	deceive	you)	.	.	.	but	listen,	answer	me.	If	I	were	to	love	you,	for	instance, that	is,	if	I	only.	.	.	.	Oh	my	friend,	my	friend!	To	think,	to	think	how	I	wounded you,	when	I	laughed	at	your	love,	when	I	praised	you	for	not	falling	in	love	with me.	Oh	dear!	How	was	it	I	did	not	foresee	this,	how	was	it	I	did	not	foresee	this, how	could	I	have	been	so	stupid?	But.	.	.	.	Well,	I	have	made	up	my	mind,	I	will	tell you.” “Look	here,	Nastenka,	do	you	know	what?	I’ll	go	away,	that’s	what	I’ll	do.	I	am simply	tormenting	you.	Here	you	are	remorseful	for	having	laughed	at	me,	and	I won’t	have	you	.	.	.	in	addition	to	your	sorrow.	.	.	.	Of	course	it	is	my	fault, Nastenka,	but	good-bye!” “Stay,	listen	to	me:	can	you	wait?” “What	for?	How?” “I	love	him;	but	I	shall	get	over	it,	I	must	get	over	it,	I	cannot	fail	to	get	over	it; I	am	getting	over	it,	I	feel	that.	.	.	.	Who	knows?	Perhaps	it	will	all	end	to-day,	for	I hate	him,	for	he	has	been	laughing	at	me,	while	you	have	been	weeping	here	with me,	for	you	have	not	repulsed	me	as	he	has,	for	you	love	me	while	he	has	never loved	me,	for	in	fact,	I	love	you	myself.	.	.	.	Yes,	I	love	you!	I	love	you	as	you	love me;	I	have	told	you	so	before,	you	heard	it	yourself	—	I	love	you	because	you	are better	than	he	is,	because	you	are	nobler	than	he	is,	because,	because	he	——” The	poor	girl’s	emotion	was	so	violent	that	she	could	not	say	more;	she	laid her	head	upon	my	shoulder,	then	upon	my	bosom,	and	wept	bitterly.	I	comforted

her,	I	persuaded	her,	but	she	could	not	stop	crying;	she	kept	pressing	my	hand, and	saying	between	her	sobs:	“Wait,	wait,	it	will	be	over	in	a	minute!	I	want	to	tell you	.	.	.	you	mustn’t	think	that	these	tears	—	it’s	nothing,	it’s	weakness,	wait	till	it’s over.”	.	.	.	At	last	she	left	off	crying,	dried	her	eyes	and	we	walked	on	again.	I wanted	to	speak,	but	she	still	begged	me	to	wait.	We	were	silent.	.	.	.	At	last	she plucked	up	courage	and	began	to	speak. “It’s	like	this,”	she	began	in	a	weak	and	quivering	voice,	in	which,	however, there	was	a	note	that	pierced	my	heart	with	a	sweet	pang;	“don’t	think	that	I	am	so light	and	inconstant,	don’t	think	that	I	can	forget	and	change	so	quickly.	I	have loved	him	for	a	whole	year,	and	I	swear	by	God	that	I	have	never,	never,	even	in thought,	been	unfaithful	to	him.	.	.	.	He	has	despised	me,	he	has	been	laughing	at me	—	God	forgive	him!	But	he	has	insulted	me	and	wounded	my	heart.	I	.	.	.	I	do not	love	him,	for	I	can	only	love	what	is	magnanimous,	what	understands	me, what	is	generous;	for	I	am	like	that	myself	and	he	is	not	worthy	of	me	—	well, that’s	enough	of	him.	He	has	done	better	than	if	he	had	deceived	my	expectations later,	and	shown	me	later	what	he	was.	.	.	.	Well,	it’s	over!	But	who	knows,	my	dear friend,”	she	went	on	pressing	my	hand,	“who	knows,	perhaps	my	whole	love	was	a mistaken	feeling,	a	delusion	—	perhaps	it	began	in	mischief,	in	nonsense,	because I	was	kept	so	strictly	by	grandmother?	Perhaps	I	ought	to	love	another	man,	not him,	a	different	man,	who	would	have	pity	on	me	and	.	.	.	and.	.	.	.	But	don’t	let	us say	any	more	about	that,”	Nastenka	broke	off,	breathless	with	emotion,	“I	only wanted	to	tell	you	.	.	.	I	wanted	to	tell	you	that	if,	although	I	love	him	(no,	did	love him),	if,	in	spite	of	this	you	still	say.	.	.	.	If	you	feel	that	your	love	is	so	great	that	it may	at	last	drive	from	my	heart	my	old	feeling	—	if	you	will	have	pity	on	me	—	if you	do	not	want	to	leave	me	alone	to	my	fate,	without	hope,	without	consolation	— if	you	are	ready	to	love	me	always	as	you	do	now	—	I	swear	to	you	that	gratitude .	.	.	that	my	love	will	be	at	last	worthy	of	your	love.	.	.	.	Will	you	take	my	hand?” “Nastenka!”	I	cried	breathless	with	sobs.	“Nastenka,	oh	Nastenka!” “Enough,	 enough!	 Well,	 now	 it’s	 quite	 enough,”	 she	 said,	 hardly	 able	 to control	herself.	“Well,	now	all	has	been	said,	hasn’t	it!	Hasn’t	it?	You	are	happy	— I	am	happy	too.	Not	another	word	about	it,	wait;	spare	me	.	.	.	talk	of	something else,	for	God’s	sake.” “Yes,	Nastenka,	yes!	Enough	about	that,	now	I	am	happy.	I——	Yes,	Nastenka, yes,	let	us	talk	of	other	things,	let	us	make	haste	and	talk.	Yes!	I	am	ready.”

And	we	did	not	know	what	to	say:	we	laughed,	we	wept,	we	said	thousands	of things	 meaningless	 and	 incoherent;	 at	 one	 moment	 we	 walked	 along	 the pavement,	then	suddenly	turned	back	and	crossed	the	road;	then	we	stopped	and went	back	again	to	the	embankment;	we	were	like	children. “I	am	living	alone	now,	Nastenka,”	I	began,	“but	to-morrow!	Of	course	you know,	Nastenka,	I	am	poor,	I	have	only	got	twelve	hundred	roubles,	but	that doesn’t	matter.” “Of	course	not,	and	granny	has	her	pension,	so	she	will	be	no	burden.	We must	take	granny.” “Of	course	we	must	take	granny.	But	there’s	Matrona.” “Yes,	and	we’ve	got	Fyokla	too!” “Matrona	is	a	good	woman,	but	she	has	one	fault:	she	has	no	imagination, Nastenka,	absolutely	none;	but	that	doesn’t	matter.” “That’s	 all	 right	 —	 they	 can	 live	 together;	 only	 you	 must	 move	 to	 us	 to- morrow.” “To	you?	How	so?	All	right,	I	am	ready.” “Yes,	hire	a	room	from	us.	We	have	a	top	floor,	it’s	empty.	We	had	an	old	lady lodging	there,	but	she	has	gone	away;	and	I	know	granny	would	like	to	have	a young	man.	I	said	to	her,	‘Why	a	young	man?’	And	she	said,	‘Oh,	because	I	am	old; only	 don’t	 you	 fancy,	 Nastenka,	 that	 I	 want	 him	 as	 a	 husband	 for	 you.’	 So	 I guessed	it	was	with	that	idea.” “Oh,	Nastenka!” And	we	both	laughed. “Come,	that’s	enough,	that’s	enough.	But	where	do	you	live?	I’ve	forgotten.” “Over	that	way,	near	X	bridge,	Barannikov’s	Buildings.” “It’s	that	big	house?” “Yes,	that	big	house.” “Oh,	I	know,	a	nice	house;	only	you	know	you	had	better	give	it	up	and	come to	us	as	soon	as	possible.” “To-morrow,	Nastenka,	to-morrow;	I	owe	a	little	for	my	rent	there	but	that

doesn’t	matter.	I	shall	soon	get	my	salary.” “And	do	you	know	I	will	perhaps	give	lessons;	I	will	learn	something	myself and	then	give	lessons.” “Capital!	And	I	shall	soon	get	a	bonus.” “So	by	to-morrow	you	will	be	my	lodger.” “And	we	will	go	to The	Barber	of	Seville ,	for	they	are	soon	going	to	give	it again.” “Yes,	we’ll	go,”	said	Nastenka,	“but	better	see	something	else	and	not The Barber	of	Seville .” “Very	well,	something	else.	Of	course	that	will	be	better,	I	did	not	think	——” As	 we	 talked	 like	 this	 we	 walked	 along	 in	 a	 sort	 of	 delirium,	 a	 sort	 of intoxication,	 as	 though	 we	 did	 not	 know	 what	 was	 happening	 to	 us.	 At	 one moment	we	stopped	and	talked	for	a	long	time	at	the	same	place;	then	we	went	on again,	and	goodness	knows	where	we	went;	and	again	tears	and	again	laughter.	All of	a	sudden	Nastenka	would	want	to	go	home,	and	I	would	not	dare	to	detain	her but	would	want	to	see	her	to	the	house;	we	set	off,	and	in	a	quarter	of	an	hour found	ourselves	at	the	embankment	by	our	seat.	Then	she	would	sigh,	and	tears would	come	into	her	eyes	again;	I	would	turn	chill	with	dismay.	.	.	.	But	she	would press	my	hand	and	force	me	to	walk,	to	talk,	to	chatter	as	before. “It’s	time	I	was	home	at	last;	I	think	it	must	be	very	late,”	Nastenka	said	at last.	“We	must	give	over	being	childish.” “Yes,	Nastenka,	only	I	shan’t	sleep	to-night;	I	am	not	going	home.” “I	don’t	think	I	shall	sleep	either;	only	see	me	home.” “I	should	think	so!” “Only	this	time	we	really	must	get	to	the	house.” “We	must,	we	must.” “Honour	bright?	For	you	know	one	must	go	home	some	time!” “Honour	bright,”	I	answered	laughing. “Well,	come	along!” “Come	along!	Look	at	the	sky,	Nastenka.	Look!	To-morrow	it	will	be	a	lovely

day;	what	a	blue	sky,	what	a	moon!	Look;	that	yellow	cloud	is	covering	it	now, look,	look!	No,	it	has	passed	by.	Look,	look!” But	Nastenka	did	not	look	at	the	cloud;	she	stood	mute	as	though	turned	to stone;	a	minute	later	she	huddled	timidly	close	up	to	me.	Her	hand	trembled	in my	hand;	I	looked	at	her.	She	pressed	still	more	closely	to	me. At	that	moment	a	young	man	passed	by	us.	He	suddenly	stopped,	looked	at	us intently,	and	then	again	took	a	few	steps	on.	My	heart	began	throbbing. “Who	is	it,	Nastenka?”	I	said	in	an	undertone. “It’s	he,”	she	answered	in	a	whisper,	huddling	up	to	me,	still	more	closely,	still more	tremulously.	.	.	.	I	could	hardly	stand	on	my	feet. “Nastenka,	Nastenka!	It’s	you!”	I	heard	a	voice	behind	us	and	at	the	same moment	the	young	man	took	several	steps	towards	us. My	God,	how	she	cried	out!	How	she	started!	How	she	tore	herself	out	of	my arms	and	rushed	to	meet	him!	I	stood	and	looked	at	them,	utterly	crushed.	But she	had	hardly	given	him	her	hand,	had	hardly	flung	herself	into	his	arms,	when she	turned	to	me	again,	was	beside	me	again	in	a	flash,	and	before	I	knew	where	I was	she	threw	both	arms	round	my	neck	and	gave	me	a	warm,	tender	kiss.	Then, without	saying	a	word	to	me,	she	rushed	back	to	him	again,	took	his	hand,	and drew	him	after	her. I	stood	a	long	time	looking	after	them.	At	last	the	two	vanished	from	my	sight. MORNING My	night	ended	with	the	morning.	It	was	a	wet	day.	The	rain	was	falling	and beating	disconsolately	upon	my	window	pane;	it	was	dark	in	the	room	and	grey outside.	My	head	ached	and	I	was	giddy;	fever	was	stealing	over	my	limbs. “There’s	a	letter	for	you,	sir;	the	postman	brought	it,”	Matrona	said	stooping over	me. “A	letter?	From	whom?”	I	cried	jumping	up	from	my	chair. “I	don’t	know,	sir,	better	look	—	maybe	it	is	written	there	whom	it	is	from.” I	broke	the	seal.	It	was	from	her! “Oh,	forgive	me,	forgive	me!	I	beg	you	on	my	knees	to	forgive	me!	I	deceived you	and	myself.	It	was	a	dream,	a	mirage.	.	.	.	My	heart	aches	for	you	to-day;

forgive	me,	forgive	me! “Don’t	blame	me,	for	I	have	not	changed	to	you	in	the	least.	I	told	you	that	I would	love	you,	I	love	you	now,	I	more	than	love	you.	Oh,	my	God!	If	only	I	could love	you	both	at	once!	Oh,	if	only	you	were	he!” [“Oh,	if	only	he	were	you,”	echoed	in	my	mind.	I	remembered	your	words, Nastenka!] “God	knows	what	I	would	do	for	you	now!	I	know	that	you	are	sad	and	dreary. I	have	wounded	you,	but	you	know	when	one	loves	a	wrong	is	soon	forgotten.	And you	love	me. “Thank	you,	yes,	thank	you	for	that	love!	For	it	will	live	in	my	memory	like	a sweet	dream	which	lingers	long	after	awakening;	for	I	shall	remember	for	ever that	instant	when	you	opened	your	heart	to	me	like	a	brother	and	so	generously accepted	the	gift	of	my	shattered	heart	to	care	for	it,	nurse	it,	and	heal	it.	.	.	.	If	you forgive	me,	the	memory	of	you	will	be	exalted	by	a	feeling	of	everlasting	gratitude which	will	never	be	effaced	from	my	soul.	.	.	.	I	will	treasure	that	memory:	I	will	be true	to	it,	I	will	not	betray	it,	I	will	not	betray	my	heart:	it	is	too	constant.	It returned	so	quickly	yesterday	to	him	to	whom	it	has	always	belonged. “We	shall	meet,	you	will	come	to	us,	you	will	not	leave	us,	you	will	be	for	ever a	friend,	a	brother	to	me.	And	when	you	see	me	you	will	give	me	your	hand	.	.	. yes?	You	will	give	it	to	me,	you	have	forgiven	me,	haven’t	you?	You	love	me as before ? “Oh,	 love	 me,	 do	 not	 forsake	 me,	 because	 I	 love	 you	 so	 at	 this	 moment, because	I	am	worthy	of	your	love,	because	I	will	deserve	it	.	.	.	my	dear!	Next	week I	am	to	be	married	to	him.	He	has	come	back	in	love,	he	has	never	forgotten	me. You	will	not	be	angry	at	my	writing	about	him.	But	I	want	to	come	and	see	you with	him;	you	will	like	him,	won’t	you? I	read	that	letter	over	and	over	again	for	a	long	time;	tears	gushed	to	my	eyes. At	last	it	fell	from	my	hands	and	I	hid	my	face. “Dearie!	I	say,	dearie	——”	Matrona	began. “What	is	it,	Matrona?” “Forgive	me,	remember	and	love	your “NASTENKA.”

“I	have	taken	all	the	cobwebs	off	the	ceiling;	you	can	have	a	wedding	or	give	a party.” I	looked	at	Matrona.	She	was	still	a	hearty, youngish old	woman,	but	I	don’t know	why	all	at	once	I	suddenly	pictured	her	with	lustreless	eyes,	a	wrinkled	face, bent,	decrepit.	.	.	.	I	don’t	know	why	I	suddenly	pictured	my	room	grown	old	like Matrona.	The	walls	and	the	floors	looked	discoloured,	everything	seemed	dingy; the	spiders’	webs	were	thicker	than	ever.	I	don’t	know	why,	but	when	I	looked	out of	the	window	it	seemed	to	me	that	the	house	opposite	had	grown	old	and	dingy too,	 that	 the	 stucco	 on	 the	 columns	 was	 peeling	 off	 and	 crumbling,	 that	 the cornices	were	cracked	and	blackened,	and	that	the	walls,	of	a	vivid	deep	yellow, were	patchy. Either	the	sunbeams	suddenly	peeping	out	from	the	clouds	for	a	moment were	hidden	again	behind	a	veil	of	rain,	and	everything	had	grown	dingy	again before	my	eyes;	or	perhaps	the	whole	vista	of	my	future	flashed	before	me	so	sad and	forbidding,	and	I	saw	myself	just	as	I	was	now,	fifteen	years	hence,	older,	in the	same	room,	just	as	solitary,	with	the	same	Matrona	grown	no	cleverer	for those	fifteen	years. But	to	imagine	that	I	should	bear	you	a	grudge,	Nastenka!	That	I	should	cast	a dark	cloud	over	your	serene,	untroubled	happiness;	that	by	my	bitter	reproaches	I should	cause	distress	to	your	heart,	should	poison	it	with	secret	remorse	and should	force	it	to	throb	with	anguish	at	the	moment	of	bliss;	that	I	should	crush	a single	one	of	those	tender	blossoms	which	you	have	twined	in	your	dark	tresses when	you	go	with	him	to	the	altar.	.	.	.	Oh	never,	never!	May	your	sky	be	clear,	may your	 sweet	 smile	 be	 bright	 and	 untroubled,	 and	 may	 you	 be	 blessed	 for	 that moment	 of	 blissful	 happiness	 which	 you	 gave	 to	 another,	 lonely	 and	 grateful heart! My	God,	a	whole	moment	of	happiness!	Is	that	too	little	for	the	whole	of	a man’s	life?