country, would be habituated to it, but no ; the longer he lived there, the more his heart sank and was adrift again on the tossing sea he now knew so well.
He grew reconciled to the past; it became dear to him. His bitterness, his gloomy views, his moroseness and misanthropy were softened in his mind to a love of solitude and meditation. The past presented itself in a glorified light, and even the traitor Nadinka was almost irradiated by it. ' And what am I doing here ? ' he asked himself in exasperation, ' why should I wither away. Why should my gifts be wasted ? what prevents me from shining there by my efforts ? Now I have grown more sensible. In what way is my uncle better than I ? Cannot I find out a line for myself? Even though I have not succeeded so far, I attempted what I was not fit for—what then ? I have come to my senses now; it's high time I did. But my departure would break my mother's heart! And yet to go is inevitable ; I cannot be going to seed here ! Up there
so-and-so and so-and-so—all have made their way
But my career and fortune? .... I alone have re-y jmained behind .... but why? what is the reason?' He cast about in anxiety and did not know how to speak to his mother of his plans of going away.
But his mother very soon saved him this trouble: she died. ~~ ~ '
^ This was what he finally wrote to his uncle and aunt in Petersburg. To his aunt:
' Before I left Petersburg, ma tante, with tears in your eyes you sent me on my way with some precious words which have remained printed on my memory. You said, ' If I should ever want warm affection, sincere sympathy, there would always remain a niche in your heart for me.'
The moment came when I understood all the value of these words. The claims which you so generously gave me on your heart mean for me a guarantee of peace, of tranquillity, consolation, and rest—perhaps of happiness for all my life. Three months ago my mother died; I will not add another word. You know from her letters what she was for me, what I have lost in her. I am now leaving here for ever. But where, a solitary pilgrim, should I take my way if not to the place where you are ? . . . . Tell me only one thing: shall I find in you what I left behind a year and a half ago ? Have you not cast me out of your memory ? Will you consent to the dreary duty of healing with your affection—which has already delivered me more than once from grief—a new and deep wound ? All my hopes I rest on you and on another powerful ally—activity.
' You wonder, do you not ? It seems strange to you to hear this from me—to read those lines written in a tranquil strain so unnatural to me ? Do not wonder, and don't be afraid of my return; you will see, not a raving enthusiast, nor a sentimentalist, nor a disillusioned cynic, nor a provincial, but simply a man such as there are many more in Petersburg, and such as I ought long ago to have become. Reassure my uncle especially on that score. When I look back on my past life, I feel uneasy and ashamed both of others and of myself. But it could not have been otherwise. Now only I have recognised my errors—at thirtyj_ The painful discipline I went through in Petersburg and meditation in the country have made my course fully clear to me. Here, removed to a respectful distance from my uncle's lessons and my own experience, I have pondered them in tranquillity more clear-sightedly, and I see what they ought to have led me to long ago; I see how miserably and irrationally I have turned away from the right aim. I am now calm ; I am not torn and harassed, but I do not plume myself on this. It may be that this calm is even yet tne result of egoism ; I feel, however, that soon my insight into life will grow clear enough for me to discover another source of peace—a purer one. At present I cannot still help regretting that I have now reached the boundary where, alas ! youth is over and the time has come for reflection, self-control, and the restraint of every emotion—the time of consciousness.
'Though perhaps my opinion of men and of life has changed, too, a little, much of my hopefulness has vanished, many of my desires have grown weaker; in a word, my illusions are dissipated; consequently, it will not be my lot to be mistaken and deceived in many things or many people, and this is very consolatory from one point of view. And I look forward to a brighter future; the most painful part is past; my passions I do not dread, for few of them are left; the most important are over, and I look back on them with thankfulness. I am ashamed to remember that I regarded myself as a victim : I cursed life, and my lot—I cursed it! What miserable childishness and ingratitude ! How long I was in seeing that sufferings purify the soul, that they make a man tolerable to himself and to others ;
they raise him I acknowledge now that not to have
one's shares of sorrows means not to have one's full share in life j there are many problems in them, the solution of which we shall see, perhaps, not here. I see in these distresses the hand of Providence, which seems to set man an endless task —to strive forward, to reach higher than the aim he proposes to himself through hourly conflict with deceitful hopes, with tormenting obstacles. Yes, I see how indispensable is this conflict, are these emotions to life; how life without them would not be life, but stagnation,
slumber The conflict over, and life is at an end ; the
man was busy, loved; was happy, suffered ; was distressed,
did his work; and thus he lived !
•^ ' You see how I reason; I have come out of darkness,
' -and I see that all my life up till now has been a kind of
^ • laborious preparation for the true way, a difficult app rentice^
¦ vShiptolife. Something tells me that the rest ofTneway
^. f '^wiilBe^easier, calmer, plainer The dark places have
: ^ x grown light; hard knots have unloosed themselves; life begins to seem a blessing, not an evil. Soon I shall say again, how fair a thing is life ! But I shall say it, not as a N boy praising the pleasure of the moment, but with a full
knowledge of its true pleasures and pajis. Moreover, death itself is not terrible; it presents itself not as a fearful but as a glorious experience. And now there is in my soul a sense of unknown peace; childish annoyances, the sting of wounded vanity, puerile irritability, and comic anger with the world and men, like the anger of a puppy with an elephant—all is
over. I have grown friendly again with those with whom I was so long estranged—my fellow-creatures, who, I may remark in passing, are the same here as in Petersburg, only a little rougher, a little coarser, a little more ridiculous. But I do not lose patience with them even here, and there I shall be far from losing patience. Here is an example of my urbanity for you: a ridiculous creature, a certain Anton Ivanitch, drives over to me to stay with me, to share my sorrow, it seems. To-morrow he will go to a wedding at a neighbour's—to share their joy, and then to some one else —to share the duties of the monthly nurse. But neither sorrow nor joy will hinder him from eating four times a day at every house. I see that it is all the same to him whether some one is dead or born or married, yet it's not repugnant to me to look at him; it does not vex me. I put up with
him, I don't repulse him It's a good sign, isn't it, ma
tante? What will you say when you read this praise of myself? '
To his uncle:
<l Dear and beloved uncle, and your Excellency withal!
' With what delight I learnt that your career had been completed by this dignity! You are actually a Councillor of State—you the director of a chancery office ! I am so bold as to remind you of the promise you gave me on my departure. * When you want office, employment, or money, turn to me,' you said. And now here I am in want of office and employment; money, of course, I want as well. The poor provincial ventures to beg for a place and work. What reception awaits my request? Is it such a reception as once befel a letter from Zayeshaloff begging you to busy yourself about his lawsuit? .... As to the 'creative genius' of which you had the cruelty to remind me in one of your letters, well .... isn't it too bad of you to bring up long-forgotten follies, when I myself blush for them ? . . . . Fie, uncle ! for shame, your Excellency ! Who has not been young and, on some points, foolish ? Who has not had some strange, so-called ' sacred' dream which was never destined to come to anything ? My neighbour here on the right fancied himself a hero, a giant, a warrior before the Lord. He wanted to astonish the world by his exploits, and it has all ended in his becoming an ensign on the retired list without ever having seen service; and he is peacefully
digging potatoes and sowing turnips. Another one on my left dreamed of reforming Russia and the whole world after his own fashion, and he, after copying deeds for some time in the Courts of Justice, has retired here, and so far has not even succeeded in reforming his old fence. I thought that I had been endowed with creative talent from on high, and I wanted to reveal to the world new unknown mysteries, not suspecting that there are now no mysteries, and I am not a prophet. We are all ridiculous; but tell me who, without a blush for himself, will venture to stigmatise as wholly bad these youthful, generous, ardent, though not altogether rational ideals ? Who
