The Diary of a Superfluous Man and Other Stories

VILLAGE OF X——, June 30, 1840.

How grateful I am to you for your letter, Alexey Petrovitch! How much good it did me! I see you really are a good and trustworthy man, and so I shall not be reserved with you. I trust you. I know you would make no unkind use of my openness, and will give me friendly counsel. Here is the question.

You noticed at the end of my letter a phrase which you did not quite like. I will tell what it had reference to. There is one of the neighbours here … he was not here when you were, and you have not seen him. He … I could marry him if I liked; he is still young, well-educated, and has property. There are no difficulties on the part of my parents; on the contrary, they—I know for a fact—desire this marriage. He is a good man, and I think he loves me … but he is so spiritless and narrow, his aspirations are so limited, that I cannot but be conscious of my superiority to him. He is aware of this, and as it were rejoices in it, and that is just what sets me against him. I cannot respect him, though he has an excellent heart. What am I to do? tell me! Think for me and write me your opinion sincerely.

But how grateful I am to you for your letter!… Do you know, I have been haunted at times by such bitter thoughts…. Do you know, I had come to the point of being almost ashamed of every feeling—not of enthusiasm only, but even of faith; I used to shut a book with vexation whenever there was anything about hope or happiness in it, and turned away from a cloudless sky, from the fresh green of the trees, from everything that was smiling and joyful. What a painful condition it was! I say, was … as though it were over!

I don't know whether it is over; I know hat if it does not return I am indebted to you for it. Do you see, Alexey Petrovitch, how much good you have done, perhaps, without suspecting it yourself! By the way, do you know I feel very sorry for you? We are now in the full blaze of summer, the days are exquisite, the sky blue and brilliant…. It couldn't be lovelier in Italy even, and you are staying in the stifling, baking town, and walking on the burning pavement. What induces you to do so? You might at least move into some summer villa out of town. They say there are bright spots at Peterhof, on the sea-coast.

I should like to write more to you, but it's impossible. Such a sweet fragrance comes in from the garden that I can't stay indoors. I am going to put on my hat and go for a walk.

… Good-bye till another time, good Alexey Petrovitch. Yours devotedly, M. B.

P.S.—I forgot to tell you … only fancy, that witty gentleman, about whom I wrote to you the other day, has made me a declaration of love, and in the most ardent terms. I thought at first he was laughing at me; but he finished up with a formal proposal—what do you think of him, after all his libels! But he is positively too old. Yesterday evening, to tease him, I sat down to the piano before the open window, in the moonlight, and played Beethoven. It was so nice to feel its cold light on my face, so delicious to fill the fragrant night air with the sublime music, through which one could hear at times the singing of a nightingale. It is long since I have been so happy. But write to me about what I asked you at the beginning of my letter; it is very important.

XII

FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

ST. PETERSBURG, July 8, 1840.

DEAR MARYA ALEXANDROVNA,—Here is my opinion in a couple of words: both the old bachelor and the young suitor—overboard with them both! There is no need even to consider it. Neither of them is worthy of you— that's as clear as that twice two makes four. The young neighbour is very likely a good-natured person, but that's enough about him! I am convinced that there is nothing in common between him and you, and you can fancy how amusing it would be for you to live together! Besides, why be in a hurry? Is it a possible thing that a woman like you—I don't want to pay compliments, and that's why I don't expatiate further—that such a woman should meet no one who would be capable of appreciating her? No, Marya Alexandrovna, listen to me, if you really believe that I am your friend, and that my advice is of use. But confess, it was agreeable to see the old scoffer at your feet…. If I had been in your place, I'd have kept him singing Beethoven's Adelaida and gazing at the moon the whole night long.

Enough of them, though,—your adorers! It's not of them I want to talk to you to-day. I am in a strange, half- irritated, half-emotional state of mind to-day, in consequence of a letter I got yesterday. I am enclosing a copy of it to you. This letter was written by one of my friends of long ago, a colleague in the service, a good-natured but rather limited person. He went abroad two years ago, and till now has not written to me once. Here is his letter.— N.B. He is very good-looking.

'CHER ALEXIS,—I am in Naples, sitting at the window in my room, in Chiaja. The weather is superb. I have been staring a long while at the sea, then I was seized with impatience, and suddenly the brilliant idea entered my head of writing a letter to you. I always felt drawn to you, my dear boy—on my honour I did. And so now I feel an inclination to pour out my soul into your bosom … that's how one expresses it, I believe, in your exalted language. And why I've been overcome with impatience is this. I'm expecting a friend—a woman; we're going together to Baiae to eat oysters and oranges, and see the tanned shepherds in red caps dance the tarantella, to bask in the sun, like lizards—in short, to enjoy life to the utmost. My dear boy, I am more happy than I can possibly tell you.

If only I had your style—oh! what a picture I would draw for you! But unfortunately, as you are aware, I'm an illiterate person. The woman I am expecting, and who has kept me now more than a hour continually starting and looking at the door, loves me—but how I love her I fancy even your fluent pen could not describe.

'I must tell you that it is three months since I got to know her, and from the very first day of our acquaintance my love mounts continually crescendo, like a chromatic scale, higher and higher, and at the present moment I am simply in the seventh heaven. I jest, but in reality my devotion to this woman is something extraordinary, supernatural. Fancy, I scarcely talk to her, I can do nothing but stare at her, and laugh like a fool. I sit at her feet, I feel that I'm awfully silly and happy, simply inexcusably happy. It sometimes happens that she lays her hand on my head…. Well, I tell you, simply … But there, you can't understand it; you 're a philosopher and always were a philosopher. Her name is Nina, Ninetta, as you like; she's the daughter of a rich merchant here. Fine as any of your Raphaels; fiery as gunpowder, gay, so clever that it's amazing how she can care for a fool like me; she sings like a bird, and her eyes …

'Please excuse this unintentional break…. I fancied the door creaked…. No, she's not coming yet, the heartless wretch! You will ask me how all this is going to end, and what I intend to do with myself, and whether I shall stay here long? I know nothing about it, my boy, and I don't want to. What will be, will be…. Why, if one were to be for ever stopping and considering … 'She! … she's running up the staircase, singing…. She is here. Well, my boy, good-bye…. I've no time for you now, I'm so sorry. She has bespattered the whole letter; she slapped a wet nosegay down on the paper. For the first moment, she thought I was writing to a woman; when she knew that it was to a friend, she told me to send her greetings, and ask you if you have any flowers, and whether they are sweet? Well, good-bye. … If you could hear her laughing. Silver can't ring like it; and the good-nature in every note of it—you want to kiss her little feet for it. We are going, going. Don't mind the untidy smudges, and envy yours, M.'

The letter was in fact bespattered all over, and smelt of orange-blossom … two white petals had stuck to the paper. This letter has agitated me…. I remember my stay in Naples…. The weather was magnificent then too—May was just beginning; I had just reached twenty-two; but I knew no Ninetta. I sauntered about alone, consumed with a thirst for bliss, at once torturing and sweet, so sweet that it was, as it were, like bliss itself. … Ah, what is it to be young! … I remember I went out once for a row in the bay. There were two of us; the boatman and I … what did you imagine? What a night it was, and what a sky, what stars, how they quivered and broke on the waves! with what delicate flame the water flashed and glimmered under the oars, what delicious fragrance filled the whole sea—cannot describe this, 'eloquent' though my style may be. In the harbour was a French ship of the line. It was all red with lights; long streaks of red, the reflection of the lighted windows, stretched over the dark sea. The captain of the ship was giving a ball. The gay music floated across to me in snatches at long intervals. I recall in particular the trill of a little flute in the midst of the deep blare of the trumpets; it seemed to flit, like a butterfly, about my boat. I bade the man row to the ship; twice he took me round it. … I caught glimpses at the windows of women's figures, borne gaily round in the whirl-wind of the waltz…. I told the boatman to row away, far away, straight into the darkness…. I remember a long while the music persistently pursued me…. At last the sounds died