But after all, why all this talk, this self-analysis, which reveals the most hidden motives of feelings which could not be penetrated by anyone? Yet, with me as with Dmitri Sergéitch, this self-confession is made for my own benefit, so that I might say, “I am not to blame here; the matter depended on something that was beyond my control.” I make this remark because Dmitri Sergéitch was fond of such remarks. I want to praise myself before you, my friend.
But enough of this.85 You felt so much sympathy for me that you did not grudge spending several hours’ time in writing your long letter—and oh, how precious it was to me! I see from this letter how diplomatically I have learned to write—in a style like Dmitri Sergéitch’s or yours; yes, from this, and only from this, I see how interesting it will be for you to know what happened to me after Dmitri Sergéitch took leave from me, on his way to Moscow, with the intention of returning and disappearing. After his return from Riazan he saw that I was disturbed. This disturbance was manifested only on his return. While he was staying in Riazan, I, to tell you the truth, did not think about him much; no, not as much as you might suppose, judging by what he saw after his return. But when he left for Moscow, I saw that he had something particular in view. It was noticeable that he wound up his business in Petersburg; it was evident that for a week he was waiting for their final issue in order to go, and then—how could it happen otherwise? During the last days I noticed the melancholy in his face—that face which was so clever at hiding mysteries; I anticipated that something decisive was in prospect, and when he took his place in the car, I felt so sad, so sad! On the next day I was melancholy; on the third day I got up still more oppressed, and suddenly Masha brought me a letter. What a tormenting moment it was, what a tormenting hour, what a tormenting day, you can imagine!
And so, my friend, now more than before, I know my attachment to Dmitri Sergéitch. I myself did not realize that it was so powerful. Yes, my friend, I now know its strength. You, too, know, because you must certainly know that on that very day I decided to give up Aleksandr. All day I felt that my life was ruined—poisoned forever. Can you imagine my childish exultation when I saw my kind friend’s note, which entirely changed the current of my thoughts (you see how careful my expressions are; I want you to be satisfied with me, my friend). You know all this, because Rakhmétof went to escort me to the train. Dmitri Sergéitch and he were right in saying that it was necessary for me to leave Petersburg for the accomplishment of the effect, for the sake of which Dmitri Sergéitch did not scruple to leave me all day a prey to the most terrible tortures: how thankful I am to him for this unmercifulness! He and Rakhmétof were also right in advising Aleksandr not to come to me, nor to escort me. But I had no necessity of going to Moscow; it was only necessary for me to go as far as Moscow, so I stopped at Novgorod. A few days later Aleksandr came there, and brought the documents in regard to Dmitri Sergéitch’s suicide. We were married a week after the suicide, and we lived a month on the railroad in Tchudof, so that Aleksandr might be enabled to go three or four times a week to the hospital. Yesterday we returned to Petersburg, and here is the reason that I have been so long answering your letter: it lay in Masha’s drawer, and she had entirely forgotten about it. And you must have thought—God knows what—at not having received an answer during all this time.
I press your hand, my dear. But please don’t write any compliments to me, else I shall pour out before you my whole soul, and a perfect flood of encomiums on your nobleness, which would be the worst thing imaginable, and do you know what I think? Does it not prove the presence of a pretty good amount of stupidity, both in you and in me, by writing each other only a few lines. It seems as though it proved that both of us felt ourselves embarrassed. However, on my part, it is excusable; but what excuse have you? But the next time we shall be able to argue freely, and I shall write you a heap of news.
III
These letters, absolutely sincere, were really somewhat warped, as Viéra Pavlovna herself noticed. Both correspondents of course were trying to diminish for each other the strength of the heavy shocks which they experienced. Oh, these people are shrewd! I have often heard from them—that is, from them and people of their stamp—such things as made me laugh in spite of their pathetical assurances that, such and such a thing was easy to endure. Of course I laughed when the assurances were made before me who was a stranger to them and talking with them in tête-à-tête. And when the very same thing was said to a man who had to listen to it, then I used to admit that such and such things were really trifles. An honorable man is a most amusing creature. I always used to laugh at all the honorable men with whom I was acquainted. A most amusing creature, even to the point of absurdity! Here, let us take these letters. I am partially used to tricks of this sort, even while entertaining friendship with such gentlemen and ladies. Well (nu), but what effect can
