’Never to weep with
joy, like the first Jew
Upon the border of the promised
land’!
These two lines of Fet’s remind me of others,
also his.... Do you remember once, as we stood
in the highroad, we saw in the distance a cloud of
pink dust, blown up by the light breeze against the
setting sun? ‘In an eddying cloud,’
you began, and we were all still at once to listen:
’In an eddying cloud
Dust rises in the distance
...
Rider or man on foot
Is seen not in the dust.
I see some one trotting
On a gallant steed ...
Friend of mine, friend far
away,
Think! oh, think of me!’
You ceased ... we all felt a shudder pass over us,
as though the breath of love had flitted over our
hearts, and each of us—I am sure of it—felt
irresistibly drawn into the distance, the unknown distance,
where the phantom of bliss rises and lures through
the mist. And all the while, observe the strangeness;
why, one wonders, should we have a yearning for the
far away? Were we not in love with each other?
Was not happiness ‘so close, so possible’?
As I asked you just now: why was it we did not
touch the longed-for shore? Because falsehood
walked hand in hand with us; because it poisoned our
best feelings; because everything in us was artificial
and strained; because we did not love each other at
all, but were only trying to love, fancying we loved....
But enough, enough! why inflame one’s wounds?
Besides, it is all over and done with. What was
good in our past moved me, and on that good I will
take leave of you for a while. It’s time
to make an end of this long letter. I am going
out for a breath here of the May air, in which spring
is breaking through the dry fastness of winter with
a sort of damp, keen warmth. Farewell.—Yours,
A. S.
FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
VILLAGE OF X——,_May_ 1840.
I have received your letter, Alexey Petrovitch, and
do you know what feeling t aroused in me?—indignation
... yes, indignation ... and I will explain to you
at once why it aroused just that feeling in me.
It’s only a pity I’m not a great hand with
my pen; I rarely write, and am not good at expressing
my thoughts precisely and in few words. But you
will, I hope, come to my aid. You must try, on
your side, to understand me, if only to find out why
I am indignant with you.
Tell me—you have brains—have
you ever asked yourself what sort of creature a Russian
woman is? what is her destiny? her position in the
world—in short, what is her life? I
don’t know if you have had time to put this
question to yourself; I can’t picture to myself
how you would answer it.... I should, perhaps,
in conversation be capable of giving you my ideas
on the subject, but on paper I am scarcely equal to
it. No matter, though. This is the point:
