to do, what is to be her refuge, when an inner voice
begins to whisper to her that all of them are right
and she was wrong, that life, whatever it may be,
is better than dreams, as health is better than sickness
... when her favourite pursuits, her favourite books,
grow hateful to her, books out of which there is no
reading happiness—what, tell me, is to
be her support? Must she not inevitably succumb
in such a struggle? how is she to live and to go on
living in such a desert? To know oneself beaten
and to hold out one’s hand, like a beggar, to
persons quite indifferent, for them to bestow the sympathy
which the proud heart had once fancied it could well
dispense with—all that would be nothing!
But to feel yourself ludicrous at the very instant
when you are shedding bitter, bitter tears ...
O God, spare such suffering!...
My hands are trembling, and I am quite in a fever....
My face burns. It is time to stop.... I’ll
send off this letter quickly, before I’m ashamed
of its feebleness. But for God’s sake, in
your answer not a word—do you hear?—not
a word of sympathy, or I’ll never write to you
again. Understand me: I should not like you
to take this letter as the outpouring of a misunderstood
soul, complaining.... Ah! I don’t
care!—Good-bye.
M.
FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA
ST. PETERSBURG, May 28, 1840.
Marya Alexandrovna, you are a splendid person ...
you ... your letter revealed the truth to me at last!
My God! what suffering! A man is constantly thinking
that now at last he has reached simplicity, that he’s
no longer showing off, humbugging, lying ... but when
you come to look at him more attentively, he’s
become almost worse than before. And this, too,
one must remark: the man himself, alone that is,
never attains this self-recognition, try as he will;
his eyes cannot see his own defects, just as the compositor’s
wearied eyes cannot see the slips he makes; another
fresh eye is needed for that. My thanks to you,
Marya Alexandrovna.... You see, I speak to you
of myself; of you I dare not speak.... Ah, how
absurd my last letter seems to me now, so flowery and
sentimental! I beg you earnestly, go on with your
confession. I fancy you, too, will be the better
for it, and it will do me great good. It’s
a true saying: ‘A woman’s wit’s
better than many a reason,’ and a woman’s
heart’s far and away—by God, yes!
If women knew how much better, nobler, and wiser they
are than men—yes, wiser—they
would grow conceited and be spoiled. But happily
they don’t know it; they don’t know it
because their intelligence isn’t in the habit
of turning incessantly upon themselves, as with us.
They think very little about themselves—that’s
their weakness and their strength; that’s the
whole secret—I won’t say of our superiority,
but of our power. They lavish their soul, as
a prodigal heir does his father’s gold, while
