Novels, Tales, Journeys

I’ve become more closely acquainted with Mashenka * * * and have come to love her; there is much in her that is good, much that is original. I learned by chance that * * * is their close relative. Mashenka hasn’t seen him for seven years, but she admires him. He spent one summer with them, and Mashenka constantly recounts all the details of his life then. Reading her novels, I find his observations in the margins, written faintly in pencil; one can see he was a child then. He was struck by thoughts and feelings that he would certainly laugh at now; at any rate one can see a fresh, sensitive soul. I do a great deal of reading. You cannot imagine how strange it is to read in 1829 a novel written in 1775. It’s as if we suddenly step out of our drawing room into an old-fashioned hall, the walls covered in damask, sit down on fluffy satin-upholstered armchairs, see strange dresses around us, yet the faces are familiar, and we recognize in them our uncles, our grandmothers, but grown young. For the most part these novels have no other virtue. The action is entertaining, the plot well entangled—but Bellecourt speaks askew, and Charlotte replies awry.6 An intelligent person could take the ready plot, the ready characters, straighten out the style and the absurdities, fill in what is left unsaid, and come up with an excellent, original novel. Tell that to my ungrateful R. from me. Enough of his wasting his intelligence in conversations with Englishwomen! Let him take an old canvas and embroider a new pattern on it, and present to us, in a small frame, a picture of the society and people he knows so well.

Masha knows Russian literature well—in general, people are more interested in it here than in Petersburg. Here they receive magazines, take a lively part in their squabbles, believe alternately in both sides, get angry if their favorite writer is criticized. Now I understand why Vyazemsky and Pushkin are so fond of provincial young ladies.7 They are their true public. I was glancing at some magazines and started with the critiques in the Herald of Europe,8 but I found their platitudes and servility repulsive—it’s funny to see how a seminarian pompously denounces works as immoral and improper, when we have all read them, we—the St. Petersburg touch-me-nots!…

6. LIZA TO SASHA

My dear! it is impossible for me to pretend any longer, I need the help and advice of a friend. The one I ran away from, whom I fear like misfortune, * * *, is here. What am I to do? My head is spinning, I’m at a loss, for God’s sake decide what I’m to do. I’ll tell you all…

You noticed last winter that he never left my side. He didn’t call on us, but we saw each other everywhere. In vain I armed myself with coldness, even with an air of disdain—in no way could I get rid of him. At balls he eternally found himself a place beside me, at promenades he eternally ran into us, in the theater his lorgnette was aimed at our box.

At first this flattered my amour-propre. Maybe I allowed him to notice it all too well. At any rate, appropriating new rights for himself, he spoke to me all the time about his feelings, now being jealous, now complaining…With horror I thought: where is all this leading? And with despair I recognized his power over my soul. I left Petersburg, thinking to cut off the evil at the very beginning. My resoluteness, my assurance that I had fulfilled my duty, was easing my heart, I was beginning to think about him with more indifference, with less sadness. Suddenly I see him.

I see him: yesterday was * * *’s name day. I came for dinner, I go into the drawing room, I find a crowd of guests, uhlan uniforms, ladies surround me, I exchange kisses with them all. Noticing no one, I sit down next to the hostess, I look: * * * is there in front of me. I was dumbfounded…He said a few words to me with a look of such tender, sincere joy that I had no strength to conceal either my perplexity or my pleasure.