hiding-place; then youthought of another plan and hoodwinked them once again. You remember allthis quite clearly, but how is it that your reason calmly accepted allthe manifest absurdities and impossibilities that crowded into yourdream? One of the murderers suddenly changed into a woman before yourvery eyes; then the woman was transformed into a hideous, cunning littledwarf; and you believed it, and accepted it all almost as a matter ofcourse--while at the same time your intelligence seemed unusually keen,and accomplished miracles of cunning, sagacity, and logic! Why is itthat when you awake to the world of realities you nearly always feel,sometimes very vividly, that the vanished dream has carried with it someenigma which you have failed to solve? You smile at the extravaganceof your dream, and yet you feel that this tissue of absurdity containedsome real idea, something that belongs to your true life,--somethingthat exists, and has always existed, in your heart. You search yourdream for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has left a deepimpression upon you, joyful or cruel, but what it means, or what hasbeen predicted to you in it, you can neither understand nor remember.
The reading of these letters produced some such effect upon the prince.He felt, before he even opened the envelopes, that the very fact oftheir existence was like a nightmare. How could she ever have made upher mind to write to her? he asked himself. How could she write aboutthat at all? And how could such a wild idea have entered her head?And yet, the strangest part of the matter was, that while he read theletters, he himself almost believed in the possibility, and even in thejustification, of the idea he had thought so wild. Of course it was amad dream, a nightmare, and yet there was something cruelly real aboutit. For hours he was haunted by what he had read. Several passagesreturned again and again to his mind, and as he brooded over them, hefelt inclined to say to himself that he had foreseen and known all thatwas written here; it even seemed to him that he had read the whole ofthis some time or other, long, long ago; and all that had tormented andgrieved him up to now was to be found in these old, long since read,letters.
“When you open this letter” (so the first began), “look first at thesignature. The signature will tell you all, so that I need explainnothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any way on a footingwith you, you might be offended at my audacity; but who am I, and whoare you? We are at such extremes, and I am so far removed from you, thatI could not offend you if I wished to do so.”
Farther on, in another place, she wrote: “Do not consider my wordsas the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, in myopinion--perfection! I have seen you--I see you every day. I do notjudge you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reason and found youPerfection--it is simply an article of faith. But I must confess one sinagainst you--I love you. One should not love perfection. One shouldonly look on it as perfection--yet I am in love with you. Though loveequalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my level, even inmy most secret thoughts. I have written ‘Do not fear,’ as if you couldfear. I would kiss your footprints if I could; but, oh! I am not puttingmyself on a level with you!--Look at the signature--quick, look at thesignature!”
“However, observe” (she wrote in another of the letters), “that althoughI couple you with him, yet I have not once asked you whether you lovehim. He fell in love with you, though he saw you but once. He spoke ofyou as of ‘the light.’ These are his own words--I heard him use them.But I understood without his saying it that you were all that light isto him. I lived near him for a whole month, and I understood then thatyou, too, must love him. I think of you and him as one.”
“What was the matter yesterday?” (she wrote on another sheet). “I passedby you, and you seemed to me to _blush_. Perhaps it was only my fancy.If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, and show you therevelation of undisguised vice--you should not blush. You can never feelthe sense of personal affront. You may hate all who are mean, or base,or unworthy--but not for yourself--only for those whom they wrong. Noone can wrong _you_. Do you know, I think you ought to love me--for youare the same in my eyes as in his--you are as light. An angel cannothate, perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself--is it possible tolove everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract loveof humanity is nearly always love of self. But you are different. Youcannot help loving all, since you can compare with none, and are aboveall personal offence or anger. Oh! how bitter it would be to me toknow that you felt anger or shame on my account, for that would be yourfall--you would become comparable at once with such as me.
“Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out a picture.
“Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the Gospelstories. I should do differently. I should represent Christ alone--thedisciples did leave Him alone occasionally. I should paint one littlechild left with Him. This child has been playing about near Him, andhad probably just been telling the Saviour something in its prettybaby prattle. Christ had listened to it, but was now musing--onehand reposing on the child’s bright head. His eyes have a far-awayexpression. Thought, great as the Universe, is in them--His face is sad.The little one leans its elbow upon Christ’s knee, and with its cheekresting on its hand, gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes doponder. The sun is setting. There you have my picture.
“You are innocent--and in your innocence lies all your perfection--oh,remember that! What is my passion to you?--you are mine now; I shall benear you all my life--I shall not live long!”
At length, in the last letter of all, he found:
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t misunderstand me! Do not think that Ihumiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to that classof people who take a satisfaction in humiliating themselves--from pride.I have my consolation, though it would be difficult to explain it--but Ido not humiliate myself.
“Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For my ownsake, naturally. All the problems of my life would thus be solved;I have thought so for a long time. I know that once when your sisterAdelaida saw my portrait she said that such beauty could overthrowthe world. But I have renounced the world. You think it strange thatI should say so, for you saw me decked with lace and diamonds, in thecompany of drunkards and wastrels. Take no notice of that; I know thatI have almost ceased to exist. God knows what it is dwelling within menow--it is not myself. I can see it every day in two dreadful eyes whichare always looking at me, even when not present. These eyes are silentnow, they say nothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, andthere is a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a razorhidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscow murdererhad. This man also lived with his mother, and had a razor hidden away,tied round with white silk, and with this razor he intended to cut athroat.
“All the while I was in their house I felt sure that somewhere beneaththe floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse, wrapped inoil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, who knows? Just as in theMoscow case. I could have shown you the very spot!
“He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so much that hemust hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the same day; so I havearranged with him. I have no secrets from him. I would kill him fromvery fright, but he will kill me first. He has just burst out laughing,and says that I am raving. He knows I am writing to you.”
There was much more of this delirious wandering in the letters--one ofthem was very long.
At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in which he hadwandered about for hours just as yesterday. The bright night seemed tohim to be lighter than ever. “It must be quite early,” he thought. (Hehad forgotten his watch.) There was a sound of distant music somewhere.“Ah,” he thought, “the Vauxhall! They won’t be there today, of course!” At this moment he noticed that he was close to their house; he had feltthat he must gravitate to this spot eventually, and, with a beatingheart, he mounted the verandah steps.
No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly pitch dark. He openedthe door into the room, but it, too, wa
s dark and empty. He stood in themiddle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly the door opened, and in cameAlexandra, candle in hand. Seeing the prince she stopped before him insurprise, looking at him questioningly.
It was clear that she had been merely passing through the room from doorto door, and had not had the remotest notion that she would meet anyone.
“How did you come here?” she asked, at last.
“I--I--came in--”
“Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has gone to bed, andI am just going. We were alone the whole evening. Father and Prince S.have gone to town.”
“I have come to you--now--to--”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“N--no!”
“Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one.”
“I--I thought it was half-past nine!”
“Never mind!” she laughed, “but why didn’t you come earlier? Perhaps youwere expected!”
“I thought” he stammered, making for the door.
“_Au revoir!_ I
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