‘When you open this letter’ (so the first began), ‘look first at the signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I need explain nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any way on a footing with you, you might be offended at my audacity; but who am I, and who are you? We are at such extremes, and I am so far removed from you, that I could not offend you if I wished to do so.’
Farther on, in another place, she wrote: ‘Do not consider my words as the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, in my opinion—perfection! I have seen you—I see you every day. I do not judge you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reason and found you Perfection—it is simply an article of faith. But I must confess one sin against you—I love you. One should not love perfection. One should only look on it as perfection—yet I am in love with you. Though love equalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my level, even in my most secret thoughts. I have written ‘Do not fear,’ as if you could fear. I would kiss your footprints if I
could; but, oh! I am not putting myself on a level with you!— Look at the signature—quick, look at the signature!’
‘However, observe’ (she wrote in another of the letters), ‘that although I couple you with him, yet I have not once
asked you whether you love him. He fell in love with you, though he saw you but once. He spoke of you as of ‘the light.’ These are his own words—I heard him use them. But I un-derstood without his saying it that you were all that light is to him. I lived near him for a whole month, and I under-stood then that you, too, must love him. I think of you and him as one.’
‘What was the matter yesterday?’ (she wrote on another sheet). ‘I passed by 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 the revelation of undis-guised vice—you should not blush. You can never feel the 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. No one can wrong YOU. Do you know, I think you ought to love me—for you are the same in my eyes as in his-you are as light. An angel cannot hate, per-haps cannot love, either. I often ask myself—is it possible to love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract love of humanity is nearly always love of self. But you are different. You cannot help loving all, since you can com-pare with none, and are above all personal offence or anger. Oh! how bitter it would be to me to know that you felt anger or shame on my account, for that would be your fall—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 Gospel stories. I should do differently. I should represent Christ alone—the disciples did leave Him alone occasion-ally. I should paint one little child left with Him. This child has been playing about near Him, and had probably just been telling the Saviour something in its pretty baby prattle. Christ had listened to it, but was now musing—one hand reposing on the child’s bright head. His eyes have a far-away expression. 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 cheek resting on its hand, gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes do ponder. The sun is set-ting. 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 be near 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 I humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to that class of people who take a satisfaction in hu-miliating themselves—from pride. I have my consolation, though it would be dificult to explain it—but I do not hu-miliate myself.
‘Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For my own sake, 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 sister Adelaida saw my por-trait she said that such beauty could overthrow the world. But I have renounced the world. You think it strange that I should say so, for you saw me decked with lace and dia-monds, in the company of drunkards and wastrels. Take no notice of that; I know that I have almost ceased to ex-ist. God knows what it is dwelling within me now—it is not myself. I can see it every day in two dreadful eyes which are always looking at me, even when not present. These eyes are silent now, they say nothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, and there is a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a razor hidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscow murderer had. 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 a throat.
‘All the while I was in their house I felt sure that some-where beneath the floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse, wrapped in oil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, who knows? Just as in the Moscow case. I could have shown you the very spot!
‘He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so much that he must hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the same day; so I have arranged with him. I have no secrets from him. I would kill him from very 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 of them was very long.
1At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in which he had wandered about for hours just as yester-day. The bright night seemed to him to be lighter than ever.
‘It must be quite early,’ he thought. (He had 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 felt that he must gravitate to this spot eventually, and, with a beating heart, he mounted the ve-randah steps.
No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly pitch dark. He opened the door into the room, but it, too, was dark and empty. He stood in the middle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly the door opened, and in came Alexan-dra, candle in hand. Seeing the prince she stopped before him in surprise, looking at him questioningly.
It was clear that she had been merely passing through the room from door to 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, and I 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 ear-lier? Perhaps you were expected!’
‘I thought’ he stammered, making for the door.
‘Au revoir! I shall amuse them all with this story tomor-row!’
He walked along the road towards his own house. His heart was beating, his thoughts were confused, everything around seemed to be part of a dream.
And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked from sleep with the same vision, that very apparition now seemed to rise up before him. The woman appeared to step out from the park, and stand in the path in front of him, as though she had been waiting for him there.
He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and pressed it frenziedly.
No, this was no apparition!
There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the first time since their parting.
She said something, but he looked silently back at her. His heart ached with
