White Nights Page #13

"White Nights," a novella by Fyodor Dostoevsky, is a poignant exploration of dreams, love, and loneliness set against the backdrop of St. Petersburg's enchanting white nights. The story follows an unnamed narrator, a lonely and introverted young man, who encounters a mysterious woman named Nastenka. Over the course of four nights, they share their dreams, hopes, and vulnerabilities, forming an intense emotional connection. As their relationship unfolds, the narrator grapples with his feelings of unrequited love and the bittersweet nature of human connection. Through this intimate narrative, Dostoevsky delves into themes of isolation, longing, and the complexity of romantic relationships.

• Novel

								

has occurred to me now? I was comparing you two. Why isn't he you? Why
isn't he like you? He is not as good as you, though I love him more than
you."

I made no answer. She seemed to expect me to say something.

"Of course, it may be that I don't understand him fully yet. You know I
was always as it were afraid of him; he was always so grave, as it were
so proud. Of course I know it's only that he seems like that, I know
there is more tenderness in his heart than in mine.... I remember how he
looked at me when I went in to him--do you remember?--with my bundle;
but yet I respect him too much, and doesn't that show that we are not
equals?"

"No, Nastenka, no," I answered, "it shows that you love him more than
anything in the world, and far more than yourself."

"Yes, supposing that is so," answered Nastenka naïvely. "But do you know
what strikes me now? Only I am not talking about him now, but speaking
generally; all this came into my mind some time ago. Tell me, how is it
that we can't all be like brothers together? Why is it that even the
best of men always seem to hide something from other people and to keep
something back? Why not say straight out what is in one's heart, when
one knows that one is not speaking idly? As it is every one seems
harsher than he really is, as though all were afraid of doing injustice
to their feelings, by being too quick to express them."

"Oh, Nastenka, what you say is true; but there are many reasons for
that," I broke in suppressing my own feelings at that moment more than
ever.

"No, no!" she answered with deep feeling. "Here you, for instance, are
not like other people! I really don't know how to tell you what I feel;
but it seems to me that you, for instance ... at the present moment ...
it seems to me that you are sacrificing something for me," she added
timidly, with a fleeting glance at me. "Forgive me for saying so, I am a
simple girl you know. I have seen very little of life, and I really
sometimes don't know how to say things," she added in a voice that
quivered with some hidden feeling, while she tried to smile; "but I only
wanted to tell you that I am grateful, that I feel it all too.... Oh,
may God give you happiness for it! What you told me about your dreamer
is quite untrue now--that is, I mean, it's not true of you. You are
recovering, you are quite a different man from what you described. If
you ever fall in love with some one, God give you happiness with her! I
won't wish anything for her, for she will be happy with you. I know, I
am a woman myself, so you must believe me when I tell you so."

She ceased speaking, and pressed my hand warmly. I too could not speak
without emotion. Some minutes passed.

"Yes, it's clear he won't come to-night," she said at last raising her
head. "It's late."

"He will come to-morrow," I said in the most firm and convincing tone.

"Yes," she added with no sign of her former depression. "I see for
myself now that he could not come till to-morrow. Well, good-bye, till
to-morrow. If it rains perhaps I shall not come. But the day after
to-morrow, I shall come. I shall come for certain, whatever happens; be
sure to be here, I want to see you, I will tell you everything."

And then when we parted she gave me her hand and said, looking at me
candidly: "We shall always be together, shan't we?"

Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka! If only you knew how lonely I am now!

As soon as it struck nine o'clock I could not stay indoors, but put on
my things, and went out in spite of the weather. I was there, sitting on
our seat. I went to her street, but I felt ashamed, and turned back
without looking at their windows, when I was two steps from her door. I
went home more depressed than I had ever been before. What a damp,
dreary day! If it had been fine I should have walked about all night....

But to-morrow, to-morrow! To-morrow she will tell me everything. The
letter has not come to-day, however. But that was to be expected. They
are together by now....

FOURTH NIGHT

My God, how it has all ended! What it has all ended in! I arrived at
nine o'clock. She was already there. I noticed her a good way off; she
was standing as she had been that first time, with her elbows on the
railing, and she did not hear me coming up to her.

"Nastenka!" I called to her, suppressing my agitation with an effort.

She turned to me quickly.

"Well?" she said. "Well? Make haste!"

I looked at her in perplexity.

"Well, where is the letter? Have you brought the letter?" she repeated
clutching at the railing.

"No, there is no letter," I said at last. "Hasn't he been to you yet?"
She turned fearfully pale and looked at me for a long time without
moving. I had shattered her last hope.

"Well, God be with him," she said at last in a breaking voice; "God be
with him if he leaves me like that."

She dropped her eyes, then tried to look at me and could not. For
several minutes she was struggling with her emotion. All at once she
turned away, leaning her elbows against the railing and burst into
tears.

"Oh don't, don't!" I began; but looking at her I had not the heart to go
on, and what was I to say to her?

"Don't try and comfort me," she said; "don't talk about him; don't tell
me that he will come, that he has not cast me off so cruelly and so
inhumanly as he has. What for--what for? Can there have been something
in my letter, that unlucky letter?"

At that point sobs stifled her voice; my heart was torn as I looked at
her.

"Oh, how inhumanly cruel it is!" she began again. "And not a line, not a
line! He might at least have written that he does not want me, that he
rejects me--but not a line for three days! How easy it is for him to
wound, to insult a poor, defenceless girl, whose only fault is that she
loves him! Oh, what I've suffered during these three days! Oh, dear!
When I think that I was the first to go to him, that I humbled myself
before him, cried, that I begged of him a little love!... and after
that! Listen," she said, turning to me, and her black eyes flashed, "it
isn't so! It can't be so; it isn't natural. Either you are mistaken or
I; perhaps he has not received the letter? Perhaps he still knows
nothing about it? How could any one--judge for yourself, tell me, for
goodness' sake explain it to me, I can't understand it--how could any
one behave with such barbarous coarseness as he has behaved to me? Not
one word! Why, the lowest creature on earth is treated more
compassionately. Perhaps he has heard something, perhaps some one has
told him something about me," she cried, turning to me inquiringly:
"What do you think?"

"Listen, Nastenka, I shall go to him to-morrow in your name."

"Yes?"

"I will question him about everything; I will tell him everything."
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