White Nights Page #5

"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

								

was...."

"My name is Nastenka."

"Nastenka! And nothing else?"

"Nothing else! Why, is not that enough for you, you insatiable person?"

"Not enough? On the contrary, it's a great deal, a very great deal,
Nastenka; you kind girl, if you are Nastenka for me from the first."

"Quite so! Well?"

"Well, listen, Nastenka, now for this absurd history."

I sat down beside her, assumed a pedantically serious attitude, and
began as though reading from a manuscript:--

"There are, Nastenka, though you may not know it, strange nooks in
Petersburg. It seems as though the same sun as shines for all Petersburg
people does not peep into those spots, but some other different new one,
bespoken expressly for those nooks, and it throws a different light on
everything. In these corners, dear Nastenka, quite a different life is
lived, quite unlike the life that is surging round us, but such as
perhaps exists in some unknown realm, not among us in our serious,
over-serious, time. Well, that life is a mixture of something purely
fantastic, fervently ideal, with something (alas! Nastenka) dingily
prosaic and ordinary, not to say incredibly vulgar."

"Foo! Good Heavens! What a preface! What do I hear?"

"Listen, Nastenka. (It seems to me I shall never be tired of calling you
Nastenka.) Let me tell you that in these corners live strange
people--dreamers. The dreamer--if you want an exact definition--is not a
human being, but a creature of an intermediate sort. For the most part
he settles in some inaccessible corner, as though hiding from the light
of day; once he slips into his corner, he grows to it like a snail, or,
anyway, he is in that respect very much like that remarkable creature,
which is an animal and a house both at once, and is called a tortoise.
Why do you suppose he is so fond of his four walls, which are invariably
painted green, grimy, dismal and reeking unpardonably of tobacco smoke?
Why is it that when this absurd gentleman is visited by one of his few
acquaintances (and he ends by getting rid of all his friends), why does
this absurd person meet him with such embarrassment, changing
countenance and overcome with confusion, as though he had only just
committed some crime within his four walls; as though he had been
forging counterfeit notes, or as though he were writing verses to be
sent to a journal with an anonymous letter, in which he states that the
real poet is dead, and that his friend thinks it his sacred duty to
publish his things? Why, tell me, Nastenka, why is it conversation is
not easy between the two friends? Why is there no laughter? Why does no
lively word fly from the tongue of the perplexed newcomer, who at other
times may be very fond of laughter, lively words, conversation about the
fair sex, and other cheerful subjects? And why does this friend,
probably a new friend and on his first visit--for there will hardly be a
second, and the friend will never come again--why is the friend himself
so confused, so tongue-tied, in spite of his wit (if he has any), as he
looks at the downcast face of his host, who in his turn becomes utterly
helpless and at his wits' end after gigantic but fruitless efforts to
smooth things over and enliven the conversation, to show his knowledge
of polite society, to talk, too, of the fair sex, and by such humble
endeavour, to please the poor man, who like a fish out of water has
mistakenly come to visit him? Why does the gentleman, all at once
remembering some very necessary business which never existed, suddenly
seize his hat and hurriedly make off, snatching away his hand from the
warm grip of his host, who was trying his utmost to show his regret and
retrieve the lost position? Why does the friend chuckle as he goes out
of the door, and swear never to come and see this queer creature again,
though the queer creature is really a very good fellow, and at the same
time he cannot refuse his imagination the little diversion of comparing
the queer fellow's countenance during their conversation with the
expression of an unhappy kitten treacherously captured, roughly handled,
frightened and subjected to all sorts of indignities by children, till,
utterly crestfallen, it hides away from them under a chair in the dark,
and there must needs at its leisure bristle up, spit, and wash its
insulted face with both paws, and long afterwards look angrily at life
and nature, and even at the bits saved from the master's dinner for it
by the sympathetic housekeeper?"

"Listen," interrupted Nastenka, who had listened to me all the time in
amazement, opening her eyes and her little mouth. "Listen; I don't know
in the least why it happened and why you ask me such absurd questions;
all I know is, that this adventure must have happened word for word to
you."

"Doubtless," I answered, with the gravest face.

"Well, since there is no doubt about it, go on," said Nastenka, "because
I want very much to know how it will end."

"You want to know, Nastenka, what our hero, that is I--for the hero of
the whole business was my humble self--did in his corner? You want to
know why I lost my head and was upset for the whole day by the
unexpected visit of a friend? You want to know why I was so startled,
why I blushed when the door of my room was opened, why I was not able to
entertain my visitor, and why I was crushed under the weight of my own
hospitality?"

"Why, yes, yes," answered Nastenka, "that's the point. Listen. You
describe it all splendidly, but couldn't you perhaps describe it a
little less splendidly? You talk as though you were reading it out of a
book."

"Nastenka," I answered in a stern and dignified voice, hardly able to
keep from laughing, "dear Nastenka, I know I describe splendidly, but,
excuse me, I don't know how else to do it. At this moment, dear
Nastenka, at this moment I am like the spirit of King Solomon when,
after lying a thousand years under seven seals in his urn, those seven
seals were at last taken off. At this moment, Nastenka, when we have met
at last after such a long separation--for I have known you for ages,
Nastenka, because I have been looking for some one for ages, and that is
a sign that it was you I was looking for, and it was ordained that we
should meet now--at this moment a thousand valves have opened in my
head, and I must let myself flow in a river of words, or I shall choke.
And so I beg you not to interrupt me, Nastenka, but listen humbly and
obediently, or I will be silent."

"No, no, no! Not at all. Go on! I won't say a word!"

"I will continue. There is, my friend Nastenka, one hour in my day which
I like extremely. That is the hour when almost all business, work and
duties are over, and every one is hurrying home to dinner, to lie down,
to rest, and on the way all are cogitating on other more cheerful
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