White Nights Page #6

"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

								

subjects relating to their evenings, their nights, and all the rest of
their free time. At that hour our hero--for allow me, Nastenka, to tell
my story in the third person, for one feels awfully ashamed to tell it
in the first person--and so at that hour our hero, who had his work too,
was pacing along after the others. But a strange feeling of pleasure set
his pale, rather crumpled-looking face working. He looked not with
indifference on the evening glow which was slowly fading on the cold
Petersburg sky. When I say he looked, I am lying: he did not look at it,
but saw it as it were without realizing, as though tired or preoccupied
with some other more interesting subject, so that he could scarcely
spare a glance for anything about him. He was pleased because till next
day he was released from business irksome to him, and happy as a
schoolboy let out from the class-room to his games and mischief. Take a
look at him, Nastenka; you will see at once that joyful emotion has
already had an effect on his weak nerves and morbidly excited fancy. You
see he is thinking of something.... Of dinner, do you imagine? Of the
evening? What is he looking at like that? Is it at that gentleman of
dignified appearance who is bowing so picturesquely to the lady who
rolls by in a carriage drawn by prancing horses? No, Nastenka; what are
all those trivialities to him now! He is rich now with his own
individual life; he has suddenly become rich, and it is not for
nothing that the fading sunset sheds its farewell gleams so gaily before
him, and calls forth a swarm of impressions from his warmed heart. Now
he hardly notices the road, on which the tiniest details at other times
would strike him. Now 'the Goddess of Fancy' (if you have read
Zhukovsky, dear Nastenka) has already with fantastic hand spun her
golden warp and begun weaving upon it patterns of marvellous magic
life--and who knows, maybe, her fantastic hand has borne him to the
seventh crystal heaven far from the excellent granite pavement on which
he was walking his way? Try stopping him now, ask him suddenly where he
is standing now, through what streets he is going--he will, probably
remember nothing, neither where he is going nor where he is standing
now, and flushing with vexation he will certainly tell some lie to save
appearances. That is why he starts, almost cries out, and looks round
with horror when a respectable old lady stops him politely in the middle
of the pavement and asks her way. Frowning with vexation he strides on,
scarcely noticing that more than one passer-by smiles and turns round to
look after him, and that a little girl, moving out of his way in alarm,
laughs aloud, gazing open-eyed at his broad meditative smile and
gesticulations. But fancy catches up in its playful flight the old
woman, the curious passers-by, and the laughing child, and the peasants
spending their nights in their barges on Fontanka (our hero, let us
suppose, is walking along the canal-side at that moment), and
capriciously weaves every one and everything into the canvas like a fly
in a spider's web. And it is only after the queer fellow has returned to
his comfortable den with fresh stores for his mind to work on, has sat
down and finished his dinner, that he comes to himself, when Matrona who
waits upon him--always thoughtful and depressed--clears the table and
gives him his pipe; he comes to himself then and recalls with surprise
that he has dined, though he has absolutely no notion how it has
happened. It has grown dark in the room; his soul is sad and empty; the
whole kingdom of fancies drops to pieces about him, drops to pieces
without a trace, without a sound, floats away like a dream, and he
cannot himself remember what he was dreaming. But a vague sensation
faintly stirs his heart and sets it aching, some new desire temptingly
tickles and excites his fancy, and imperceptibly evokes a swarm of fresh
phantoms. Stillness reigns in the little room; imagination is fostered
by solitude and idleness; it is faintly smouldering, faintly simmering,
like the water with which old Matrona is making her coffee as she moves
quietly about in the kitchen close by. Now it breaks out spasmodically;
and the book, picked up aimlessly and at random, drops from my dreamer's
hand before he has reached the third page. His imagination is again
stirred and at work, and again a new world, a new fascinating life opens
vistas before him. A fresh dream--fresh happiness! A fresh rush of
delicate, voluptuous poison! What is real life to him! To his corrupted
eyes we live, you and I, Nastenka, so torpidly, slowly, insipidly; in
his eyes we are all so dissatisfied with our fate, so exhausted by our
life! And, truly, see how at first sight everything is cold, morose, as
though ill-humoured among us.... Poor things! thinks our dreamer. And it
is no wonder that he thinks it! Look at these magic phantasms, which so
enchantingly, so whimsically, so carelessly and freely group before him
in such a magic, animated picture, in which the most prominent figure in
the foreground is of course himself, our dreamer, in his precious
person. See what varied adventures, what an endless swarm of ecstatic
dreams. You ask, perhaps, what he is dreaming of. Why ask that?--why, of
everything ... of the lot of the poet, first unrecognized, then crowned
with laurels; of friendship with Hoffmann, St. Bartholomew's Night, of
Diana Vernon, of playing the hero at the taking of Kazan by Ivan
Vassilyevitch, of Clara Mowbray, of Effie Deans, of the council of the
prelates and Huss before them, of the rising of the dead in 'Robert the
Devil' (do you remember the music, it smells of the churchyard!), of
Minna and Brenda, of the battle of Berezina, of the reading of a poem at
Countess V. D.'s, of Danton, of Cleopatra ei suoi amanti, of a
little house in Kolomna, of a little home of one's own and beside one a
dear creature who listens to one on a winter's evening, opening her
little mouth and eyes as you are listening to me now, my angel.... No,
Nastenka, what is there, what is there for him, voluptuous sluggard, in
this life, for which you and I have such a longing? He thinks that this
is a poor pitiful life, not foreseeing that for him too, maybe, sometime
the mournful hour may strike, when for one day of that pitiful life he
would give all his years of phantasy, and would give them not only for
joy and for happiness, but without caring to make distinctions in that
hour of sadness, remorse and unchecked grief. But so far that
threatening has not arrived--he desires nothing, because he is superior
to all desire, because he has everything, because he is satiated,
because he is the artist of his own life, and creates it for himself
every hour to suit his latest whim. And you know this fantastic world of
fairyland is so easily, so naturally created! As though it were not a
delusion! Indeed, he is ready to believe at some moments that all this
life is not suggested by feeling, is not mirage, not a delusion of the
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