I + 

Much Esteemed Lady, Viéra Pavlovna⁠— + 

My close relationship with the late Dmitri Sergéitch Lopukhóf gives me the hope that you will kindly include in the number of your acquaintances a person who is an absolute stranger to you, but who deeply respects you. At all events, I venture to think that you will not accuse me of imposing upon you. By entering into correspondence with you, I only fulfil the desire of the late Dmitri Sergéitch, and those tidings which I am going to impart about him you can look upon as absolutely true, because I shall speak of his thoughts in his own language as though he were speaking himself. And here are his words about a matter, the explanation of which is the aim of my letter. + 

“The thoughts which brought the conclusion so disturbing to the people nearest to me [I am quoting Dmitri Sergéitch’s original words, as I said before] gradually grew in my mind, and my mind was changed several times before it received its ultimate development. The circumstance which caused these thoughts came under my observation in an entirely unexpected way, only at the moment when she [Dmitri Sergéitch means you] with fear told me about a dream which horrified her. The dream appeared to me very significant; and, as a man who was accustomed to look upon the state of her feelings from without, I understood at that very moment that an episode was beginning in her life which, within a longer or shorter time, would change our relations. But a man tries till the very last to preserve the situation to which he has become accustomed. In the depths of our nature lies a conservative element from which we yield only out of necessity. This, according to my opinion, contains the explanation of my first supposition. I wanted to think, and I succeeded in thinking, that this episode might pass away after some time, and then our former relations would be restored. She wanted to avoid the very episode, by kindling the warmest friendship. This deceived me, and for several days I did not think it impossible for her hope to be realized. Soon I became convinced, however, that to hope for this would be in vain. The reason for this lies in my own character. + 

“I do not intend to stain my character by saying this. This is my idea of it:⁠— + 

“To a man who spends his life as he ought, his time is divided into three parts⁠—labor, enjoyment, and rest or recreation. Enjoyment needs rest as much as labor does. In labor and in enjoyment, the general nature of a man takes precedence over his other personal peculiarities; in work, we act under the predominating external stimulus of rational necessities; in enjoyment, under the predominating stimulus of other necessities also common to the whole human race. Rest or recreation is an element in which a person seeks restorement of strength after this stimulus which exhausts the reserves of life materials⁠—an element which is brought into life by the person himself. Here a person wants to give himself up to his own peculiarities, to his own individual comfort. In labor, and in enjoyment, people are drawn to people by a general mighty power, which is more influential than their personal peculiarities, by the calculation of profit in labor; in enjoyment, by equal demands of the organism. Rest is different. This is not a thing that belongs to that general power which softens down personal peculiarities. Rest is more of a personal thing; here nature demands for itself more room; here a person becomes more individualized, and the character of a person shows itself from the kind of rest which appears more agreeable and more easy for him. + 

“In this regard people are divided into two categories. For those of the one, rest or recreation is more agreeable than the society of others. Everybody must have seclusion. For them it must be an exception; as a rule, life must be spent with others. This class is far more numerous than the other, which must have the contrary. While alone they feel much more comfortable than in the society of others. This difference is noticed by the common opinion, which is expressed by the words, ‘a social man and a reserved man.’ I belong to those who are not social; she to those who are social. That is the whole secret of our history. It is apparently clear that in this cause there is nothing reprehensible in either one of us; nor is the fact reprehensible that neither one of us had the strength to remove the cause. Against his own nature man is weak. + 

“It is very hard for anyone to understand the nature of others. Everyone measures the characters of everybody else by his own peculiarities. Whatever I do not want, according to my opinions, others will not want; so we are led to think by our individuality. Exceedingly noticeable signs are required to make me realize the contrary; and, on the other hand, whatever affords me comfort and ease I must think that others like. The naturalness of this arrangement of ideas is my excuse, in the fact that I recognized too late the difference between my nature and hers. The mistake was greatly aided by the fact that after we came to live together, she placed me too high. There was never any equality between us; but she showed me a great respect. My style of life seemed to her exemplary; she took for a universal human feature any peculiarity of mine, and for a time she was drawn away by it. There was another cause, a stronger one still. + 

“Among uncultured people the sanctity of the inner life is but very little respected. Every one of the family, particularly among the elders, will thrust his paw, without any ceremony, into the very depths of your soul. The trouble is not in the fact that your secrets are interfered with. Secrets of greater or less importance you are careful to hide or to watch; and then, not all have them. A great many have absolutely nothing to hide from nearest friends; but everyone wants that, in his inner life, there should be a little corner where nobody has a right to enter, just as everyone wants to have his own separate room for himself alone. Uncultured people regard neither of these things; if you have a separate room, everybody goes to it, not from a desire to act the spy or to impose upon you, but simply because there is no thought that this may disturb you. That may occur to them only in case there has been some disturbance between you, when you might have no desire to see them appearing before you quite unexpectedly. They do not understand that they may disturb you, even though you may be kindly inclined to them. The sanctity of the threshold over which no one has a right to step, without the permission of the person living on the other side, is recognized only in one room; that is the room belonging to the head of the family, because the head of the family can turn everybody out of his room who enters without asking permission. Into all the others, everybody who is older or contemporary with them enters without asking. The same which is true in regard to the room can be applied to your inner life. Into it everybody intrudes without any necessity, even without any thought, in search of any amusement, and, more often than not, simply to ‘scratch his tongue on your soul.’ A girl has two everyday dresses, one white and one pink. She puts on the pink one; and here comes a chance for someone to rub tongue over her soul. ‘You put on the pink dress, Aniuta; what for?’ Aniuta herself does not know why she put it on. It was necessary to put on some kind of a dress; and then, again, if she had put on the white one, it would have amounted to the same thing. So mámenka (or ‘sister’) says, ‘But you would have done better to put on the white one.’ But why it would be better, the one who gives the advice does not herself know; she simply rubs her tongue. ‘You don’t look very happy today, Aniuta; what’s the matter?’ Aniuta is neither happy nor unhappy; however, why shouldn’t they ask after what they neither see nor don’t see? ‘I don’t know; there’s nothing the matter that I know of.’ ‘No? you seem to be rather unhappy.’ Two minutes pass. ‘Aniuta, you had better sit down at the piano and play us a tune’; there is no reason why. And so it goes the whole day. Your soul is like a street, on which everybody who sits at the window is looking, not for the sake of seeing anything in particular⁠—no, they even know that they will see nothing useful and nothing curious⁠—but simply because they have nothing else to do. But it’s all the same; so, then, why not look? For a street, of course it makes no difference; but people have no pleasure at all from people walking over them. + 

“Naturally, this imposition, without any aim or idea whatever, must bring a reaction; and as soon as a person places himself in such a situation that he can have seclusion, he for some time finds pleasure in such seclusion, though by nature he may be inclined to sociability and not to seclusion. + 

“She, in this regard till she was married, was placed in a singularly hard position; they walked on her; they intruded into her very soul, not simply because they had nothing else to do, accidentally, occasionally, and only out of indelicacy, but systematically, without cessation, every minute, too coarsely, too impudently, they pushed their way in like savages, and with mean intentions, they forced themselves, not simply with unceremonious hands, but with very hard and very dirty hands, and therefore the reaction was very strong. + 

“Therefore my mistake should not be severely judged. Several months, and maybe a year, I was not mistaken; seclusion was really necessary and pleasant for her, and during this time I formed an opinion about her character; this strong, temporary demand of hers corresponded with my constant demand, and is it to be wondered at that I took a temporary phenomenon for a constant feature of her character? And everybody is so much tempted to judge of others by his own standard; the mistake was very great: I do not blame myself for it, but I want to put myself in the right light; that means, I feel that others will not be as indulgent to me as I am towards myself. To modify their condemnation, I must say a few words more about that side of my character, which is entirely strange to her, and to a good many other people, and, which without explanations, may not be rightly understood. + 

“My only idea of rest is seclusion. To be with others means to occupy my mind with something⁠—to work or to enjoy myself. I feel myself entirely at liberty only when I am alone by myself. How shall I name it? Why is it? With some it comes from reserve; with others from bashfulness; with still others from a melancholy and thoughtful disposition; and with a fourth class from a lack of sympathy with others; but it seems to me that there is nothing of the kind in me. I am frank and straightforward; I am always ready to be gay, and I am never melancholy. To observe people is pleasant for me, but this is connected in my mind with the idea of work or enjoyment, and that is something which demands rest after it; that is⁠—in my way of looking at it⁠—seclusion. So far as I can understand, it is a peculiar development in me, a drawing towards independence and freedom. + 

“And thus the strength of the reaction against her former, too troublesome situation in her family compelled her for a time to adopt a style of life which did not correspond to her constant disposition. Respect towards me kept alive in her this temporary disposition longer than it would have been by itself; but I long before had formed my opinion of her character; I took this temporary feature to be a constant one, and thus I was at ease, and that is the whole story. On my side, it was a mistake, but there was very little that was blameworthy in this mistake; on her part, there was absolutely nothing: but how much suffering did it not cause her! And what a catastrophe it brought upon me! + 

“After her fear, caused by the terrible dream, disclosed to me the state of her feelings, it was too late to correct my fault; but if I had, we had noticed it before; then, maybe, by constant efforts over ourselves, she and I might have succeeded in bringing our relations into a situation forever satisfactory for us both. Could we? I do not know, but I think that, even if we had succeeded, it would not have been particularly advantageous. Let us suppose that we had remodelled our characters sufficiently for our relations to each other to be free from all burdensomeness, but then the remodelling of characters is only good when it is directed against some bad side; but those sides which she and I would have had to remodel had nothing bad in them. Why should sociability be better or worse than a disposition to seclusion, or vice versa? But the remodelling of a character is, at all events, the forcing of it, the breaking of it; and in the breaking of a thing there is a great deal that is lost; in the forcing of a thing much energy is wasted. The result which she and I, maybe, only maybe, not surely, had reached was not worth the loss. We both would have partly spoiled our individuality, would both have destroyed the freshness of our lives. For what end? Only for the sake of preserving certain places in certain rooms. It would have been quite a different thing if we had had children; then it would have been necessary to think deeply as to the change in their fate if we separated. If the change would be for the worse, then the removal of the cause would have been worth the most desperate efforts, and the result would have been happiness; for we should have accomplished what was necessary for the preservation of the greatest happiness of those whom we loved, and such a result would have compensated for all our efforts; but, as it was, what rational end was to be gained? + 

“Therefore, as it happened, my mistake apparently led to something better; owing to it, both of us had less breaking of our natures to endure. It brought a great deal of worriment; but if it had not happened, surely there would have been a great deal more, and moreover, the result would have been far more unsatisfactory.” + 

Such were Dmitri Sergéitch’s words. From the energy with which he expressed himself so far, you can easily see that he, as he himself said, felt something embarrassing in it and unprofitable to himself. He straightway added:⁠— + 

“I feel that I shall not be entirely justified in the opinion of those who review this matter without any sympathy for me; but I am sure of her sympathy. She will judge about me even more kindly than I myself, and I consider myself entirely in the right. Such is my opinion of the time until she had the dream.” + 

And now I am going to tell you how he felt and what he intended to do after you had the dream which revealed to him the unsatisfactory nature of your relations. + 

“I said [these again are Dmitri Sergéitch’s own words] that from the first words about her terrible dream, I understood the unavoidableness of some episode different from our former relations. I expected it would have a mighty power, for it was impossible otherwise, from the energy of her nature and by the former state of her dissatisfaction, which had already acquired great strength from a too prolonged restraint. Still, the expectation at first appeared in a form very easy and profitable for me. I reasoned thus: she will be drawn away for a time by a passionate love for somebody else; a year or two will pass and she will return to her old allegiance. I am a very decent man. Her chances of finding another man like me are rare (I speak about myself just exactly as I think; I have no hypocritical fashion of depreciating myself). A feeling of love satisfied will lose a portion of its force; she will see that though one part of her nature is less satisfied by living with me, yet in the general sum of existence life with me will be easier and freer than with any other, and everything will be restored to its former state. I, taught by experience, shall be more attentive to her. She will acquire new respect for me; she will be more warmly attached to me than before, and we shall live more happily than ever. + 

“But (and this thing, though the explanation of it is very embarrassing for me, must nevertheless be said), but how did the prospect of our relationship being renewed appear to me? Did it make me happy? Of course it did! But did it bring only happiness? No; it appeared to me as a burden, a pleasant burden, but still a burden. ‘I love her very, very dearly, and I shall easily break myself in, so as better to attend to her; this will afford me pleasure, but still my life will be trying.’ Thus it came over me, after I regained my calmness after the first impression; and I saw that I was not mistaken. She allowed me to experience this when she wanted me to act so as to preserve her love. A month in which I satisfied this desire of hers was the most burdensome month of my life. There was no pain in it⁠—such a word would hardly apply to the idea; it would be absurd here, as far as positive sensations are concerned. I experienced nothing but pleasure while pleasing her, but it was tiresome to me. Here is where the mystery lies, that her attempt to retain her love for me remained a failure. I was tired while pleasing her. + 

“At first sight it may seem strange why I did not feel tired of giving up numberless evenings to the students, for whom, of course, I would not put myself out seriously, and why I felt such a degree of weariness when I gave up only a few evenings to a woman whom I loved more than myself; for whom I would be ready not only to die, but to endure every imaginable torture. This may seem strange, but only for one who cannot appreciate my motives in having intimate relations with the young men to whom I devoted so much time. In the first place, I had no personal relations with these young people. When I was sitting with them I did not feel that I was in the presence of people, but I saw only several abstract types who were only exchanging thoughts. My talk with them varied but little from my own contemplations when alone. Here only one part of my nature was occupied, and the very one which less than all others demanded rest⁠—thought. Everything else was sleeping; and besides, our talk had a practical, useful aim⁠—the aiding the development of intellectual life, nobility, and energy in my young friends. This was work; but it was such an easy work that it was good for the restoration of strength, expended by other kinds of labor; it did not weary, but refreshed, and yet it was labor. Therefore my own person had no demands for taking rest. There I expected to get benefit, but not peace; here I allowed all the other parts of my being to sleep, except thought. But my thought acted without any mixture of personal relations towards people with whom I was speaking; therefore I felt as much liberty as though I had been alone. These conversations, I may say, did not take me out of my seclusion. Here there was nothing analogous to those relations in which the whole man takes part. + 

“I know how embarrassing it is to use the word ‘weariness,’ but my conscience does not allow me to keep it back. Yes, with all my love to her, I felt a great deal easier after I became convinced that, between her and me, relations could not comfortably be arranged as they had been before. I gradually became convinced of this about the time that she began to notice that the fulfilling of this desire was going to be tiresome to me. Then the future appeared to me under a new form, which was more agreeable to me. After we saw that it would be impossible for us to remain in our former relations, I began to think how soon it would be possible⁠—I must again use an embarrassing expression⁠—to get rid of it⁠—to free myself from a situation which had become burdensome to me. Here lies the secret of what must seem magnanimity to the man who might be willing to be blinded by acknowledgment of the outward appearances, or even to one who would be so shortsighted as not to see the whole depth of the motives. Yes, I simply wanted to get rid of an embarrassing situation. As I am not hypocritical enough to deny what is good in me, I shall also not deny that one of my motives was the desire for her good; but this was only a secondary motive, a very strong one, to be sure, yet it fell far behind the first, the main one, in strength; that is, the desire of getting free from weariness was the real prompter. Under its influence I began carefully to examine into her mode of life, and easily perceived that in the change of her feelings, which was the result of the change in her way of living, the main part was played by Aleksandr Matvéitch in his appearance and disappearance. This brought me to think about him: I understood the reasons of his strange behavior, to which before I had paid no attention, and after that my thoughts received a new form, which, as I have said already, was agreeable to me. After I saw that she had not only the desire for passionate love itself, although she was, as yet, unconscious of it herself; that this feeling was directed towards one who was absolutely worthy, and generally speaking, was absolutely able to fill my place; that this man also loved her passionately⁠—then I became extremely glad. It is true, however, that the first impression was very cruel; every important change carries with it some pain. I saw now that I could not, conscientiously speaking, look upon myself as a man necessary for her, and I had become accustomed to this, and to tell the truth, it had been pleasant to me. Consequently, the severance of this relation unavoidably had to have its painful side; but only for the first part of the time, and not for long, this feeling predominated over the other feelings, which were joyful in their nature. Now I was assured of her happiness, and calm in the contemplation of her fate: this was a source of great happiness. But it would be vain to think that this constituted the main source of pleasure; no, personal feeling was once more much more important. I saw that I became entirely free from compulsion. My words do not imply that the life of a bachelor would be easier or happier for me than family life; no, if man and wife are not compelled to any kind of restraint for the sake of pleasing each other; if they are content with each other without making effort; if they satisfy each other without thinking of the satisfaction, then, the closer the relations between them are, the freer and easier it is for both of them: but the relation between her and me was not of this kind; therefore to separate meant freedom for me. + 

“From this can be seen that I have acted for my own interests, after I decided not to interfere with her happiness. There was a lofty side to my action; but the motive power towards it was the inclination of my own nature to better myself alone. Therefore I had strength to act, and, I may say, I acted well. Not to drift this way and that, not to make unnecessary confusion and disturbance for others, not to be false to my duty⁠—this was easy, when the duty is the inclination of your own nature. + 

“I left for Riazan. After some time she called me back, saying that my presence would not interfere with her. But I saw that it would still interfere. So far as I can understand, there were two reasons for it. It was hard for her to see a man to whom she was exceedingly indebted, according to her idea. She was mistaken in this respect; she was not in the least indebted to me, because I acted much more for my own interests than hers. But it appeared to her different, and she felt a very deep gratefulness to me. This feeling was hard. There is a pleasant side to it; but it predominates only when the feeling is not too strong. When it is strong it is valid. The second cause⁠—this, again, is a rather embarrassing thing to explain, but I must say what I think⁠—I find the second cause in the fact that her relations to society were abnormal and unpleasant; it was hard for her to endure the fact that society would not acknowledge formally her right to occupy such a position. And so I saw that my existence near her would be trying for her. I shall not hide that, in this new discovery, there was a side that was incomparably harder for me to endure than all feeling which I had experienced in the former stages of the case. I had preserved towards her a very strong inclination. I wanted to remain a very close and intimate friend of hers; I hoped that this would be so. And after I saw that this could not be, I was greatly grieved; and here there was no compensation for this grief in personal calculations of any sort whatever. I may say that here my final decision was adopted exclusively, because of my attachment to her, only for the desire of making her better, exclusively from unselfish motives. Consequently, never before, even in our happiest time, did my relations toward her afford me such deep inward satisfaction as this decision. Here I acted under the action of what I frankly call nobility, or, to use a more suitable term, noble calculation⁠—a calculation in which the general law of humanity acts exclusively by itself, without borrowing support from individual peculiarities. And here I learned what a great pleasure it is to feel yourself acting like a noble man; that is, as every man ought to act, not Ivan or Peter, but every man, everyone, without distinction of names. What a lofty delight it is to feel yourself simply a man⁠—not Ivan, not Peter, but a man⁠—simply and purely a man! This feeling is too strong. Ordinary natures like mine cannot endure too often an elevation to the height of this feeling; but happy is the one who has had the chance to experience it. + 

“There is no need of explaining that side of my mode of action which would have been most unreasonable in transactions with other people, but which here is very obviously justified by the character of the person to whom I yield. At the time when I left for Riazan, there had not a word passed between her and Aleksandr Matvéitch; at the time which I made my final decision there had not a word passed between him and me, or between her and me, on this subject. But I knew him very well; I had no need of studying his thoughts for the sake of learning them.” + 

I am giving you Dmitri Sergéitch’s words, with liberal exactness, as I have already said. + 

I am an entire stranger to you; but the correspondence into which I enter with you, fulfilling the desire of the late Dmitri Sergéitch, bears such an intimate character that, in all probability, it will be interesting for you to learn who this strange correspondent is, who is so initiated into the inner life of the late Dmitri Sergéitch. I used to be a medical student, and I have nothing more to tell you about myself. During the last few years I have lived in Petersburg. Several days ago I decided to travel, and to create for myself a new career abroad. I left Petersburg on the second day after you learned about Dmitri Sergéitch’s catastrophe. On a certain occasion I had no documents in my possession, and I had to take the papers belonging to a stranger, with which I was furnished by one of our common friends. He gave them to me on the condition that I should fulfil certain of his commissions on the way. If you happen to see Mr. Rakhmétof, be kind enough to tell him that all his commissions have been fulfilled as he desired. Now I suppose I shall have to set out on my travels through Germany, observing the customs. I have several hundred rubles, and I want to have a good time. When I shall get tired of idleness, I shall look out for something, no matter what. When? wherever chance may lead. I am as free as a bird, and I can be as unconcerned as a bird; such a situation delights me. + 

It is very probable that you may like to honor me with an answer, but I do not know where I shall be in a week from now: maybe in England, and maybe in Prague. I can go wherever fancy may lead me, and where it will lead me I know not; and therefore send your letters to the following address: Berlin, Friedrich Strasse 20, Agentur von H. Schmeidler. Your envelope should contain another envelope on which, in place of any address, you will write the cipher 12,345; that will show Schmeidler’s agency that it should be forwarded to me. + 

Accept, honored lady, the assurance of deep respect from a man who is an entire stranger to you, who is endlessly devoted to you, and who signs himself, + 

Honored Sir, Aleksandr Matvéitch⁠— + 

According to the desire of the late Dmitri Sergéitch, I must send you the assurance that for him the best circumstance seemed the fact that he was compelled to leave his place to you. With those relations which brought about this change, relations which gradually formed, in the course of three years, from the time when you almost ceased coming to his house, and therefore were formed without your aid, exclusively from the lack of correspondence between the characters of the two people whom you afterwards tried in vain to reconcile; with such relations, the final scene which came was unavoidable. Evidently Dmitri Sergéitch could not feel right in blaming you; of course this explanation is unnecessary; however, merely for form’s sake, he authorized me to make it. Thus it had to be either one way or the other: either you or he had to take the place which he could not fill, and which another could take only because Dmitri Sergéitch could not fill it; and the fact that you took this place, according to the opinion of the late Dmitri Sergéitch makes the best result that could be devised. I press your hand. + 

“Ah! I know.” + 

What is that? A familiar voice. I turn around; there he is! He, himself, the sapient reader, who was not long ago banished in disgrace for not knowing A from B, in regard to the artistic, but here he is again and again with his former shrewdness. Again he knows something! + 

“Ah! I know who wrote it⁠—” + 

But I hastily seize the first thing that comes most convenient for my purpose. I seize a napkin, because after I copied the former student’s letter, I sat down to breakfast, and so I seize the napkin, and stuff it in his mouth, “Well, keep what you know to yourself; why do you shout it all over town?” + 