XIII
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of ... no, July 16, 1840.
You are coming hither, you will soon be with us, will you not, Alexyéi Petróvitch? I will not conceal from you that this news both delights and agitates me.... How shall we meet? Will that spiritual bond be preserved which, so it seems to me, has already begun to unite us? Will it not break when we meet? I do not know; I am apprehensive, for some reason or other. I will not answer your last letter, although I might say a good deal; I will defer all this until we meet. My mother is greatly delighted at your coming.... She has been aware that I was corresponding with you. The weather is enchanting. We will walk a great deal; I will show you the new places which I have discovered ... one long, narrow valley is particularly nice: it lies between hillocks, covered with forest.... It seems to be hiding in their curves. A tiny brook blows along it and can barely force its way through the grass and flowers.... You shall see. Come: perhaps you will not find it tedious.
P.S. You will not see my sister, I think: she is still visiting my aunt. I believe (this is between ourselves) that she is going to marry a very amiable young man—an officer. Why did you send me that letter from Naples? The life here perforce seems dim and pale in comparison with that luxury and that brilliancy. But Mademoiselle Ninetta is wrong: flowers grow and are fragrant—even with us.
XIV
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of ... no, January, 1841.
I have written to you several times, Alexyéi Petróvitch.... You have not answered me. Are you alive? Or perhaps our correspondence has begun to bore you; perhaps you have found for yourself a more agreeable diversion than the letters of a rustic young lady can afford you? Evidently you called me to mind for the lack of something to do. If that is the case, I wish you happiness. If you do not answer me this time, I shall not trouble you again; there will be nothing left for me to do but to regret my imprudence, that I have unnecessarily permitted myself to be roused up, have offered my hand and emerged, if only for a moment, from my isolated nook. I ought to remain in it forever, lock myself in—that is my portion, the portion of all old maids. I ought to accustom myself to that thought. There is no necessity for coming out into God’s sunlight, no necessity for craving fresh air, when the lungs will not bear it. By the way, we are now blocked up with dead drifts of snow. I shall be more sensible henceforth.... People do not die of boredom, but it is possible to perish with melancholy, I suppose. If I am mistaken, prove it to me. But I think I am not mistaken. In any case, farewell. I wish you happiness.
M. B.