Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – A Correspondence – Contents
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IX
From Márya Alexándrovna to Alexyéi Petróvitch
Village of … no, June 12, 1840.
No sooner had I despatched my last letter to you, Alexyéi Petróvitch, than I repented of it; but there was no help for it. One thing somewhat soothed me: I am convinced that you have understood under the influence of what long-suppressed feelings it was written, and have forgiven me. I did not even read over at the time what I had written to you; I remember that my heart was beating so violently that my pen trembled in my hand. However, although I probably should have expressed myself differently if I had given myself time to think it over, still I have no intention of disclaiming either my words or the feelings which I have imparted to you to the best of my ability. To-day I am much more cool-headed, and have far better control over myself….
I remember that I spoke toward the end of my letter about the painful situation of the young girl who recognises the fact that she is isolated even among her own people…. I will not enlarge further on that point, but rather will I communicate to you a few details; it seems to me that I shall bore you less in that way.
In the first place, you must know that throughout the whole country-side I am not called anything but “the female philosopher”; the ladies, in particular, allude to me by that name. Some assert that I sleep with a Latin book in my hands and in spectacles; others, that I know how to extract some cubic roots or other: not one of them cherishes any doubt that I wear masculine attire on the sly, and that instead of “good morning,” I say abruptly: “Georges Sand!”—and indignation against “the female philosopher” is on the increase. We have a neighbour, a man of five-and-forty, a great wit, … at least, he has the reputation of being a great wit, … and for him my poor person is an inexhaustible subject for jeers. He has related, concerning me, that as soon as the moon rises in the sky, I cannot take my eyes from it, and he shows how I look; that I even drink coffee not with cream but with the moon, that is to say, I set my cup in its rays. He swears that I use phrases in the nature of the following: “That is easy because it is difficult; although, on the other hand, it is difficult because it is easy.”… He declares that I am always seeking some word or other, always yearning “thither,” and he inquires, with comic indignation: “Whither is thither? Whither?” He has also set in circulation about me a rumour to the effect that I ride by night on horseback back and forth through the ford of the river, singing the while Schubert’s “Serenade,” or simply moaning: “Beethoven, Beethoven!” as much as to say—“She’s such a fiery old woman!” and so forth, and so forth. Of course, all this immediately reaches my ears. Perhaps this may surprise you; but do not forget that four years have elapsed since you have sojourned in these parts. Remember how every one gazed askance at us then…. Now their turn has come. And all this is nothing. I sometimes happen to hear words which pierce my heart much more painfully. I will not mention the fact that my poor, good mother cannot possibly pardon me for your cousin’s indifference; but all my life runs through the fire, as my old nurse expresses it. “Of course,”—I hear constantly,—“how are we to keep up with thee? We are plain folks, we are guided only by common sense; but, after all, when one comes to think of it, to what have all these philosophisings and books and acquaintances with learned people brought thee?” Perhaps you remember my sister—not the one to whom you were formerly not indifferent, but the other, the elder, who is married. Her husband, you will remember, is a decidedly-ridiculous man; you often used to make fun of him in those days. Yet she is happy: the mother of a family, she loves her husband, and her husband adores her…. “I am like all the rest,”—she says to me sometimes;—“but how about thee?” And she is right: I envy her….
And nevertheless I feel that I should not like to change places with her. Let them call me “a female philosopher,” “an eccentric,” whatever they choose—I shall remain faithful to the end … to what?—to an ideal, pray? Yes, to an ideal. Yes, I shall remain faithful to the end to that which first made my heart beat,—to that which I have acknowledged and do acknowledge to be the true, the good. If only my strength does not fail me, if only my idol does not prove a soulless block….
If you really do feel friendship for me, if you really have not forgotten me, you must help me; you must disperse my doubts, strengthen my beliefs….
But what aid can you render me? “All this is nonsense, like the useless running of a squirrel on a wheel,” said my uncle to me yesterday—I think you do not know him—a retired naval officer, and a far from stupid man. “A husband, children, a pot of buckwheat groats: to tend husband and children, and look after the pot of groats—that’s what a woman needs.”… Tell me, he is right, is he not?
If he really is right, I can still repair the past, I can still get into the common rut. What else is there for me to wait for? What is there to hope for? In one of your letters, you spoke of the wings of youth. How often, how long they remain fettered! And then comes a time, when they fall off; and it is no longer possible to raise one’s self above the earth, to soar heavenward. Write to me.
Yours, M.
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Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – A Correspondence – Contents
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