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And yet, I feel I should not care to change with her, all the same. Let them call me a female philosopher, a queer fish, or what they choose–I will remain true to the end … to what? to an ideal, or what? Yes, to my ideal. Yes, I will be faithful to the end to what first set my heart throbbing–to what I have recognised, and recognise still, as truth, and good…. If only my strength does not fail me, if only my divinity does not turn out to be a dumb and soulless idol!…

If you really feel any friendship for me, if you have really not forgotten me, you ought to aid me, you ought to solve my doubts, and strengthen my convictions….

Though after all, what help can you give me? ‘All that’s rubbish, fiddle-faddle,’ was said to me yesterday by my uncle–I think you don’t know him–a retired naval officer, a very sensible man; ‘husband, children, a pot of soup; to look after the husband and children and keep an eye on the pot–that’s what a woman wants.’… Tell me, is he right?

If he really is right, I can still make up for the past, I can still get into the common groove. Why should I wait any longer? what have I to hope for? In one of your letters you spoke of the wings of youth. How often–how long they are tied! And later on comes the time when they fall off, and there is no rising above earth, no flying to heaven any more. Write to me.–Yours,

M.

X

FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

ST. PETERSBURG, June 16, 1840.

I hasten to answer your letter, dear Marya Alexandrovna. I will confess to you that if it were not … I can’t say for business, for I have none … if it were not that I am stupidly accustomed to this place, I should have gone off to see you again, and should have talked to my heart’s content, but on paper it all comes out cold and dead….

Marya Alexandrovna, I tell you again, women are better than men, and you ought to prove this in practice. Let such as us fling away our convictions, like cast-off clothes, or abandon them for a crust of bread, or lull them into an untroubled sleep, and put over them–as over the dead, once dear to us–a gravestone, at which to come at rare intervals to pray–let us do all this; but you women must not be false to yourselves, you must not be false to your ideal…. That word has become ridiculous…. To fear being ridiculous–is not to love truth. It happens, indeed, that the senseless laughter of the fool drives even good men into giving up a great deal … as, for instance, the defence of an absent friend…. I have been guilty of that myself. But, I repeat, you women are better than we…. In trifling matters you give in sooner than we; but you know how to face fearful odds better than we. I don’t want to give you either advice or help–how should I? besides, you have no need of it. But I hold out my hand to you; I say to you, Have patience, struggle on to the end; and let me tell you, that, as a sentiment, the consciousness of an honestly sustained struggle is almost higher than the triumph of victory…. Victory does not depend on ourselves. Of course your uncle is right from a certain point of view; family life is everything for a woman; for her there is no other life.

But what does that prove? None but Jesuits will maintain that any means are good if only they attain the end. It’s false! it’s false! Feet sullied with the mud of the road are unworthy to go into a holy temple. At the end of your letter is a phrase I do not like; you want to get into the common groove; take care, don’t make a false step! Besides–do not forget,–there is no erasing the past; and however much you try, whatever pressure you put on yourself, you will not turn into your sister. You have reached a higher level than she; but your soul has been scorched in the fire, hers is untouched. Descend to her level, stoop to her, you can; but nature will not give up her rights, and the burnt place will not grow again….