WHITE NIGHTS
A SENTIMENTAL STORY FROM THE DIARY OF A DREAMER
FIRST NIGHT
It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are young,
dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at it, one could not
help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and capricious people could live under
such a sky. That is a youthful question too, dear reader, very youthful, but may
the Lord put it more frequently into your heart!... Speaking of capricious and ill-
humoured people, I cannot help recalling my moral condition all that day. From
early morning I had been oppressed by a strange despondency. It suddenly
seemed to me that I was lonely, that every one was forsaking me and going away
from me. Of course, any one is entitled to ask who "every one" was. For though I
had been living almost eight years in Petersburg I had hardly an acquaintance.
But what did I want with acquaintances? I was acquainted with all Petersburg as
it was; that was why I felt as though they were all deserting me when all
Petersburg packed up and went to its summer villa. I felt afraid of being left
alone, and for three whole days I wandered about the town in profound
dejection, not knowing what to do with myself. Whether I walked in the Nevsky,
went to the Gardens or sauntered on the embankment, there was not one face of
those I had been accustomed to meet at the same time and place all the year.
They, of course, do not know me, but I know them. I know them intimately, I
have almost made a study of their faces, and am delighted when they are gay,
and downcast when they are under a cloud. I have almost struck up a friendship
with one old man whom I meet every blessed day, at the same hour in Fontanka.
Such a grave, pensive countenance; he is always whispering to himself and
brandishing his left arm, while in his right hand he holds a long gnarled stick
with a gold knob. He even notices me and takes a warm interest in me. If Ihappen not to be at a certain time in the same spot in Fontanka, I am certain he
feels disappointed. That is how it is that we almost bow to each other, especially
when we are both in good humour. The other day, when we had not seen each
other for two days and met on the third, we were actually touching our hats, but,
realizing in time, dropped our hands and passed each other with a look of
interest.
I know the houses too. As I walk along they seem to run forward in the streets to
look out at me from every window, and almost to say: "Good-morning! How do
you do? I am quite well, thank God, and I am to have a new storey in May," or,
"How are you? I am being redecorated to-morrow;" or, "I was almost burnt down and had such a fright," and so on. I have my favourites among them, some are
dear friends; one of them intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I
shall go every day on purpose to see that the operation is not a failure. God
forbid! But I shall never forget an incident with a very pretty little house of a
light pink colour. It was such a charming little brick house, it looked so
hospitably at me, and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my heart
rejoiced whenever I happened to pass it. Suddenly last week I walked along the
street, and when I looked at my friend I heard a plaintive, "They are painting me
yellow!" The villains! The barbarians! They had spared nothing, neither
columns, nor cornices, and my poor little friend was as yellow as a canary. It
almost made me bilious. And to this day I have not had the courage to visit my
poor disfigured friend, painted the colour of the Celestial Empire.
So now you understand, reader, in what sense I am acquainted with all
Petersburg.
I have mentioned already that I had felt worried for three whole days before I
guessed the cause of my uneasiness. And I felt ill at ease in the street—this one
had gone and that one had gone, and what had become of the other?—and at
home I did not feel like myself either. For two evenings I was puzzling my
brains to think what was amiss in my corner; why I felt so uncomfortable in it.
And in perplexity I scanned my grimy green walls, my ceiling covered with a
spider's web, the growth of which Matrona has so successfully encouraged. I
looked over all my furniture, examined every chair, wondering whether the
trouble lay there (for if one chair is not standing in the same position as it stood
the day before, I am not myself). I looked at the window, but it was all in vain ...
I was not a bit the better for it! I even bethought me to send for Matrona, and
was giving her some fatherly admonitions in regard to the spider's web and
sluttishness in general; but she simply stared at me in amazement and went away without saying a word.
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