Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Diary of a Superfluous Man by Ivan Turgenev (book suggestions TXT) 📖
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young neighbour is very likely a good-natured person, but that's enough about him! I am convinced that there is nothing in common between him and you, and you can fancy how amusing it would be for you to live together! Besides, why be in a hurry? Is it a possible thing that a woman like you--I don't want to pay compliments, and that's why I don't expatiate further--that such a woman should meet no one who would be capable of appreciating her? No, Marya Alexandrovna, listen to me, if you really believe that I am your friend, and that my advice is of use. But confess, it was agreeable to see the old scoffer at your feet.... If I had been in your place, I'd have kept him singing Beethoven's Adelaida and gazing at the moon the whole night long.
Enough of them, though,--your adorers! It's not of them I want to talk to you to-day. I am in a strange, half-irritated, half-emotional state of mind to-day, in consequence of a letter I got yesterday. I am enclosing a copy of it to you. This letter was written by one of my friends of long ago, a colleague in the service, a good-natured but rather limited person. He went abroad two years ago, and till now has not written to me once. Here is his letter.--_N.B._ He is very good-looking.
'CHER ALEXIS,--I am in Naples, sitting at the window in my room, in Chiaja. The weather is superb. I have been staring a long while at the sea, then I was seized with impatience, and suddenly the brilliant idea entered my head of writing a letter to you. I always felt drawn to you, my dear boy--on my honour I did. And so now I feel an inclination to pour out my soul into your bosom ... that's how one expresses it, I believe, in your exalted language. And why I've been overcome with impatience is this. I'm expecting a friend--a woman; we're going together to Baiae to eat oysters and oranges, and see the tanned shepherds in red caps dance the tarantella, to bask in the sun, like lizards--in short, to enjoy life to the utmost. My dear boy, I am more happy than I can possibly tell you.
If only I had your style--oh! what a picture I would draw for you! But unfortunately, as you are aware, I'm an illiterate person. The woman I am expecting, and who has kept me now more than a hour continually starting and looking at the door, loves me--but how I love her I fancy even your fluent pen could not describe.
'I must tell you that it is three months since I got to know her, and from the very first day of our acquaintance my love mounts continually _crescendo_, like a chromatic scale, higher and higher, and at the present moment I am simply in the seventh heaven. I jest, but in reality my devotion to this woman is something extraordinary, supernatural. Fancy, I scarcely talk to her, I can do nothing but stare at her, and laugh like a fool. I sit at her feet, I feel that I'm awfully silly and happy, simply inexcusably happy. It sometimes happens that she lays her hand on my head.... Well, I tell you, simply ... But there, you can't understand it; you 're a philosopher and always were a philosopher. Her name is Nina, Ninetta, as you like; she's the daughter of a rich merchant here. Fine as any of your Raphaels; fiery as gunpowder, gay, so clever that it's amazing how she can care for a fool like me; she sings like a bird, and her eyes ...
'Please excuse this unintentional break.... I fancied the door creaked.... No, she's not coming yet, the heartless wretch! You will ask me how all this is going to end, and what I intend to do with myself, and whether I shall stay here long? I know nothing about it, my boy, and I don't want to. What will be, will be.... Why, if one were to be for ever stopping and considering ... 'She! ... she's running up the staircase, singing.... She is here. Well, my boy, good-bye.... I've no time for you now, I'm so sorry. She has bespattered the whole letter; she slapped a wet nosegay down on the paper. For the first moment, she thought I was writing to a woman; when she knew that it was to a friend, she told me to send her greetings, and ask you if you have any flowers, and whether they are sweet? Well, good-bye. ... If you could hear her laughing. Silver can't ring like it; and the good-nature in every note of it--you want to kiss her little feet for it. We are going, going. Don't mind the untidy smudges, and envy yours, M.'
The letter was in fact bespattered all over, and smelt of orange-blossom ... two white petals had stuck to the paper. This letter has agitated me.... I remember my stay in Naples.... The weather was magnificent then too--May was just beginning; I had just reached twenty-two; but I knew no Ninetta. I sauntered about alone, consumed with a thirst for bliss, at once torturing and sweet, so sweet that it was, as it were, like bliss itself. ... Ah, what is it to be young! ... I remember I went out once for a row in the bay. There were two of us; the boatman and I ... what did you imagine? What a night it was, and what a sky, what stars, how they quivered and broke on the waves! with what delicate flame the water flashed and glimmered under the oars, what delicious fragrance filled the whole sea--cannot describe this, 'eloquent' though my style may be. In the harbour was a French ship of the line. It was all red with lights; long streaks of red, the reflection of the lighted windows, stretched over the dark sea. The captain of the ship was giving a ball. The gay music floated across to me in snatches at long intervals. I recall in particular the trill of a little flute in the midst of the deep blare of the trumpets; it seemed to flit, like a butterfly, about my boat. I bade the man row to the ship; twice he took me round it. ... I caught glimpses at the windows of women's figures, borne gaily round in the whirl-wind of the waltz.... I told the boatman to row away, far away, straight into the darkness.... I remember a long while the music persistently pursued me.... At last the sounds died away. I stood up in the boat, and in the dumb agony of desire stretched out my arms to the sea.... Oh! how my heart ached at that moment! How bitter was my loneliness to me! With what rapture would I have abandoned myself utterly then, utterly ... utterly, if there had been any one to abandon myself to! With what a bitter emotion in my soul I flung myself down in the bottom of the boat and, like Repetilov, asked to be taken anywhere, anywhere away! But my friend here has experienced nothing like that. And why should he? He has managed things far more wisely than I. He is living ... while I ... He may well call me a philosopher.... Strange! they call you a philosopher too.... What has brought this calamity on both of us?
I am not living.... But who is to blame for that? Why am I staying on here, in Petersburg? what am I doing here? why am I wearing away day after day? why don't I go into the country? What is amiss with our steppes? has not one free breathing space in them? is one cramped in them? A strange craze to pursue dreams, when happiness is perhaps within reach! Resolved! I am going, going to-morrow, if I can. I am going home--that is, to you,--it's just the same; we're only twenty versts from one another. Why, after all, grow stale here! And how was it this idea did not strike me sooner? Dear Marya Alexadrovna, we shall soon see each other. It's extraordinary, though, that this idea never entered my head before! I ought to have gone long, long ago. Good-bye till we meet, Marya Alexandrovna.
_July_ 9.
I purposely gave myself twenty-four hours for reflection, and am now absolutely convinced that I have no reason to stay here. The dust in the streets is so penetrating that my eyes are bad. To-day I am beginning to pack, the day after to-morrow I shall most likely start, and within ten days I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I trust you will welcome me as in old days. By the way, your sister is still staying at your aunt's, isn't she?
Marya Alexandrovna, let me press your hand warmly, and say from my heart, Good-bye till we meet. I had been getting ready to go away, but that letter has hastened my project. Supposing the letter proves nothing, supposing even Ninetta would not please any one else, me for instance, still I am going; that's decided now. Till we meet, yours,
A. S.
XIII
FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
VILLAGE OF X-----,_July_ 16, 1840.
You are coming here, Alexey Petrovitch, you will soon be with us, eh? I will not conceal from you that this news both rejoices and disturbs me.... How shall we meet? Will the spiritual tie persist which, as it seems to me, has sprung up between us? Will it not be broken by our meeting? I don't know; I feel somehow afraid. I will not answer your last letter, though I could say much; I am putting it all off till our meeting. My mother is very much pleased at your coming.... She knew I was corresponding with you. The weather is delicious; we will go a great many walks, and I will show you some new places I have discovered.... I especially like one long, narrow valley; it lies between hillsides covered with forest.... It seems to be hiding in their windings. A little brook courses through it, scarcely seeming to move through the thick grass and flowers.... You shall see. Come: perhaps you will not be bored.
M.B.
_P.S._--I think you will not see my sister; she is still staying at my aunt's. I fancy (but this is between ourselves) she is going to marry a very agreeable young man--an officer. Why did you send me that letter from Naples? Life here cannot help seeming dingy and poor in contrast with that luxuriance and splendour. But Mademoiselle Ninetta is wrong; flowers grow and smell sweet--with us too.
XIV
FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
VILLAGE OF X----, _January_ 1841.
I have written to you several times, Alexey Petrovitch ... you have not answered. Are you living? Or perhaps you are tired of our correspondence; perhaps you have found yourself some diversion more agreeable than what can be afforded for you by the letters of a provincial young lady. You remembered me, it is easy to see, simply from want of anything better to do. If that's so, I wish you all happiness. If you do not even now answer me, I will not trouble you further. It only remains for me to regret my indiscretion in having allowed myself to be agitated for nothing, in having held out a hand to a friend, and having come for one minute out of my lonely corner. I must remain in it for ever, must lock myself up--that is my apportioned lot, the lot of all old maids. I ought to accustom myself to this idea. It's useless to come out into the light
Enough of them, though,--your adorers! It's not of them I want to talk to you to-day. I am in a strange, half-irritated, half-emotional state of mind to-day, in consequence of a letter I got yesterday. I am enclosing a copy of it to you. This letter was written by one of my friends of long ago, a colleague in the service, a good-natured but rather limited person. He went abroad two years ago, and till now has not written to me once. Here is his letter.--_N.B._ He is very good-looking.
'CHER ALEXIS,--I am in Naples, sitting at the window in my room, in Chiaja. The weather is superb. I have been staring a long while at the sea, then I was seized with impatience, and suddenly the brilliant idea entered my head of writing a letter to you. I always felt drawn to you, my dear boy--on my honour I did. And so now I feel an inclination to pour out my soul into your bosom ... that's how one expresses it, I believe, in your exalted language. And why I've been overcome with impatience is this. I'm expecting a friend--a woman; we're going together to Baiae to eat oysters and oranges, and see the tanned shepherds in red caps dance the tarantella, to bask in the sun, like lizards--in short, to enjoy life to the utmost. My dear boy, I am more happy than I can possibly tell you.
If only I had your style--oh! what a picture I would draw for you! But unfortunately, as you are aware, I'm an illiterate person. The woman I am expecting, and who has kept me now more than a hour continually starting and looking at the door, loves me--but how I love her I fancy even your fluent pen could not describe.
'I must tell you that it is three months since I got to know her, and from the very first day of our acquaintance my love mounts continually _crescendo_, like a chromatic scale, higher and higher, and at the present moment I am simply in the seventh heaven. I jest, but in reality my devotion to this woman is something extraordinary, supernatural. Fancy, I scarcely talk to her, I can do nothing but stare at her, and laugh like a fool. I sit at her feet, I feel that I'm awfully silly and happy, simply inexcusably happy. It sometimes happens that she lays her hand on my head.... Well, I tell you, simply ... But there, you can't understand it; you 're a philosopher and always were a philosopher. Her name is Nina, Ninetta, as you like; she's the daughter of a rich merchant here. Fine as any of your Raphaels; fiery as gunpowder, gay, so clever that it's amazing how she can care for a fool like me; she sings like a bird, and her eyes ...
'Please excuse this unintentional break.... I fancied the door creaked.... No, she's not coming yet, the heartless wretch! You will ask me how all this is going to end, and what I intend to do with myself, and whether I shall stay here long? I know nothing about it, my boy, and I don't want to. What will be, will be.... Why, if one were to be for ever stopping and considering ... 'She! ... she's running up the staircase, singing.... She is here. Well, my boy, good-bye.... I've no time for you now, I'm so sorry. She has bespattered the whole letter; she slapped a wet nosegay down on the paper. For the first moment, she thought I was writing to a woman; when she knew that it was to a friend, she told me to send her greetings, and ask you if you have any flowers, and whether they are sweet? Well, good-bye. ... If you could hear her laughing. Silver can't ring like it; and the good-nature in every note of it--you want to kiss her little feet for it. We are going, going. Don't mind the untidy smudges, and envy yours, M.'
The letter was in fact bespattered all over, and smelt of orange-blossom ... two white petals had stuck to the paper. This letter has agitated me.... I remember my stay in Naples.... The weather was magnificent then too--May was just beginning; I had just reached twenty-two; but I knew no Ninetta. I sauntered about alone, consumed with a thirst for bliss, at once torturing and sweet, so sweet that it was, as it were, like bliss itself. ... Ah, what is it to be young! ... I remember I went out once for a row in the bay. There were two of us; the boatman and I ... what did you imagine? What a night it was, and what a sky, what stars, how they quivered and broke on the waves! with what delicate flame the water flashed and glimmered under the oars, what delicious fragrance filled the whole sea--cannot describe this, 'eloquent' though my style may be. In the harbour was a French ship of the line. It was all red with lights; long streaks of red, the reflection of the lighted windows, stretched over the dark sea. The captain of the ship was giving a ball. The gay music floated across to me in snatches at long intervals. I recall in particular the trill of a little flute in the midst of the deep blare of the trumpets; it seemed to flit, like a butterfly, about my boat. I bade the man row to the ship; twice he took me round it. ... I caught glimpses at the windows of women's figures, borne gaily round in the whirl-wind of the waltz.... I told the boatman to row away, far away, straight into the darkness.... I remember a long while the music persistently pursued me.... At last the sounds died away. I stood up in the boat, and in the dumb agony of desire stretched out my arms to the sea.... Oh! how my heart ached at that moment! How bitter was my loneliness to me! With what rapture would I have abandoned myself utterly then, utterly ... utterly, if there had been any one to abandon myself to! With what a bitter emotion in my soul I flung myself down in the bottom of the boat and, like Repetilov, asked to be taken anywhere, anywhere away! But my friend here has experienced nothing like that. And why should he? He has managed things far more wisely than I. He is living ... while I ... He may well call me a philosopher.... Strange! they call you a philosopher too.... What has brought this calamity on both of us?
I am not living.... But who is to blame for that? Why am I staying on here, in Petersburg? what am I doing here? why am I wearing away day after day? why don't I go into the country? What is amiss with our steppes? has not one free breathing space in them? is one cramped in them? A strange craze to pursue dreams, when happiness is perhaps within reach! Resolved! I am going, going to-morrow, if I can. I am going home--that is, to you,--it's just the same; we're only twenty versts from one another. Why, after all, grow stale here! And how was it this idea did not strike me sooner? Dear Marya Alexadrovna, we shall soon see each other. It's extraordinary, though, that this idea never entered my head before! I ought to have gone long, long ago. Good-bye till we meet, Marya Alexandrovna.
_July_ 9.
I purposely gave myself twenty-four hours for reflection, and am now absolutely convinced that I have no reason to stay here. The dust in the streets is so penetrating that my eyes are bad. To-day I am beginning to pack, the day after to-morrow I shall most likely start, and within ten days I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I trust you will welcome me as in old days. By the way, your sister is still staying at your aunt's, isn't she?
Marya Alexandrovna, let me press your hand warmly, and say from my heart, Good-bye till we meet. I had been getting ready to go away, but that letter has hastened my project. Supposing the letter proves nothing, supposing even Ninetta would not please any one else, me for instance, still I am going; that's decided now. Till we meet, yours,
A. S.
XIII
FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
VILLAGE OF X-----,_July_ 16, 1840.
You are coming here, Alexey Petrovitch, you will soon be with us, eh? I will not conceal from you that this news both rejoices and disturbs me.... How shall we meet? Will the spiritual tie persist which, as it seems to me, has sprung up between us? Will it not be broken by our meeting? I don't know; I feel somehow afraid. I will not answer your last letter, though I could say much; I am putting it all off till our meeting. My mother is very much pleased at your coming.... She knew I was corresponding with you. The weather is delicious; we will go a great many walks, and I will show you some new places I have discovered.... I especially like one long, narrow valley; it lies between hillsides covered with forest.... It seems to be hiding in their windings. A little brook courses through it, scarcely seeming to move through the thick grass and flowers.... You shall see. Come: perhaps you will not be bored.
M.B.
_P.S._--I think you will not see my sister; she is still staying at my aunt's. I fancy (but this is between ourselves) she is going to marry a very agreeable young man--an officer. Why did you send me that letter from Naples? Life here cannot help seeming dingy and poor in contrast with that luxuriance and splendour. But Mademoiselle Ninetta is wrong; flowers grow and smell sweet--with us too.
XIV
FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH
VILLAGE OF X----, _January_ 1841.
I have written to you several times, Alexey Petrovitch ... you have not answered. Are you living? Or perhaps you are tired of our correspondence; perhaps you have found yourself some diversion more agreeable than what can be afforded for you by the letters of a provincial young lady. You remembered me, it is easy to see, simply from want of anything better to do. If that's so, I wish you all happiness. If you do not even now answer me, I will not trouble you further. It only remains for me to regret my indiscretion in having allowed myself to be agitated for nothing, in having held out a hand to a friend, and having come for one minute out of my lonely corner. I must remain in it for ever, must lock myself up--that is my apportioned lot, the lot of all old maids. I ought to accustom myself to this idea. It's useless to come out into the light
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