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- Федор Достоевский
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- Стр. 435/592
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These
letters
,
too
,
were
like
a
dream
.
We
sometimes
have
strange
,
impossible
dreams
,
contrary
to
all
the
laws
of
nature
.
When
we
awake
we
remember
them
and
wonder
at
their
strangeness
.
You
remember
,
perhaps
,
that
you
were
in
full
possession
of
your
reason
during
this
succession
of
fantastic
images
;
even
that
you
acted
with
extraordinary
logic
and
cunning
while
surrounded
by
murderers
who
hid
their
intentions
and
made
great
demonstrations
of
friendship
,
while
waiting
for
an
opportunity
to
cut
your
throat
.
You
remember
how
you
escaped
them
by
some
ingenious
stratagem
;
then
you
doubted
if
they
were
really
deceived
,
or
whether
they
were
only
pretending
not
to
know
your
hiding-place
;
then
you
thought
of
another
plan
and
hoodwinked
them
once
again
.
You
remember
all
this
quite
clearly
,
but
how
is
it
that
your
reason
calmly
accepted
all
the
manifest
absurdities
and
impossibilities
that
crowded
into
your
dream
?
One
of
the
murderers
suddenly
changed
into
a
woman
before
your
very
eyes
;
then
the
woman
was
transformed
into
a
hideous
,
cunning
little
dwarf
;
and
you
believed
it
,
and
accepted
it
all
almost
as
a
matter
of
course
--
while
at
the
same
time
your
intelligence
seemed
unusually
keen
,
and
accomplished
miracles
of
cunning
,
sagacity
,
and
logic
!
Why
is
it
that
when
you
awake
to
the
world
of
realities
you
nearly
always
feel
,
sometimes
very
vividly
,
that
the
vanished
dream
has
carried
with
it
some
enigma
which
you
have
failed
to
solve
?
You
smile
at
the
extravagance
of
your
dream
,
and
yet
you
feel
that
this
tissue
of
absurdity
contained
some
real
idea
,
something
that
belongs
to
your
true
life
,
--
something
that
exists
,
and
has
always
existed
,
in
your
heart
.
You
search
your
dream
for
some
prophecy
that
you
were
expecting
.
It
has
left
a
deep
impression
upon
you
,
joyful
or
cruel
,
but
what
it
means
,
or
what
has
been
predicted
to
you
in
it
,
you
can
neither
understand
nor
remember
.
The
reading
of
these
letters
produced
some
such
effect
upon
the
prince
.
He
felt
,
before
he
even
opened
the
envelopes
,
that
the
very
fact
of
their
existence
was
like
a
nightmare
.
How
could
she
ever
have
made
up
her
mind
to
write
to
her
?
he
asked
himself
.
How
could
she
write
about
that
at
all
?
And
how
could
such
a
wild
idea
have
entered
her
head
?
And
yet
,
the
strangest
part
of
the
matter
was
,
that
while
he
read
the
letters
,
he
himself
almost
believed
in
the
possibility
,
and
even
in
the
justification
,
of
the
idea
he
had
thought
so
wild
.
Of
course
it
was
a
mad
dream
,
a
nightmare
,
and
yet
there
was
something
cruelly
real
about
it
.
For
hours
he
was
haunted
by
what
he
had
read
.
Several
passages
returned
again
and
again
to
his
mind
,
and
as
he
brooded
over
them
,
he
felt
inclined
to
say
to
himself
that
he
had
foreseen
and
known
all
that
was
written
here
;
it
even
seemed
to
him
that
he
had
read
the
whole
of
this
some
time
or
other
,
long
,
long
ago
;
and
all
that
had
tormented
and
grieved
him
up
to
now
was
to
be
found
in
these
old
,
long
since
read
,
letters
.
"
When
you
open
this
letter
"
(
so
the
first
began
)
,
"
look
first
at
the
signature
.
The
signature
will
tell
you
all
,
so
that
I
need
explain
nothing
,
nor
attempt
to
justify
myself
.
Were
I
in
any
way
on
a
footing
with
you
,
you
might
be
offended
at
my
audacity
;
but
who
am
I
,
and
who
are
you
?
We
are
at
such
extremes
,
and
I
am
so
far
removed
from
you
,
that
I
could
not
offend
you
if
I
wished
to
do
so
.
"
Farther
on
,
in
another
place
,
she
wrote
:
"
Do
not
consider
my
words
as
the
sickly
ecstasies
of
a
diseased
mind
,
but
you
are
,
in
my
opinion
--
perfection
!
I
have
seen
you
--
I
see
you
every
day
.
I
do
not
judge
you
;
I
have
not
weighed
you
in
the
scales
of
Reason
and
found
you
Perfection
--
it
is
simply
an
article
of
faith
.
But
I
must
confess
one
sin
against
you
--
I
love
you
.
One
should
not
love
perfection
.
One
should
only
look
on
it
as
perfection
--
yet
I
am
in
love
with
you
.
Though
love
equalizes
,
do
not
fear
.
I
have
not
lowered
you
to
my
level
,
even
in
my
most
secret
thoughts
.
I
have
written
'
Do
not
fear
,
'
as
if
you
could
fear
.
I
would
kiss
your
footprints
if
I
could
;
but
,
oh
!
I
am
not
putting
myself
on
a
level
with
you
!
--
Look
at
the
signature
--
quick
,
look
at
the
signature
!
"
"
However
,
observe
"
(
she
wrote
in
another
of
the
letters
)
,
"
that
although
I
couple
you
with
him
,
yet
I
have
not
once
asked
you
whether
you
love
him
.
He
fell
in
love
with
you
,
though
he
saw
you
but
once
.
He
spoke
of
you
as
of
'
the
light
.
'
These
are
his
own
words
--
I
heard
him
use
them
.
But
I
understood
without
his
saying
it
that
you
were
all
that
light
is
to
him
.
I
lived
near
him
for
a
whole
month
,
and
I
understood
then
that
you
,
too
,
must
love
him
.
I
think
of
you
and
him
as
one
.
"
"
What
was
the
matter
yesterday
?
"
(
she
wrote
on
another
sheet
)
.
"
I
passed
by
you
,
and
you
seemed
to
me
to
blush
.
Perhaps
it
was
only
my
fancy
.
If
I
were
to
bring
you
to
the
most
loathsome
den
,
and
show
you
the
revelation
of
undisguised
vice
--
you
should
not
blush
.
You
can
never
feel
the
sense
of
personal
affront
.
You
may
hate
all
who
are
mean
,
or
base
,
or
unworthy
--
but
not
for
yourself
--
only
for
those
whom
they
wrong
.
No
one
can
wrong
you
.
Do
you
know
,
I
think
you
ought
to
love
me
--
for
you
are
the
same
in
my
eyes
as
in
his
--
you
are
as
light
.
An
angel
can
not
hate
,
perhaps
can
not
love
,
either
.
I
often
ask
myself
--
is
it
possible
to
love
everybody
?
Indeed
it
is
not
;
it
is
not
in
nature
.
Abstract
love
of
humanity
is
nearly
always
love
of
self
.
But
you
are
different
.
You
can
not
help
loving
all
,
since
you
can
compare
with
none
,
and
are
above
all
personal
offence
or
anger
.
Oh
!
how
bitter
it
would
be
to
me
to
know
that
you
felt
anger
or
shame
on
my
account
,
for
that
would
be
your
fall
--
you
would
become
comparable
at
once
with
such
as
me
.
