He will reply that it is with a most noble man, and in that is the triumph of virtue!
Good-bye, my much-esteemed Prince!
With quiet steps . . . quiet steps . . . and together, sir."
X
The prince finally understood why he went cold every time he touched those three letters and why he had put off the moment of reading them all the way till evening.
When, that morning, he had fallen into a heavy sleep on his couch, still without resolving to open any one of those three envelopes, he again had a heavy dream, and again that same "criminal woman" came to him.
She again looked at him with tears glistening on her long lashes, again called him to follow her, and again he woke up, as earlier, painfully trying to remember her face.
He wanted to go to her at once, but could not; at last, almost in despair, he opened the letters and began to read.
These letters also resembled a dream.
Sometimes you dream strange dreams, impossible and unnatural; you wake up and remember them clearly, and are surprised at a strange fact: you remember first of all that reason did not abandon you during the whole course of your dream; you even remember that you acted extremely cleverly and logically for that whole long, long time when you were surrounded by murderers, when they were being clever with you, concealed their intentions, treated you in a friendly way, though they already had their weapons ready and were only waiting for some sort of sign; you remember how cleverly you finally deceived them, hid from them; then you realize that they know your whole deception by heart and merely do not show you that they know where you are hiding; but you are clever and deceive them again— all that you remember clearly.
But why at the same time could your reason be reconciled with such obvious absurdities and impossibilities, with which, among other things, your dream was filled?
Before your eyes, one of your murderers turned into a woman, and from a woman into a clever, nasty little dwarf—and all that you allowed at once, as an accomplished fact, almost without the least perplexity, and precisely at the moment when, on the other hand, your reason was strained to the utmost, displaying extraordinary force, cleverness, keenness, logic?
Why, also, on awakening from your dream and entering fully into reality, do you feel almost every time, and occasionally with an extraordinary force of impression, that along with the dream you are leaving behind something you have failed to fathom?
You smile at the absurdity of your dream and feel at the same time that the tissue of those absurdities contains some thought, but a thought that is real, something that belongs to your true life, something that exists and has always existed in your heart; it is as if your dream has told you something new, prophetic, awaited; your impression is strong, it is joyful or tormenting, but what it is and what has been told you—all that you can neither comprehend nor recall.
It was almost the same after these letters.
But even without opening them, the prince felt that the very fact of their existence and possibility was already like a nightmare.
How did she dare write to her, he asked, wandering alone in the evening (sometimes not even remembering himself where he was walking).
How could she write about that, and how could such an insane dream have been born in her head?
But that dream had already been realized, and what was most astonishing for him was that, while he was reading these letters, he almost believed himself in the possibility and even the justification of that dream.
Yes, of course, it was a dream, a nightmare, and an insanity; but there was also something in it that was tormentingly actual and painfully just, which justified the dream, the nightmare, and the insanity.
For several hours in a row he was as if delirious with what he had read, continually recalled fragments, lingered over them, reflected on them.
Sometimes he even wanted to tell himself that he had sensed and foreseen it all before; it even seemed to him as if he had read it all long, long ago and that everything he had yearned for since then, everything he had suffered over and been afraid of—all of it was contained in these letters read long ago.
"When you open this letter" (so the first one began), "you will first of all look at the signature.
The signature will tell you everything and explain everything, so that I need not justify myself before you or explain anything to you.
If I were even slightly your equal, you might be offended at such boldness; but who am I and who are you?
We are two such opposites, and I am so far out of rank with you, that I could not offend you in any way, even if I wanted to."
Further on in another place she wrote:
"Do not consider my words the morbid rapture of a morbid mind, but for me you are—perfection!
I have seen you, I see you every day.
I do not judge you; it is not by reason that I have come to consider you perfection; I simply believe it.
But there is also a sin in me before you: I love you.
Perfection cannot be loved, perfection can only be looked at as perfection, isn't that so?
And yet I am in love with you.
Love equates people, but don't worry, I have never equated myself with you even in my innermost thoughts.
I have written: 'don't worry'; but how could you worry? ...
If it were possible, I would kiss the prints of your feet.
Oh, I am not trying to make us equals . . . Look at the signature, quickly look at the signature!"
"I notice, however" (she wrote in another letter), "that I am uniting him with you, and have not yet asked whether you love him.
He loved you after seeing you only once.
He remembered you as 'light'; those were his own words, I heard them from him.
But even without words I understood that you were his light.
I lived by him for a whole month, and here I understood that you love him as well; you and he are one for me."
"How is it" (she also wrote) "that I walked past you yesterday, and you seemed to blush?
It cannot be, I must have imagined it.
Even if they bring you to the filthiest den and show you naked vice, you should not blush; you cannot possibly be indignant over an offense.
You may hate all those who are mean and base, but not for your own sake, but for others, for those who are offended.
No one can offend you.
You know, it seems to me that you should even love me.
You are the same for me as for him: a bright spirit; an angel cannot hate, and cannot not love.
Can one love everyone, all people, all one's neighbors? I have often asked myself that question.