You’re absolutely justified in writing to him, for he made a promise to you. Besides, I can see from what you’ve told me that he is a nice man, that he has behaved decently,” I went on, carried away by the logic of my own reasoning and my own convictions. “For what did he do? He bound himself by a promise. He said that he wouldn’t marry anyone but you, if, that is, he ever married at all. But he left you free to decide whether or not you want to marry him, to refuse him at any moment. This being so, there’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t make the first move. You’re entitled to do so, and you have an advantage over him, if, for instance, you should choose to release him from his promise.…”

“Look, how would you have written—?”

“What?”

“Such a letter.”

“Well, I’d have started, ‘Dear Sir …’ ”

“Must it begin with ‘Dear Sir’?”

“Of course! I mean, not necessarily.… You could …”

“Never mind. How would you go on?”

“ ‘Dear Sir, you will pardon me for …’ No, I don’t think you should apologise for writing to him. The circumstances themselves fully justify your letter. Write simply: ‘I am writing to you. Forgive me for my impatience, but all the year I have lived in such happy anticipation of your return that it is hardly surprising that I cannot bear the suspense even one day longer. Now that you are back, I cannot help wondering whether you have not after all changed your mind. If that is so, then my letter will tell you that I quite understand and that I am not blaming you for anything. I do not blame you that I have no power over your heart: such seems to be my fate. You are an honourable man. I know you will not be angry with me or smile at my impatience. Remember that it is a poor girl who is writing to you, that she is all alone in the world, that she has no one to tell her what to do or give her any advice, and that she herself never did know how to control her heart. But forgive me that doubt should have stolen even for one moment into my heart. I know that even in your thoughts you are quite incapable of hurting her who loved you so much and who still loves you.’ ”

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking!” Nastenka cried, her eyes beaming with joy. “Oh, you’ve put an end to all my doubts. I’m sure God must have sent you to me. Thank you, thank you!”

“What are you thanking me for? Because God has sent me to you?” I replied, gazing delighted at her sweet, happy face.

“Yes, for that too.”

“Oh, Nastenka, aren’t we sometimes grateful to people only because they live with us? Well, I’m grateful to you for having met you. I’m grateful to you because I shall remember you all my life!”

“All right, all right! Now listen to me carefully: I arranged with him that he’d let me know as soon as he came back by leaving a letter for me at the house of some people I know—they are very nice, simple people who know nothing about the whole thing; and that if he couldn’t write me a letter because one can’t say all one wants in a letter, he’d come here, where we had arranged to meet, at exactly ten o’clock on the very first day of his arrival. Now, I know he has arrived, but for two days he hasn’t turned up, nor have I had a letter from him. I can’t possibly get away from Granny in the morning. So please take my letter tomorrow to the kind people I told you of, and they’ll see that it reaches him. And if there is a reply, you could bring it yourself tomorrow evening at ten o’clock.”

“But the letter! What about the letter? You must write the letter first, which means that I couldn’t take it before the day after tomorrow.”

“The letter …?” said Nastenka, looking a little confused. “Oh, the letter!… Well—”

But she didn’t finish. At first she turned her pretty face away from me, then she blushed like a rose, and then all of a sudden I felt that the letter which she must have written long before was in my hand. It was in a sealed envelope.