XXVII. THE BEGINNING OF OUR FRIENDSHIP
From that time forth, a strange, but exceedingly pleasant,
relation subsisted between Dimitri Nechludoff and myself. Before
other people he paid me scanty attention, but as soon as ever we
were alone, we would sit down together in some comfortable corner
and, forgetful both of time and of everything around us, fall to
reasoning.
We talked of a future life, of art, service, marriage, and
education; nor did the idea ever occur to us that very possibly
all we said was shocking nonsense. The reason why it never
occurred to us was that the nonsense which we talked was good,
sensible nonsense, and that, so long as one is young, one can
appreciate good nonsense, and believe in it. In youth the powers
of the mind are directed wholly to the future, and that future
assumes such various, vivid, and alluring forms under the
influence of hope--hope based, not upon the experience of the
past, but upon an assumed possibility of happiness to come--that
such dreams of expected felicity constitute in themselves the
true happiness of that period of our life. How I loved those
moments in our metaphysical discussions (discussions which formed
the major portion of our intercourse) when thoughts came
thronging faster and faster, and, succeeding one another at
lightning speed, and growing more and more abstract, at length
attained such a pitch of elevation that one felt powerless to
express them, and said something quite different from what one
had intended at first to say! How I liked those moments, too,
when, carried higher and higher into the realms of thought, we
suddenly felt that we could grasp its substance no longer and go
no further!
At carnival time Nechludoff was so much taken up with one
festivity and another that, though he came to see us several
times a day, he never addressed a single word to me. This
offended me so much that once again I found myself thinking him a
haughty, disagreeable fellow, and only awaited an opportunity to
show him that I no longer valued his company or felt any
particular affection for him. Accordingly, the first time that he
spoke to me after the carnival, I said that I had lessons to do,
and went upstairs, but a quarter of an hour later some one opened
the schoolroom door, and Nechludoff entered.
"Am I disturbing you?" he asked.
"No," I replied, although I had at first intended to say that I
had a great deal to do.
"Then why did you run away just now? It is a long while since we
had a talk together, and I have grown so accustomed to these
discussions that I feel as though something were wanting."
My anger had quite gone now, and Dimitri stood before me the same
good and lovable being as before.
"You know, perhaps, why I ran away?" I said.
"Perhaps I do," he answered, taking a seat near me. "However,
though it is possible I know why, I cannot say it straight out,
whereas YOU can."
"Then I will do so. I ran away because I was angry with you--
well, not angry, but grieved. I always have an idea that you
despise me for being so young."
"Well, do you know why I always feel so attracted towards you? "
he replied, meeting my confession with a look of kind
understanding, "and why I like you better than any of my other
acquaintances or than any of the people among whom I mostly have
to live? It is because I found out at once that you have the rare
and astonishing gift of sincerity."
"Yes, I always confess the things of which I am most ashamed--but
only to people in whom I trust," I said.
"Ah, but to trust a man you must be his friend completely, and we
are not friends yet, Nicolas. Remember how, when we were speaking
of friendship, we agreed that, to be real friends, we ought to
trust one another implicitly."
"I trust you in so far as that I feel convinced that you would
never repeat a word of what I might tell you," I said.
"Yet perhaps the most interesting and important thoughts of all
are just those which we never tell one another, while the mean
thoughts (the thoughts which, if we only knew that we had to
confess them to one another, would probably never have the
hardihood to enter our minds)-- Well, do you know what I am
thinking of, Nicolas?" he broke off, rising and taking my hand
with a smile. "I propose (and I feel sure that it would benefit
us mutually) that we should pledge our word to one another to
tell each other EVERYTHING. We should then really know each
other, and never have anything on our consciences. And, to guard
against outsiders, let us also agree never to speak of one
another to a third person. Suppose we do that?"
"I agree," I replied. And we did it. What the result was shall be
told hereafter.
Kerr has said that every attachment has two sides: one loves, and
the other allows himself to be loved; one kisses, and the other
surrenders his cheek. That is perfectly true. In the case of our
own attachment it was I who kissed, and Dimitri who surrendered
his cheek--though he, in his turn, was ready to pay me a similar
salute. We loved equally because we knew and appreciated each
other thoroughly, but this did not prevent him from exercising
an influence over me, nor myself from rendering him adoration.
It will readily be understood that Nechludoff's influence caused
me to adopt his bent of mind, the essence of which lay in an
enthusiastic reverence for ideal virtue and a firm belief in
man's vocation to perpetual perfection. To raise mankind, to
abolish vice and misery, seemed at that time a task offering no
difficulties. To educate oneself to every virtue, and so to
achieve happiness, seemed a simple and easy matter.
Only God Himself knows whether those blessed dreams of youth were
ridiculous, or whose the fault was that they never became
realised.
