I must put down my pen. You, jeering person, pray think what you like of me, only don’t jeer at me in writing. You and I are old friends, and ought to spare each other. Good-bye!--Yours, P. B. FIFTH LETTER From the SAME to the SAME M---- VILLAGE, _July 26, 1850_. It’s a long time since I wrote to you, dear Semyon Nicolaitch; more than a month, I think. I had enough to write about but I was overcome by laziness. To tell the truth, I have hardly thought of you all this time. But from your last letter to me I gather that you are drawing conclusions in regard to me, which are unjust, that is to say, not altogether just. You imagine I have fallen in love with Vera (I feel it awkward, somehow, to call her Vera Nikolaevna); you are wrong. Of course I see her often, I like her extremely … indeed, who wouldn’t like her? I should like to see you in my place. She’s an exquisite creature! Rapid intuition, together with the inexperience of a child, clear common-sense, and an innate feeling for beauty, a continual striving towards the true and the lofty, and a comprehension of everything, even of the vicious, even of the ridiculous, a soft womanly charm brooding over all this like an angel’s white wings.… But what’s the use of words! We have read a great deal, we have talked a great deal together during this month. Reading with her is a delight such as I had never experienced before. You seem to be discovering new worlds. She never goes into ecstasies over anything; anything boisterous is distasteful to her; she is softly radiant all over when she likes anything, and her face wears such a noble and good--yes, good expression. From her earliest childhood Vera has not known what deceit was; she is accustomed to truth, it is the breath of her being, and so in poetry too, only what is true strikes her as natural; at once, without effort or difficulty, she recognises it as a familiar face … a great privilege and happiness. One must give her mother credit for it. How many times have I thought, as I watched Vera--yes, Goethe was right, ‘the good even in their obscure striving feel always where the true path lies.’ There is only one thing annoying--her husband is always about the place. (Please don’t laugh a senseless guffaw, don’t sully our pure friendship, even in thought). He is about as capable of understanding poetry as I am of playing the flute, but he does not like to lag behind his wife, he wants to improve himself too. Sometimes she puts me out of patience herself; all of a sudden a mood comes over her; she won’t read or talk, she works at her embroidery frame, busies herself with Natasha, or with the housekeeper, runs off all at once into the kitchen, or simply sits with her hands folded looking out of the window, or sets to playing ‘fools’ with the nurse.… I have noticed at these times it doesn’t do to bother her; it’s better to bide one’s time till she comes up, begins to talk or takes up a book.