It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at it, one could not help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and capricious people could live under such a sky. That is a youthful question too, dear reader, very youthful, but may the Lord put it more frequently into your heart!... Speaking of capricious and ill-humoured people, I cannot help recalling my moral condition all that day. From early morning I had been oppressed by a strange despondency. It suddenly seemed to me that I was lonely, that every one was forsaking me and going away from me. Of course, any one is entitled to ask who "every one" was. For though I had been living almost eight years in Petersburg I had hardly an acquaintance. But what did I want with acquaintances? I was acquainted with all Petersburg as it was; that was why I felt as though they were all deserting me when all Petersburg packed up and went to its summer villa. I felt afraid of being left alone, and for three whole days I wandered about the town in profound dejection, not knowing what to do with myself. Whether I walked in the Nevsky, went to the Gardens or sauntered on the embankment, there was not one face of those I had been accustomed to meet at the same time and place all the year. They, of course, do not know me, but I know them. I know them intimately, I have almost made a study of their faces, and am delighted when they are gay, and downcast when they are under a cloud. I have almost struck up a friendship with one old man whom I meet every blessed day, at the same hour in Fontanka. Such a grave, pensive countenance; he is always whispering to himself and brandishing his left arm, while in his right hand he holds a long gnarled stick with a gold knob. He even notices me and takes a warm interest in me. If I happen not to be at a certain time in the same spot in Fontanka, I am certain he feels disappointed. That is how it is that we almost bow to each other, especially when we are both in good humour. The other day, when we had not seen each other for two days and met on the third, we were actually touching our hats, but, realizing in time, dropped our hands and passed each other with a look of interest.

I know the houses too. As I walk along they seem to run forward in the streets to look out at me from every window, and almost to say: "Good-morning! How do you do? I am quite well, thank God, and I am to have a new storey in May," or, "How are you? I am being redecorated to-morrow;" or, "I was almost burnt down and had such a fright," and so on. I have my favourites among them, some are dear friends; one of them intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I shall go every day on purpose to see that the operation is not a failure. God forbid! But I shall never forget an incident with a very pretty little house of a light pink colour. It was such a charming little brick house, it looked so hospitably at me, and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my heart rejoiced whenever I happened to pass it. Suddenly last week I walked along the street, and when I looked at my friend I heard a plaintive, "They are painting me yellow!" The villains! The barbarians! They had spared nothing, neither columns, nor cornices, and my poor little friend was as yellow as a canary. It almost made me bilious. And to this day I have not had the courage to visit my poor disfigured friend, painted the colour of the Celestial Empire.

So now you understand, reader, in what a state I was when the beautiful night began. I was walking, I knew not where, and I was full of a strange, vague, and above all, involuntary longing. I was longing for something, but for what I could not say. I felt that I was a complete stranger to every one, and that every one was a stranger to me, that I was an exile in this town, and that I was not going to any one, and that no one was going to me. I was filled with a kind of oppressive, restless feeling. I felt that if some one were to come up to me just then and speak to me, I should instantly burst into tears. For a long time I wandered aimlessly about the streets, and then all at once I found myself on the bank of a canal. The water was quiet, the sky was reflected in it beautifully, and the stars seemed to be trembling in the dark water. It was the beginning of the white nights. The sky grew lighter and lighter, but the darkness did not vanish entirely; it remained a sort of dusky, greyish twilight. It was, as it were, the dead hour of the night, yet there was light enough to see the outlines of the houses, the colour of the water, the face of a passer-by. It was a strange, bewitching sight, and the oppressive feeling in my soul began to pass away. I felt suddenly as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes, and I stopped, lost in contemplation of the scene.

It was here, on the bank of this canal, that I met her. I had walked a little way along the canal, and was just thinking of turning back, when I saw a young girl standing by the canal wall, looking thoughtfully into the water. She was slight, about eighteen, perhaps, with lovely dark hair, and such a sweet, sad face. I stopped as if struck. I was shy, of course, but I could not tear myself away from the vision. She was looking so intently at the water, so sadly, that I felt a pang of sympathy. I stood for a long time, watching her. The sun had not risen yet, but the sky was beginning to show streaks of pale pink and gold. The white nights were at their height. Suddenly she started, as if from a dream, and sighed, a deep, heart-felt sigh. I moved away, not wishing to intrude upon her reverie. But as I turned, I saw her looking towards me with a strange, searching gaze.

You can download, read online, find more details of this full eBook White Nights and Other Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky from

And convert it to the AudioBook with any voice you like in our AI Voice AudioBook app.

Reddit • TikTok • Facebook • X (Twitter)

Free eBook, AI Voice, AudioBook: White Nights and Other Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Listen to the AudioBook: White Nights and Other Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky