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I remember particularly the spring of 1886.
Spring-time was always trying to Sonia; this
season of fermentation, growth, and restlessness
used to oppress her, make her nervous, impatient,
and over-sensitive. The long days enervated
her, while I used to love them. The constant
light, she used to say, seems to promise so much,
and yet to give so little, because the earth
remains cold. Summer vanishes quickly like a
phantom, you cannot keep it in your grasp.
She could not work, and kept insisting that
work in itself, especially scientific production,
had no value, could give no joy, nor yet promote
the happiness of men. It was folly to lose one’s
youth in work; it was a misfortune, especially
for a woman, to have a natural gift for science,
as it would draw her into a sphere where she
could never find happiness.
As soon as her term in Stockholm was over
she hurried abroad, and went first to Paris,
where she wrote me one single letter. Contrary
to her habit, it was dated.
‘142 Boulevard de l’Enfer,
‘June 26th, 1886.
‘Dear Ann Charlotte,—I have this
moment received your letter. I blame myself
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