Chapter Text
Home of Viktor Mironov.
July 26, 1889.
Anna Viktorovna Mironova.
Dear Anna,
As you have no doubt already heard from your father, Spinidonov and Kungurov have been fortunate enough to escape harsh punishment for their foolish behavior. Eighteen months at the local prison, laboring in the fields, is as light a sentence as could be expected. I cannot say the same for the uncle of Konstantin and Viktorya. His confession to the murder of Golubev and the subsequent firing of a rifle at an officer of the law brought upon him the harshest of punishments. For the time being, the Spinidonov estate is under the care of a steward until the release of the young Spinidonov or the return from Paris of his sister.
I am still perplexed by your reaction to my reflections at our last meeting, Anna Viktorovna. What was it about my concern for Viktorya that irked you so? I cannot help thinking that it stems from our collision during Mr. Busse’s murder investigation or from your ordeal with Gruchowski’s men. At the same time I do not doubt your profession of forgiveness for my actions in both instances. I would enjoy a frank conversation on the topic, if you have the inclination for such a meeting.
The relationship between your father and I has improved - a positive result of these tragic events. At the conclusion of the trial, Vikor Ivanovich unexpectedly stopped in at the precinct and invited the lot of us, Anton Andreievich, Nikolai Vasilyevich, and myself, to the tavern for a celebratory drink. The evening got underway in the customary manner. We each in turn lifted our glass and extolled the worth of the others in our company.
It was not long before camaraderie replaced social custom as the force that drove our dialogue and interaction. I believe at one point we broke into song. This change in your father’s attitude was unexpected. But more surprising is how his change of heart has affected my intentions with respect to you, Anna.
It is not fair to you - my constant wavering. I realize this, and yet, none of the choices before me offer me solace. There are drawbacks to every outcome of which I can conceive. I have declared before that we should maintain a distance, both physically and emotionally. I have stilled my tongue when occasions for professing more than friendship were at hand. Deep interest in your wellbeing has been my motive, truly. I have at least acted honorably in that way.
But as you have discerned, I cannot be consistent in my relations with you. If I were a better man, I would steer away instead of toward you, whenever I spied your silhouette. Korobeinikov would take your statements and escort you home. But I cannot quit you. I am too fond. I value your companionship, your insight, your heartfelt concern for the welfare of others too much. In short, you bring me too much joy for me to stay away.
Truly yours,
Yakov Platonovich.