“I’m speaking candidly, don’t fall in love with me…” 

This was my first introduction to Fydor Dostoevsky, with Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov on my future reading list. I wanted to begin with something more accessible, a gentler entry into Dostoevsky’s heavy, psychologically exploratory style. White Nights is often recommended as a bridge into both Russian literature and the world of Dostoyevsky. I was genuinely impressed by the poetic style and vivid imagery, which truly mirror the narrator’s stream of consciousness. While the plot itself felt inevitably predictable, the dialogue and the narrator’s personal anguish propelled the tragedy of unreciprocated love and isolation.

Synopsis

White Nights opens with the introduction of a nameless narrator (a common feature in Dostoevsky’s stories), who has lived in Petersburg for eight years in isolation. As a result, he’s often in a state of “deep melancholy,” wandering the streets on long, aimless strolls, feeling every emotion of every passerby, and forming intense emotional attachments to the houses. From the start, we’re given a glimpse into his psychological disorientation and the bleak effects of severe loneliness. 

So it’s no surprise that when he first meets Nastenka—perhaps the first girl to show him genuine attention and kindness (despite his timid, awkward demeanour), he quickly becomes infatuated. However, Nastenka only wants friendship, as she faces her own personal isolation, still waiting for the man she loves to return. They connect through shared loneliness, with the narrator becoming a mantlepiece of emotional support, there only to meet her needs. Therefore, when the narrator’s hope of love inevitably collapses, we’re left with the bleak reality of his emotional essentialism—something Dostoevsky captures hauntingly at the end.

Since White Nights isn’t structured like a traditional narrative, I’ll be exploring through its six distinct sections.

The First Night: Loneliness and the Illusion of Connection

The first night explores the consequences of extreme loneliness, shown through a series of behaviours: his isolated evening walks, his abnormal attachment to buildings (which he personifies), and his parasocial connections to strangers in the city. Furthermore, when he finally meets Nastenka (after protecting her from a stalker), he emotionally attaches almost instantly.

We’re introduced to a significant trait of the narrator: he’s a “dreamer.” He expresses his dreamlike infatuation to Nastenka almost immediately, saying, “I regard such moments as this one, now, to be so rare that I can’t help repeating these moments in my dream.” This line further highlights his loneliness and how deeply he indulges in his imagination to the point where the line between reality and fantasy begins to blur. This sonnet-like scene is heavy with romanticism, with long-winded lines of affection and intense infatuation, highlighted through the overzealous poetic and emotional declarations. To a modern reader, this may seem absurd, yet it reflects a cultural moment when feeling deeply was seen as noble, even heroic. The narrator leans into this, using it to show Nastenka the depth of his love.

However, this dreamlike state causes him to miss Nastenka’s most important warning. She senses his growing feelings and says, “don’t fall in love with me.” He emphatically agrees—not because he means it, but because he fears losing her, not just as a romantic interest but as someone he can bond with. 

The Second Night: Dreams as an escape 

This night reveals how similar both Nastenka and the narrator are in their current realities. They both use dreams as a means of escape. When they reintroduce themselves (as she senses things moved too fast the night before), the narrator delivers a powerful and emotional speech about his isolated existence. He describes how life in Petersburg has left people depressed and empty, but in his imagination he finds comfort: meeting poets, basking in musical divinity, and beside a beautiful woman. It reads like a soliloquy, rich in imagery and metaphor. 

However, parts of this section felt repetitive and mentally exhausting—almost like a psychologist analysing the psyche of someone emotionally unravelling in real time. Even Nastenka struggles to follow his dream-like tirade, replying: “Listen: you tell it splendidly, but could you tell it somehow less splendidly?” Still, the monologue, though  intense, beautifully captures how, in the face of loneliness and depression, dreams become a  pillar of support in emotional survival.

Nastenka’s Story: Between Love and Loneliness

This part of the second night shifts focus to Nastenka, offering a bleak but revealing glimpse into her past. She describes a deeply sheltered upbringing, where even her physical freedom and personal development was stifled—her blind grandmother literally fastened her to her side with a safety pin to keep her from misbehaving. The image is both absurd and sad. She never experienced a real adolescence: no friendships, no community, no sense of independence. 

This is reinforced when Nastenka recalls her grandmother saying, “we would sit like that for the rest of our lives if, of course, I didn’t behave better.” The line is bleak and reveals both the grandmother’s controlling nature and her possible fear of being left alone, given her blindness. Perhaps keeping Nastenka literally attached was her own way of avoiding isolation. However, the sad consequence is Nastenka’s own resignation to a life of confinement. A cyclical pattern of loneliness emerges: her grandmother’s fear of abandonment leads to Nastenka’s emotional suppression, mirroring the story’s wider theme of isolation and its effects. 

However, much like the narrator, Nastenka’s world is briefly brightened by another person: the new lodger. He gives her a renewed sense of life, introducing her to the world of art and literature. He takes her to The Barber of Seville, and encourages Nastenka to read, gifting her books like Pushkin and engaging in stimulating discussions. He conveys a quiet affection and care she’s long been deprived of, aware of her restricted life.

But when he must leave for Moscow to attend to unfinished business, Nastenka is overcome with fear and desperation. She worries her life will return to the same bleak reality as before. Her emotional plea for love and marriage mirrors the narrator’s own passionate declaration from the first night. The lodger promises to marry her in a year’s time, saying: “If you have not stopped loving me, I swear to you that we will be happy…” It feels sincere, but it places her in an emotionally difficult position, clinging to love and hope, shadowed by the uncertainty of time. 

With no word from him and the belief he’s already been back for three days, her grief deepens. The narrator, despite his own feelings, offers to help her write a letter, just to see her smile again. 

The Third Night: Suppressed Love and Silent Suffering

The Third Night is, emotionally, the most painful part of the story. While it centres on the narrator’s unraveling feelings for Nastenka, Dostoevsky also explores a deeper psychological layer: the narrator’s unwillingness to change, and his acceptance of a bleak, alienated existence. This is signalled from the opening line: “Today was a sad, rainy day, without a ray of hope, just like my future old age.” He recognises the grim present reality of his life—one he believes will never change. 

This is reiterated when he says: “I am besieged by such strange thoughts… and I have neither the strength nor the desire to resolve them.” Too broken to confront his despair, his refusal to change seems driven by helplessness, maybe even bitterness: “It is not for me to resolve all of this!”  This despair deepens as he  suppresses his love to keep his promise of platonic friendship. What makes it worse is how deeply he feels her pain while she anxiously waits for her absent lover. As he reflects: “When we are unhappy, we more strongly feel the unhappiness of others.”

The emotional tension peaks through dramatic irony: he’s clearly in love, but whether Nastenka realises it remains uncertain. She loves him because he doesn’t burden her with romance. This is evident when she says “I love you because you didn’t fall in love with me… Someone else would’ve started sighing, pestering me…but you, you’re such a dear.”

He sacrifices his truth for her happiness, and that silence becomes self-destructive. Her affection borders on emotional dependence: she leans on him for comfort without seeing him as a romantic possibility. Later, she compares her lover to the narrator—wishing he were as kind and good, yet still she loves the other man more. He feels she “takes pity” on his love, suggesting she senses his feelings but avoids acknowledging them, afraid it would threaten their friendship.

The ambiguity is what makes this scene so psychologically rich. Dostoevsky doesn’t villainize her—he shows the quiet tragedies of love being misread and one-sided. The night ends with the narrator emotionally unraveling: “I came home more depressed than I had ever been.”

The Fourth Night: Hope’s Last Illusion

The fourth night marks the emotional climax of the narrator’s love story, as long-suppressed truths finally surface. Nastenka is distraught, as her lover still hasn’t returned or replied to her letters. She breaks down, crying, “Oh, what I’ve endured these three days!” Her visible pain pushes the narrator past his limit, releasing his emotions: “You’re tearing me apart, Nastenka… I cannot be silent! I must finally speak and tell you what has been welling up in my heart.” When he confesses, Nastenka is confused and overwhelmed.  

She doesn’t reject him outright, but her reaction unsettles him. He instantly regrets breaking his promise of platonic friendship, sensing their dynamic has shifted irreversibly. She clings to him, suggesting she might love him with time—but it feels more like a plea for comfort than a promise. Aware of his fragility, she softens the blow. However, to the narrator, this ambiguity sparks hope.

But her true feelings become clear the moment her former lover reappears. Nastenka’s entire body language shifts without hesitation. The narrator describes how “she tore herself from my arms and flew to meet him”—a reaction of raw, instinctive love, in stark contrast to the gentler, more hesitant way she interacts with him. When she returns to kiss him goodbye, it feels more like a gesture of pity than affection.

The tragedy lies in the timing: had the lover never returned, might Nastenka have grown to love the narrator? Dostoevsky leaves the question unanswered, and that ambiguity only deepens the heartbreak. 

Dostoevsky also explores the narrator’s existential tragedy. His lonely world revolved around this sole connection, and now it crumbles. Once again, he is reduced to a silent observer of other people’s lives, retreating into his familiar solitude. The scene closes with one of the story’s most haunting lines: “I stood for a long time and watched them walk away.”

Morning: Hope Ends but Memory Remains

The final section of White Nights acts as a tragic epilogue, centred around Nastenka’s letter. Dostoevsky uses pathetic fallacy to mirror the narrator’s inner turmoil: “the rain beat down on my windows cheerlessly.” Nastenka pleads for forgiveness, torn by guilt and emotional confusion. “If only you were he!,” shatters any remaining hope.

Yet she doesn’t abandon him completely. She shows gratitude, calling their time together “a sweet dream,” and still wants his presence, referring to him as a “friend” and “brother,” asking if he can still love her as he did before. But in asking, she quietly sets the boundary: closeness without romantic love, especially with her wedding imminent.

The narrator rereads her words in a slow descent from dreamlike hope into bleak self-reflection. Dostoevsky shifts from heartbreak to existential collapse. Matryona (his personal maid) hasn’t changed, but in his eyes, she’s now “vacant…wrinkled…stooped,” a projection of himself: older, unchanged, alone. Even the room begins to decay. “Walls faded,” and “cornices cracked,” mirroring the ruin left by unreturned love.  

However, Dostoevsky offers something melancholic: a kind of reverent acceptance. The narrator doesn’t resent Nastenka, even if he couldn’t bring himself to attend the wedding. Instead, he treasures the happiness they shared:

“My God! A whole moment of happiness! Is that really so little for the whole of a man’s life?”

Their bond, though brief and ending in heartbreak, still lives in memory. And maybe, that was enough.