July 28th.

MY PRICELESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--What am I to say to you, now
that all is over, and we are gradually returning to our old
position? You say that you are anxious as to what will be thought
of me. Let me tell you that the dearest thing in life to me is my
self-respect; wherefore, in informing you of my misfortunes and
misconduct, I would add that none of my superiors know of my
doings, nor ever will know of them, and that therefore, I still
enjoy a measure of respect in that quarter. Only one thing do I
fear-- I fear gossip. Garrulous though my landlady be, she said
but little when, with the aid of your ten roubles, I today paid
her part of her account; and as for the rest of my companions,
they do not matter at all. So long as I have not borrowed money
from them, I need pay them no attention. To conclude my
explanations, let me tell you that I value your respect for me
above everything in the world, and have found it my greatest
comfort during this temporary distress of mine. Thank God, the
first shock of things has abated, now that you have agreed not to
look upon me as faithless and an egotist simply because I have
deceived you. I wish to hold you to myself, for the reason that I
cannot bear to part with you, and love you as my guardian angel.
. . . I have now returned to work, and am applying myself
diligently to my duties. Also, yesterday Evstafi Ivanovitch
exchanged a word or two with me. Yet I will not conceal from you
the fact that my debts are crushing me down, and that my wardrobe
is in a sorry state. At the same time, these things do not REALLY
matter and I would bid you not despair about them. Send me,
however, another half-rouble if you can (though that half-rouble
will stab me to the heart--stab me with the thought that it is
not I who am helping you, but YOU who are helping ME). Thedora
has done well to get those fifteen roubles for you. At the
moment, fool of an old man that I am, I have no hope of acquiring
any more money; but as soon as ever I do so, I will write to you
and let you know all about it. What chiefly worries me is the
fear of gossip. Goodbye, little angel. I kiss your hands, and
beseech you to regain your health. If this is not a detailed
letter, the reason is that I must soon be starting for the
office, in order that, by strict application to duty, I may make
amends for the past. Further information concerning my doings (as
well as concerning that affair with the officers) must be
deferred until tonight.--Your affectionate and respectful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.



July 28th.

DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,--It is YOU who have committed a fault--
and one which must weigh heavily upon your conscience. Indeed,
your last letter has amazed and confounded me,--so much so that,
on once more looking into the recesses of my heart, I perceive
that I was perfectly right in what I did. Of course I am not now
referring to my debauch (no, indeed!), but to the fact that I
love you, and to the fact that it is unwise of me to love you--
very unwise. You know not how matters stand, my darling. You know
not why I am BOUND to love you. Otherwise you would not say all
that you do. Yet I am persuaded that it is your head rather than
your heart that is speaking. I am certain that your heart thinks
very differently.

What occurred that night between myself and those officers I
scarcely know, I scarcely remember. You must bear in mind that
for some time past I have been in terrible distress--that for a
whole month I have been, so to speak, hanging by a single thread.
Indeed, my position has been most pitiable. Though I hid myself
from you, my landlady was forever shouting and railing at me.
This would not have mattered a jot--the horrible old woman might
have shouted as much as she pleased--had it not been that, in the
first place, there was the disgrace of it, and, in the second
place, she had somehow learned of our connection, and kept
proclaiming it to the household until I felt perfectly deafened,
and had to stop my ears. The point, however, is that other people
did not stop their ears, but, on the contrary, pricked them.
Indeed, I am at a loss what to do.

Really this wretched rabble has driven me to extremities. It all
began with my hearing a strange rumour from Thedora--namely, that
an unworthy suitor had been to visit you, and had insulted you
with an improper proposal. That he had insulted you deeply I knew
from my own feelings, for I felt insulted in an equal degree.
Upon that, my angel, I went to pieces, and, losing all self-
control, plunged headlong. Bursting into an unspeakable frenzy, I
was at once going to call upon this villain of a seducer--though
what to do next I knew not, seeing that I was fearful of giving
you offence. Ah, what a night of sorrow it was, and what a time
of gloom, rain, and sleet! Next, I was returning home, but found
myself unable to stand upon my feet. Then Emelia Ilyitch happened
to come by. He also is a tchinovnik--or rather, was a tchinovnik,
since he was turned out of the service some time ago. What he was
doing there at that moment I do not know; I only know that I went
with him. . . . Surely it cannot give you pleasure to read of the
misfortunes of your friend--of his sorrows, and of the
temptations which he experienced? . . . On the evening of the
third day Emelia urged me to go and see the officer of whom I
have spoken, and whose address I had learned from our dvornik.
More strictly speaking, I had noticed him when, on a previous
occasion, he had come to play cards here, and I had followed him
home. Of course I now see that I did wrong, but I felt beside
myself when I heard them telling him stories about me. Exactly
what happened next I cannot remember. I only remember that
several other officers were present as well as he. Or it may be
that I saw everything double--God alone knows. Also, I cannot
exactly remember what I said. I only remember that in my fury I
said a great deal. Then they turned me out of the room, and threw
me down the staircase--pushed me down it, that is to say. How I
got home you know. That is all. Of course, later I blamed myself,
and my pride underwent a fall; but no extraneous person except
yourself knows of the affair, and in any case it does not matter.
Perhaps the affair is as you imagine it to have been, Barbara?
One thing I know for certain, and that is that last year one of
our lodgers, Aksenti Osipovitch, took a similar liberty with
Peter Petrovitch, yet kept the fact secret, an absolute secret.
He called him into his room (I happened to be looking through a
crack in the partition-wall), and had an explanation with him in
the way that a gentleman should--noone except myself being a
witness of the scene; whereas, in my own case, I had no
explanation at all. After the scene was over, nothing further
transpired between Aksenti Osipovitch and Peter Petrovitch, for
the reason that the latter was so desirous of getting on in life
that he held his tongue. As a result, they bow and shake hands
whenever they meet. . . . I will not dispute the fact that I have
erred most grievously--that I should never dare to dispute, or
that I have fallen greatly in my own estimation; but, I think I
was fated from birth so to do--and one cannot escape fate, my
beloved. Here, therefore, is a detailed explanation of my
misfortunes and sorrows, written for you to read whenever you may
find it convenient. I am far from well, beloved, and have lost
all my gaiety of disposition, but I send you this letter as a
token of my love, devotion, and respect, Oh dear lady of my
affections.-- Your humble servant,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

July 29th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I have read your two letters, and
they make my heart ache. See here, dear friend of mine. You pass
over certain things in silence, and write about a PORTION only of
your misfortunes. Can it be that the letters are the outcome of a
mental disorder? . . . Come and see me, for God's sake. Come
today, direct from the office, and dine with us as you have done
before. As to how you are living now, or as to what settlement
you have made with your landlady, I know not, for you write
nothing concerning those two points, and seem purposely to have
left them unmentioned. Au revoir, my friend. Come to me today
without fail. You would do better ALWAYS to dine here. Thedora is
an excellent cook. Goodbye --Your own,

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.

August 1st.

MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Thank God that He has sent you a
chance of repaying my good with good. I believe in so doing, as
well as in the sweetness of your angelic heart. Therefore, I will
not reproach you. Only I pray you, do not again blame me because
in the decline of my life I have played the spendthrift. It was
such a sin, was it not?--such a thing to do? And even if you
would still have it that the sin was there, remember, little
friend, what it costs me to hear such words fall from your lips.
Do not be vexed with me for saying this, for my heart is
fainting. Poor people are subject to fancies--this is a provision
of nature. I myself have had reason to know this. The poor man is
exacting. He cannot see God's world as it is, but eyes each
passer-by askance, and looks around him uneasily in order that he
may listen to every word that is being uttered. May not people be
talking of him? How is it that he is so unsightly? What is he
feeling at all? What sort of figure is he cutting on the one side
or on the other? It is matter of common knowledge, my Barbara,
that the poor man ranks lower than a rag, and will never earn the
respect of any one. Yes, write about him as you like--let
scribblers say what they choose about him-- he will ever remain
as he was. And why is this? It is because, from his very nature,
the poor man has to wear his feelings on his sleeve, so that
nothing about him is sacred, and as for his self-respect--! Well,
Emelia told me the other day that once, when he had to collect
subscriptions, official sanction was demanded for every single
coin, since people thought that it would be no use paying their
money to a poor man. Nowadays charity is strangely administered.
Perhaps it has always been so. Either folk do not know how to
administer it, or they are adept in the art--one of the two.
Perhaps you did not know this, so I beg to tell it you. And how
comes it that the poor man knows, is so conscious of it all? The
answer is--by experience. He knows because any day he may see a
gentleman enter a restaurant and ask himself, "What shall I have
to eat today? I will have such and such a dish," while all the
time the poor man will have nothing to eat that day but gruel.
There are men, too--wretched busybodies--who walk about merely to
see if they can find some wretched tchinovnik or broken-down
official who has got toes projecting from his boots or his hair
uncut! And when they have found such a one they make a report of
the circumstance, and their rubbish gets entered on the file....
But what does it matter to you if my hair lacks the shears? If
you will forgive me what may seem to you a piece of rudeness, I
declare that the poor man is ashamed of such things with the
sensitiveness of a young girl. YOU, for instance, would not care
(pray pardon my bluntness) to unrobe yourself before the public
eye; and in the same way, the poor man does not like to be pried
at or questioned concerning his family relations, and so forth. A
man of honour and self-respect such as I am finds it painful and
grievous to have to consort with men who would deprive him of
both.

Today I sat before my colleagues like a bear's cub or a plucked
sparrow, so that I fairly burned with shame. Yes, it hurt me
terribly, Barbara. Naturally one blushes when one can see one's
naked toes projecting through one's boots, and one's buttons
hanging by a single thread! As though on purpose, I seemed, on
this occasion, to be peculiarly dishevelled. No wonder that my
spirits fell. When I was talking on business matters to Stepan
Karlovitch, he suddenly exclaimed, for no apparent reason, "Ah,
poor old Makar Alexievitch!" and then left the rest unfinished.
But I knew what he had in his mind, and blushed so hotly that
even the bald patch on my head grew red. Of course the whole
thing is nothing, but it worries me, and leads to anxious
thoughts. What can these fellows know about me? God send that
they know nothing! But I confess that I suspect, I strongly
suspect, one of my colleagues. Let them only betray me! They
would betray one's private life for a groat, for they hold
nothing sacred.

I have an idea who is at the bottom of it all. It is Rataziaev.
Probably he knows someone in our department to whom he has
recounted the story with additions. Or perhaps he has spread it
abroad in his own department, and thence, it has crept and
crawled into ours. Everyone here knows it, down to the last
detail, for I have seen them point at you with their fingers
through the window. Oh yes, I have seen them do it. Yesterday,
when I stepped across to dine with you, the whole crew were
hanging out of the window to watch me, and the landlady exclaimed
that the devil was in young people, and called you certain
unbecoming names. But this is as nothing compared with
Rataziaev's foul intention to place us in his books, and to
describe us in a satire. He himself has declared that he is going
to do so, and other people say the same. In fact, I know not what
to think, nor what to decide. It is no use concealing the fact
that you and I have sinned against the Lord God.... You were
going to send me a book of some sort, to divert my mind--were you
not, dearest? What book, though, could now divert me? Only such
books as have never existed on earth. Novels are rubbish, and
written for fools and for the idle. Believe me, dearest, I know
it through long experience. Even should they vaunt Shakespeare to
you, I tell you that Shakespeare is rubbish, and proper only for
lampoons--Your own,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

August 2nd.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Do not disquiet yourself. God will
grant that all shall turn out well. Thedora has obtained a
quantity of work, both for me and herself, and we are setting
about it with a will. Perhaps it will put us straight again.
Thedora suspects my late misfortunes to be connected with Anna
Thedorovna; but I do not care--I feel extraordinarily cheerful
today. So you are thinking of borrowing more money? If so, may
God preserve you, for you will assuredly be ruined when the time
comes for repayment! You had far better come and live with us
here for a little while. Yes, come and take up your abode here,
and pay no attention whatever to what your landlady says. As for
the rest of your enemies and ill-wishers, I am certain that it is
with vain imaginings that you are vexing yourself. . . . In
passing, let me tell you that your style differs greatly from
letter to letter. Goodbye until we meet again. I await your
coming with impatience--Your own,

B. D.

August 3rd.

MY ANGEL, BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to inform you, 0h light of
my life, that my hopes are rising again. But, little daughter of
mine--do you really mean it when you say that I am to indulge in
no more borrowings? Why, I could not do without them. Things
would go badly with us both if I did so. You are ailing.
Consequently, I tell you roundly that I MUST borrow, and that I
must continue to do so.

Also, I may tell you that my seat in the office is now next to
that of a certain Emelia Ivanovitch. He is not the Emelia whom
you know, but a man who, like myself, is a privy councillor, as
well as represents, with myself, the senior and oldest official
in our department. Likewise he is a good, disinterested soul, and
one that is not over-talkative, though a true bear in appearance
and demeanour. Industrious, and possessed of a handwriting purely
English, his caligraphy is, it must be confessed, even worse than
my own. Yes, he is a good soul. At the same time, we have never
been intimate with one another. We have done no more than
exchange greetings on meeting or parting, borrow one another's
penknife if we needed one, and, in short, observe such bare
civilities as convention demands. Well, today he said to me,
"Makar Alexievitch, what makes you look so thoughtful?" and
inasmuch as I could see that he wished me well, I told him all--
or, rather, I did not tell him EVERYTHING, for that I do to no
man (I have not the heart to do it); I told him just a few
scattered details concerning my financial straits. "Then you
ought to borrow," said he. "You ought to obtain a loan of Peter
Petrovitch, who does a little in that way. I myself once borrowed
some money of him, and he charged me fair and light interest."
Well, Barbara, my heart leapt within me at these words. I kept
thinking and thinking, --if only God would put it into the mind
of Peter Petrovitch to be my benefactor by advancing me a loan!"
I calculated that with its aid I might both repay my landlady and
assist yourself and get rid of my surroundings (where I can
hardly sit down to table without the rascals making jokes about
me). Sometimes his Excellency passes our desk in the office. He
glances at me, and cannot but perceive how poorly I am dressed.
Now, neatness and cleanliness are two of his strongest points.
Even though he says nothing, I feel ready to die with shame when
he approaches. Well, hardening my heart, and putting my
diffidence into my ragged pocket, I approached Peter Petrovitch,
and halted before him more dead than alive. Yet I was hopeful,
and though, as it turned out, he was busily engaged in talking to
Thedosei Ivanovitch, I walked up to him from behind, and plucked
at his sleeve. He looked away from me, but I recited my speech
about thirty roubles, et cetera, et cetera, of which, at first,
he failed to catch the meaning. Even when I had explained matters
to him more fully, he only burst out laughing, and said nothing.
Again I addressed to him my request; whereupon, asking me what
security I could give, he again buried himself in his papers, and
went on writing without deigning me even a second glance. Dismay
seized me. "Peter Petrovitch," I said, "I can offer you no
security," but to this I added an explanation that some salary
would, in time, be due to me, which I would make over to him, and
account the loan my first debt. At that moment someone called him
away, and I had to wait a little. On returning, he began to mend
his pen as though he had not even noticed that I was there. But I
was for myself this time. "Peter Petrovitch," I continued, "can
you not do ANYTHING?" Still he maintained silence, and seemed not
to have heard me. I waited and waited. At length I determined to
make a final attempt, and plucked him by the sleeve. He muttered
something, and, his pen mended, set about his writing. There was
nothing for me to do but to depart. He and the rest of them are
worthy fellows, dearest--that I do not doubt-- but they are also
proud, very proud. What have I to do with them? Yet I thought I
would write and tell you all about it. Meanwhile Emelia
Ivanovitch had been encouraging me with nods and smiles. He is a
good soul, and has promised to recommend me to a friend of his
who lives in Viborskaia Street and lends money. Emelia declares
that this friend will certainly lend me a little; so tomorrow,
beloved, I am going to call upon the gentleman in question. . . .
What do you think about it? It would be a pity not to obtain a
loan. My landlady is on the point of turning me out of doors, and
has refused to allow me any more board. Also, my boots are
wearing through, and have lost every button--and I do not possess
another pair! Could anyone in a government office display greater
shabbiness? It is dreadful, my Barbara--it is simply dreadful!

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

August 4th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--For God's sake borrow some money
as soon as you can. I would not ask this help of you were it not
for the situation in which I am placed. Thedora and myself cannot
remain any longer in our present lodgings, for we have been
subjected to great unpleasantness, and you cannot imagine my
state of agitation and dismay. The reason is that this morning we
received a visit from an elderly--almost an old--man whose breast
was studded with orders. Greatly surprised, I asked him what he
wanted (for at the moment Thedora had gone out shopping);
whereupon he began to question me as to my mode of life and
occupation, and then, without waiting for an answer, informed me
that he was uncle to the officer of whom you have spoken; that he
was very angry with his nephew for the way in which the latter
had behaved, especially with regard to his slandering of me right
and left; and that he, the uncle, was ready to protect me from
the young spendthrift's insolence. Also, he advised me to have
nothing to say to young fellows of that stamp, and added that he
sympathised with me as though he were my own father, and would
gladly help me in any way he could. At this I blushed in some
confusion, but did not greatly hasten to thank him. Next, he took
me forcibly by the hand, and, tapping my cheek, said that I was
very good-looking, and that he greatly liked the dimples in my
face (God only knows what he meant!). Finally he tried to kiss
me, on the plea that he was an old man, the brute! At this moment
Thedora returned; whereupon, in some confusion, he repeated that
he felt a great respect for my modesty and virtue, and that he
much wished to become acquainted with me; after which he took
Thedora aside, and tried, on some pretext or another, to give her
money (though of course she declined it). At last he took himself
off--again reiterating his assurances, and saying that he
intended to return with some earrings as a present; that he
advised me to change my lodgings; and, that he could recommend me
a splendid flat which he had in his mind's eye as likely to cost
me nothing. Yes, he also declared that he greatly liked me for my
purity and good sense; that I must beware of dissolute young men;
and that he knew Anna Thedorovna, who had charged him to inform
me that she would shortly be visiting me in person. Upon that, I
understood all. What I did next I scarcely know, for I had never
before found myself in such a position; but I believe that I
broke all restraints, and made the old man feel thoroughly
ashamed of himself--Thedora helping me in the task, and well-nigh
turning him neck and crop out of the tenement. Neither of us
doubt that this is Anna Thedorovna's work-- for how otherwise
could the old man have got to know about us?

Now, therefore, Makar Alexievitch, I turn to you for help. Do
not, for God's sake, leave me in this plight. Borrow all the
money that you can get, for I have not the wherewithal to leave
these lodgings, yet cannot possibly remain in them any longer. At
all events, this is Thedora's advice. She and I need at least
twenty-five roubles, which I will repay you out of what I earn by
my work, while Thedora shall get me additional work from day to
day, so that, if there be heavy interest to pay on the loan, you
shall not be troubled with the extra burden. Nay, I will make
over to you all that I possess if only you will continue to help
me. Truly, I grieve to have to trouble you when you yourself are
so hardly situated, but my hopes rest upon you, and upon you
alone. Goodbye, Makar Alexievitch. Think of me, and may God speed
you on your errand!

B.D.



August 4th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--These unlooked-for blows have
shaken me terribly, and these strange calamities have quite
broken my spirit. Not content with trying to bring you to a bed
of sickness, these lickspittles and pestilent old men are trying
to bring me to the same. And I assure you that they are
succeeding--I assure you that they are. Yet I would rather die
than not help you. If I cannot help you I SHALL die; but, to
enable me to help you, you must flee like a bird out of the nest
where these owls, these birds of prey, are seeking to peck you to
death. How distressed I feel, my dearest! Yet how cruel you
yourself are! Although you are enduring pain and insult, although
you, little nestling, are in agony of spirit, you actually tell
me that it grieves you to disturb me, and that you will work off
your debt to me with the labour of your own hands! In other
words, you, with your weak health, are proposing to kill yourself
in order to relieve me to term of my financial embarrassments!
Stop a moment, and think what you are saying. WHY should you sew,
and work, and torture your poor head with anxiety, and spoil your
beautiful eyes, and ruin your health? Why, indeed? Ah, little
Barbara, little Barbara! Do you not see that I shall never be any
good to you, never any good to you? At all events, I myself see
it. Yet I WILL help you in your distress. I WILL overcome every
difficulty, I WILL get extra work to do, I WILL copy out
manuscripts for authors, I WILL go to the latter and force them
to employ me, I WILL so apply myself to the work that they shall
see that I am a good copyist (and good copyists, I know, are
always in demand). Thus there will be no need for you to exhaust
your strength, nor will I allow you to do so--I will not have you
carry out your disastrous intention. . .  Yes, little angel, I
will certainly borrow some money. I would rather die than not do
so. Merely tell me, my own darling, that I am not to shrink from
heavy interest, and I will not shrink from it, I will not shrink
from it--nay, I will shrink from nothing. I will ask for forty
roubles, to begin with. That will not be much, will it, little
Barbara? Yet will any one trust me even with that sum at the
first asking? Do you think that I am capable of inspiring
confidence at the first glance? Would the mere sight of my face
lead any one to form of me a favourable opinion? Have I ever been
able, remember you, to appear to anyone in a favourable light?
What think you? Personally, I see difficulties in the way, and
feel sick at heart at the mere prospect. However, of those forty
roubles I mean to set aside twenty-five for yourself, two for my
landlady, and the remainder for my own spending. Of course, I
ought to give more than two to my landlady, but you must remember
my necessities, and see for yourself that that is the most that
can be assigned to her. We need say no more about it. For one
rouble I shall buy me a new pair of shoes, for I scarcely know
whether my old ones will take me to the office tomorrow morning.
Also, a new neck-scarf is indispensable, seeing that the old one
has now passed its first year; but, since you have promised to
make of your old apron not only a scarf, but also a shirt-front,
I need think no more of the article in question. So much for
shoes and scarves. Next, for buttons. You yourself will agree
that I cannot do without buttons; nor is there on my garments a
single hem unfrayed. I tremble when I think that some day his
Excellency may perceive my untidiness, and say--well, what will
he NOT say? Yet I shall never hear what he says, for I shall have
expired where I sit--expired of mere shame at the thought of
having been thus exposed. Ah, dearest! . . . Well, my various
necessities will have left me three roubles to go on with. Part
of this sum I shall expend upon a half-pound of tobacco--for I
cannot live without tobacco, and it is nine days since I last put
a pipe into my mouth. To tell the truth, I shall buy the tobacco
without acquainting you with the fact, although I ought not so to
do. The pity of it all is that, while you are depriving yourself
of everything, I keep solacing myself with various amenities--
which is why I am telling you this, that the pangs of conscience
may not torment me. Frankly, I confess that I am in desperate
straits--in such straits as I have never yet known. My landlady
flouts me, and I enjoy the respect of noone; my arrears and debts
are terrible; and in the office, though never have I found the
place exactly a paradise, noone has a single word to say to me.
Yet I hide, I carefully hide, this from every one. I would hide
my person in the same way, were it not that daily I have to
attend the office where I have to be constantly on my guard
against my fellows. Nevertheless, merely to be able to CONFESS
this to you renews my spiritual strength. We must not think of
these things, Barbara, lest the thought of them break our
courage. I write them down merely to warn you NOT to think of
them, nor to torture yourself with bitter imaginings. Yet, my
God, what is to become of us? Stay where you are until I can come
to you; after which I shall not return hither, but simply
disappear. Now I have finished my letter, and must go and shave
myself, inasmuch as, when that is done, one always feels more
decent, as well as consorts more easily with decency. God speed
me! One prayer to Him, and I must be off.

M. DIEVUSHKIN.

August 5th.

DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH, - You must not despair. Away with
melancholy! I am sending you thirty kopecks in silver, and regret
that I cannot send you more. Buy yourself what you most need
until tomorrow. I myself have almost nothing left, and what I am
going to do I know not. Is it not dreadful, Makar Alexievitch?
Yet do not be downcast--it is no good being that. Thedora
declares that it would not be a bad thing if we were to remain in
this tenement, since if we left it suspicions would arise, and
our enemies might take it into their heads to look for us. On the
other hand, I do not think it would be well for us to remain
here. If I were feeling less sad I would tell you my reason.

What a strange man you are, Makar Alexievitch! You take things so
much to heart that you never know what it is to be happy. I read
your letters attentively, and can see from them that, though you
worry and disturb yourself about me, you never give a thought to
yourself. Yes, every letter tells me that you have a kind heart;
but I tell YOU that that heart is overly kind. So I will give you
a little friendly advice, Makar Alexievitch. I am full of
gratitude towards you--I am indeed full for all that you have
done for me, I am most sensible of your goodness; but, to think
that I should be forced to see that, in spite of your own
troubles (of which I have been the involuntary cause), you live
for me alone--you live but for MY joys and MY sorrows and MY
affection! If you take the affairs of another person so to heart,
and suffer with her to such an extent, I do not wonder that you
yourself are unhappy. Today, when you came to see me after
office-work was done, I felt afraid even to raise my eyes to
yours, for you looked so pale and desperate, and your face had so
fallen in. Yes, you were dreading to have to tell me of your
failure to borrow money--you were dreading to have to grieve and
alarm me; but, when you saw that I came very near to smiling, the
load was, I know, lifted from your heart. So do not be
despondent, do not give way, but allow more rein to your better
sense. I beg and implore this of you, for it will not be long
before you see things take a turn for the better. You will but
spoil your life if you constantly lament another person's sorrow.
Goodbye, dear friend. I beseech you not to be over-anxious about
me.

B. D.



August 5th.

MY DARLING LITTLE BARBARA,--This is well, this is well, my angel!
So you are of opinion that the fact that I have failed to obtain
any money does not matter? Then I too am reassured, I too am
happy on your account. Also, I am delighted to think that you are
not going to desert your old friend, but intend to remain in your
present lodgings. Indeed, my heart was overcharged with joy when
I read in your letter those kindly words about myself, as well as
a not wholly unmerited recognition of my sentiments. I say this
not out of pride, but because now I know how much you love me to
be thus solicitous for my feelings. How good to think that I may
speak to you of them! You bid me, darling, not be faint-hearted.
Indeed, there is no need for me to be so. Think, for instance, of
the pair of shoes which I shall be wearing to the office
tomorrow! The fact is that over-brooding proves the undoing of a
man--his complete undoing. What has saved me is the fact that it
is not for myself that I am grieving, that I am suffering, but
for YOU. Nor would it matter to me in the least that I should
have to walk through the bitter cold without an overcoat or
boots--I could bear it, I could well endure it, for I am a simple
man in my requirements; but the point is--what would people say,
what would every envious and hostile tongue exclaim, when I was
seen without an overcoat? It is for OTHER folk that one wears an
overcoat and boots. In any case, therefore, I should have needed
boots to maintain my name and reputation; to both of which my
ragged footgear would otherwise have spelled ruin. Yes, it is so,
my beloved, and you may believe an old man who has had many years
of experience, and knows both the world and mankind, rather than
a set of scribblers and daubers.

But I have not yet told you in detail how things have gone with
me today. During the morning I suffered as much agony of spirit
as might have been experienced in a year. 'Twas like this: First
of all, I went out to call upon the gentleman of whom I have
spoken. I started very early, before going to the office. Rain
and sleet were falling, and I hugged myself in my greatcoat as I
walked along. "Lord," thought I, "pardon my offences, and send me
fulfilment of all my desires;" and as I passed a church I crossed
myself, repented of my sins, and reminded myself that I was
unworthy to hold communication with the Lord God. Then I retired
into myself, and tried to look at nothing; and so, walking
without noticing the streets, I proceeded on my way. Everything
had an empty air, and everyone whom I met looked careworn and
preoccupied, and no wonder, for who would choose to walk abroad
at such an early hour, and in such weather? Next a band of ragged
workmen met me, and jostled me boorishly as they passed; upon
which nervousness overtook me, and I felt uneasy, and tried hard
not to think of the money that was my errand. Near the
Voskresenski Bridge my feet began to ache with weariness, until I
could hardly pull myself along; until presently I met with
Ermolaev, a writer in our office, who, stepping aside, halted,
and followed me with his eyes, as though to beg of me a glass of
vodka. "Ah, friend," thought I, "go YOU to your vodka, but what
have I to do with such stuff?" Then, sadly weary, I halted for a
moment's rest, and thereafter dragged myself further on my way.
Purposely I kept looking about me for something upon which to
fasten my thoughts, with which to distract, to encourage myself;
but there was nothing. Not a single idea could I connect with any
given object, while, in addition, my appearance was so draggled
that I felt utterly ashamed of it. At length I perceived from
afar a gabled house that was built of yellow wood. This, I
thought, must be the residence of the Monsieur Markov whom Emelia
Ivanovitch had mentioned to me as ready to lend money on
interest. Half unconscious of what I was doing, I asked a
watchman if he could tell me to whom the house belonged;
whereupon grudgingly, and as though he were vexed at something,
the fellow muttered that it belonged to one Markov. Are ALL
watchmen so unfeeling? Why did this one reply as he did? In any
case I felt disagreeably impressed, for like always answers to
like, and, no matter what position one is in, things invariably
appear to correspond to it. Three times did I pass the house and
walk the length of the street; until the further I walked, the
worse became my state of mind. "No, never, never will he lend me
anything!" I thought to myself, "He does not know me, and my
affairs will seem to him ridiculous, and I shall cut a sorry
figure. However, let fate decide for me. Only, let Heaven send
that I do not afterwards repent me, and eat out my heart with
remorse!" Softly I opened the wicket-gate. Horrors! A great
ragged brute of a watch-dog came flying out at me, and foaming at
the mouth, and nearly jumping out his skin! Curious is it to note
what little, trivial incidents will nearly make a man crazy, and
strike terror to his heart, and annihilate the firm purpose with
which he has armed himself. At all events, I approached the house
more dead than alive, and walked straight into another
catastrophe. That is to say, not noticing the slipperiness of the
threshold, I stumbled against an old woman who was filling milk-
jugs from a pail, and sent the milk flying in every direction!
The foolish old dame gave a start and a cry, and then demanded of
me whither I had been coming, and what it was I wanted; after
which she rated me soundly for my awkwardness. Always have I
found something of the kind befall me when engaged on errands of
this nature. It seems to be my destiny invariably to run into
something. Upon that, the noise and the commotion brought out the
mistress of the house--an old beldame of mean appearance. I
addressed myself directly to her: "Does Monsieur Markov live
here?" was my inquiry. "No," she replied, and then stood looking
at me civilly enough. "But what want you with him?" she
continued; upon which I told her about Emelia Ivanovitch and the
rest of the business. As soon as I had finished, she called her
daughter--a barefooted girl in her teens-- and told her to summon
her father from upstairs. Meanwhile, I was shown into a room
which contained several portraits of generals on the walls and
was furnished with a sofa, a large table, and a few pots of
mignonette and balsam. "Shall I, or shall I not (come weal, come
woe) take myself off?" was my thought as I waited there. Ah, how
I longed to run away! "Yes," I continued, "I had better come
again tomorrow, for the weather may then be better, and I shall
not have upset the milk, and these generals will not be looking
at me so fiercely." In fact, I had actually begun to move towards
the door when Monsieur Markov entered--a grey-headed man with
thievish eyes, and clad in a dirty dressing-gown fastened with a
belt. Greetings over, I stumbled out something about Emelia
Ivanovitch and forty roubles, and then came to a dead halt, for
his eyes told me that my errand had been futile. "No." said he,
"I have no money. Moreover, what security could you offer?" I
admitted that I could offer none, but again added something about
Emelia, as well as about my pressing needs. Markov heard me out,
and then repeated that he had no money. " Ah," thought I, "I
might have known this--I might have foreseen it!" And, to tell
the truth, Barbara, I could have wished that the earth had opened
under my feet, so chilled did I feel as he said what he did, so
numbed did my legs grow as shivers began to run down my back.
Thus I remained gazing at him while he returned my gaze with a
look which said, "Well now, my friend? Why do you not go since
you have no further business to do here?" Somehow I felt
conscience-stricken. "How is it that you are in such need of
money?" was what he appeared to be asking; whereupon ,I opened my
mouth (anything rather than stand there to no purpose at all!)
but found that he was not even listening. "I have no money,"
again he said, "or I would lend you some with pleasure." Several
times I repeated that I myself possessed a little, and that I
would repay any loan from him punctually, most punctually, and
that he might charge me what interest he liked, since I would
meet it without fail. Yes, at that moment I remembered our
misfortunes, our necessities, and I remembered your half-rouble.
"No," said he, "I can lend you nothing without security," and
clinched his assurance with an oath, the robber!

How I contrived to leave the house and, passing through
Viborskaia Street, to reach the Voskresenski Bridge I do not
know. I only remember that I feltterribly weary, cold, and
starved, and that it was ten o'clock before I reached the office.
Arriving, I tried to clean myself up a little, but Sniegirev, the
porter, said that it was impossible for me to do so, and that I
should only spoil the brush, which belonged to the Government.
Thus, my darling, do such fellows rate me lower than the mat on
which they wipe their boots! What is it that will most surely
break me? It is not the want of money, but the LITTLE worries of
life--these whisperings and nods and jeers. Anyday his Excellency
himself may round upon me. Ah, dearest, my golden days are gone.
Today I have spent in reading your letters through; and the
reading of them has made me sad. Goodbye, my own, and may the
Lord watch over you!

M. DIEVUSHKIN.

P.S.--To conceal my sorrow I would have written this letter half
jestingly; but, the faculty of jesting has not been given me. My
one desire, however, is to afford you pleasure. Soon I will come
and see you, dearest. Without fail I will come and see you.

August 11th.

O Barbara Alexievna, I am undone--we are both of us undone! Both
of us are lost beyond recall! Everything is ruined--my
reputation, my self-respect, all that I have in the world! And
you as much as I. Never shall we retrieve what we have lost. I--
I have brought you to this pass, for I have become an outcast, my
darling. Everywhere I am laughed at and despised. Even my
landlady has taken to abusing me. Today she overwhelmed me with
shrill reproaches, and abased me to the level of a hearth-brush.
And last night, when I was in Rataziaev's rooms, one of his
friends began to read a scribbled note which I had written to
you, and then inadvertently pulled out of my pocket. Oh beloved,
what laughter there arose at the recital! How those scoundrels
mocked and derided you and myself! I walked up to them and
accused Rataziaev of breaking faith. I said that he had played
the traitor. But he only replied that I had been the betrayer in
the case, by indulging in various amours. "You have kept them
very dark though, Mr. Lovelace!" said he-- and now I am known
everywhere by this name of "Lovelace." They know EVERYTHING about
us, my darling, EVERYTHING--both about you and your affairs and
about myself; and when today I was for sending Phaldoni to the
bakeshop for something or other, he refused to go, saying that it
was not his business. "But you MUST go," said I. "I will not," he
replied. "You have not paid my mistress what you owe her, so I am

not bound to run your errands." At such an insult from a raw
peasant I lost my temper, and called him a fool; to which he
retorted in a similar vein. Upon this I thought that he must be
drunk, and told him so; whereupon he replied: "WHAT say you that
I am? Suppose you yourself go and sober up, for I know that the
other day you went to visit a woman, and that you got drunk with
her on two grivenniks." To such a pass have things come! I feel
ashamed to be seen alive. I am, as it were, a man proclaimed; I
am in a worse plight even than a tramp who has lost his passport.
How misfortunes are heaping themselves upon me! I am lost--I am
lost for ever!

M. D.

August 13th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--It is true that misfortune is
following upon misfortune. I myself scarcely know what to do.
Yet, no matter how you may be fairing, you must not look for help
from me, for only today I burned my left hand with the iron! At
one and the same moment I dropped the iron, made a mistake in my
work, and burned myself! So now I can no longer work. Also, these
three days past, Thedora has been ailing. My anxiety is becoming
positively torturous. Nevertheless, I send you thirty kopecks--
almost the last coins that I have left to me, much as I should
have liked to have helped you more when you are so much in need.
I feel vexed to the point of weeping. Goodbye, dear friend of
mine. You will bring me much comfort if only you will come and
see me today.

B. D.

August 14th.

What is the matter with you, Makar Alexievitch? Surely you cannot
fear the Lord God as you ought to do? You are not only driving me
to distraction but also ruining yourself with this eternal
solicitude for your reputation. You are a man of honour, nobility
of character, and self-respect, as everyone knows; yet, at any
moment, you are ready to die with shame! Surely you should have
more consideration for your grey hairs. No, the fear of God has
departed from you. Thedora has told you that it is out of my
power to render you anymore help. See, therefore, to what a pass
you have brought me! Probably you think it is nothing to me that
you should behave so badly; probably you do not realise what you
have made me suffer. I dare not set foot on the staircase here,
for if I do so I am stared at, and pointed at, and spoken about
in the most horrible manner. Yes, it is even said of me that I am
"united to a drunkard." What a thing to hear! And whenever you
are brought home drunk folk say, "They are carrying in that
tchinovnik." THAT is not the proper way to make me help you. I
swear that I MUST leave this place, and go and get work as a cook
or a laundress. It is impossible for me to stay here. Long ago I
wrote and asked you to come and see me, yet you have not come.
Truly my tears and prayers must mean NOTHING to you, Makar
Alexievitch! Whence, too, did you get the money for your
debauchery? For the love of God be more careful of yourself, or
you will be ruined. How shameful, how abominable of you! So the
landlady would not admit you last night, and you spent the night
on the doorstep? Oh, I know all about it. Yet if only you could
have seen my agony when I heard the news! . . . Come and see me,
Makar Alexievitch, and we will once more be happy together. Yes,
we will read together, and talk of old times, and Thedora shall
tell you of her pilgrimages in former days. For God's sake
beloved, do not ruin both yourself and me. I live for you alone;
it is for your sake alone that I am still here. Be your better
self once more--the self which still can remain firm in the face
of misfortune. Poverty is no crime; always remember that. After
all, why should we despair? Our present difficulties will pass
away, and God will right us. Only be brave. I send you two
grivenniks for the purchase of some tobacco or anything else that
you need; but ,for the love of heaven, do not spend the money
foolishly. Come you and see me soon; come without fail. Perhaps
you may be ashamed to meet me, as you were before, but you NEED
not feel like that--such shame would be misplaced. Only do bring
with you sincere repentance and trust in God, who orders all
things for the best.

B. D.