June 21st.

MY OWN, MY DARLING,--I wish to write to you, yet know not where
to begin. Things are as strange as though we were actually living
together. Also I would add that never in my life have I passed
such happy days as I am spending at present. 'Tis as though God
had blessed me with a home and a family of my own! Yes, you are
my little daughter, beloved. But why mention the four sorry
roubles that I sent you? You needed them; I know that from
Thedora herself, and it will always be a particular pleasure to
me to gratify you in anything. It will always be my one happiness
in life. Pray, therefore, leave me that happiness, and do not
seek to cross me in it. Things are not as you suppose. I have now
reached the sunshine since, in the first place, I am living so
close to you as almost to be with you (which is a great
consolation to my mind), while, in the second place, a neighbour
of mine named Rataziaev (the retired official who gives the
literary parties) has today invited me to tea. This evening,
therefore, there will be a gathering at which we shall discuss
literature! Think of that my darling! Well, goodbye now. I have
written this without any definite aim in my mind, but solely to
assure you of my welfare. Through Theresa I have received your
message that you need an embroidered cloak to wear, so I will go
and purchase one. Yes, tomorrow I mean to purchase that
embroidered cloak, and so give myself the pleasure of having
satisfied one of your wants. I know where to go for such a
garment. For the time being I remain your sincere friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

June 22nd.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I have to tell you that a sad
event has happened in this house--an event to excite one's utmost
pity. This morning, about five o'clock, one of Gorshkov's
children died of scarlatina, or something of the kind. I have
been to pay the parents a visit of condolence, and found them
living in the direst poverty and disorder. Nor is that
surprising, seeing that the family lives in a single room, with
only a screen to divide it for decency's sake. Already the coffin
was standing in their midst--a plain but decent shell which had
been bought ready-made. The child, they told me, had been a boy
of nine, and full of promise. What a pitiful spectacle! Though
not weeping, the mother, poor woman, looked broken with grief.
After all, to have one burden the less on their shoulders may
prove a relief, though there are still two children left--a babe
at the breast and a little girl of six! How painful to see these
suffering children, and to be unable to help them! The father,
clad in an old, dirty frockcoat, was seated on a dilapidated
chair. Down his cheeks there were coursing tears--though less
through grief than owing to a long-standing affliction of the
eyes. He was so thin, too! Always he reddens in the face when he
is addressed, and becomes too confused to answer. A little girl,
his daughter, was leaning against the coffin--her face looking so
worn and thoughtful, poor mite! Do you know, I cannot bear to see
a child look thoughtful. On the floor there lay a rag doll, but
she was not playing with it as, motionless, she stood there with
her finger to her lips. Even a bon-bon which the landlady had
given her she was not eating. Is it not all sad, sad, Barbara?

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

 June 25th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I return you your book. In my
opinion it is a worthless one, and I would rather not have it in
my possession. Why do you save up your money to buy such trash?
Except in jest, do such books really please you? However, you
have now promised to send me something else to read. I will share
the cost of it. Now, farewell until we meet again. I have nothing
more to say.

B. D.

June 26th.

MY DEAR LITTLE BARBARA--To tell you the truth, I myself have not
read the book of which you speak. That is to say, though I began
to read it, I soon saw that it was nonsense, and written only to
make people laugh. "However," thought I, "it is at least a
CHEERFUL work, and so may please Barbara." That is why I sent it
you.

Rataziaev has now promised to give me something really literary
to read; so you shall soon have your book, my darling. He is a
man who reflects; he is a clever fellow, as well as himself a
writer--such a writer! His pen glides along with ease, and in
such a style (even when he is writing the most ordinary, the most
insignificant of articles) that I have often remarked upon the
fact, both to Phaldoni and to Theresa. Often, too, I go to spend
an evening with him. He reads aloud to us until five o'clock in
the morning, and we listen to him. It is a revelation of things
rather than a reading. It is charming, it is like a bouquet of
flowers--there is a bouquet of flowers in every line of each
page. Besides, he is such an approachable, courteous, kind-
hearted fellow! What am I compared with him? Why, nothing, simply
nothing! He is a man of reputation, whereas I--well, I do not
exist at all. Yet he condescends to my level. At this very moment
I am copying out a document for him. But you must not think that
he finds any DIFFICULTY in condescending to me, who am only a
copyist. No, you must not believe the base gossip that you may
hear. I do copying work for him simply in order to please myself,
as well as that he may notice me--a thing that always gives me
pleasure. I appreciate the delicacy of his position. He is a
good--a very good--man, and an unapproachable writer.

What a splendid thing is literature, Barbara--what a splendid
thing! This I learnt before I had known Rataziaev even for three
days. It strengthens and instructs the heart of man. . . . No
matter what there be in the world, you will find it all written
down in Rataziaev's works. And so well written down, too!
Literature is a sort of picture--a sort of picture or mirror. It
connotes at once passion, expression, fine criticism, good
learning, and a document. Yes, I have learned this from Rataziaev
himself. I can assure you, Barbara, that if only you could be
sitting among us, and listening to the talk (while, with the rest
of us, you smoked a pipe), and were to hear those present begin
to argue and dispute concerning different matters, you would feel
of as little account among them as I do; for I myself figure
there only as a blockhead, and feel ashamed, since it takes me a
whole evening to think of a single word to interpolate--and even
then the word will not come! In a case like that a man regrets
that, as the proverb has it, he should have reached man's estate
but not man's understanding. . . . What do I do in my spare time?
I sleep like a fool, though I would far rather be occupied with
something else--say, with eating or writing, since the one is
useful to oneself, and the other is beneficial to one's fellows.
You should see how much money these fellows contrive to save! How
much, for instance, does not Rataziaev lay by? A few days'
writing, I am told, can earn him as much as three hundred
roubles! Indeed, if a man be a writer of short stories or
anything else that is interesting, he can sometimes pocket five
hundred roubles, or a thousand, at a time! Think of it, Barbara!
Rataziaev has by him a small manuscript of verses, and for it he
is asking--what do you think? Seven thousand roubles! Why, one
could buy a whole house for that sum! He has even refused five
thousand for a manuscript, and on that occasion I reasoned with
him, and advised him to accept the five thousand. But it was of
no use. "For," said he, "they will soon offer me seven thousand,"
and kept to his point, for he is a man of some determination.

Suppose, now, that I were to give you an extract from "Passion in
Italy" (as another work of his is called). Read this, dearest
Barbara, and judge for yourself:

"Vladimir started, for in his veins the lust of passion had
welled until it had reached boiling point.

"'Countess,' he cried, 'do you know how terrible is this
adoration of mine, how infinite this madness? No! My fancies have
not deceived me--I love you ecstatically, diabolically, as a
madman might! All the blood that is in your husband's body could
never quench the furious, surging rapture that is in my soul! No
puny obstacle could thwart the all-destroying, infernal flame
which is eating into my exhausted breast! 0h Zinaida, my
Zinaida!'

"'Vladimir!' she whispered, almost beside herself, as she sank
upon his bosom.

"'My Zinaida!' cried the enraptured Smileski once more.

"His breath was coming in sharp, broken pants. The lamp of love
was burning brightly on the altar of passion, and searing the
hearts of the two unfortunate sufferers.

"'Vladimir!' again she whispered in her intoxication, while her
bosom heaved, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes flashed fire.

"Thus was a new and dread union consummated.

"Half an hour later the aged Count entered his wife's boudoir.

"'How now, my love?' said he. 'Surely it is for some welcome
guest beyond the common that you have had the samovar [Tea-urn.]
thus prepared?' And he smote her lightly on the cheek."

What think you of THAT, Barbara? True, it is a little too
outspoken--there can be no doubt of that; yet how grand it is,

how splendid! With your permission I will also quote you an
extract from Rataziaev's story, Ermak and Zuleika:

"'You love me, Zuleika? Say again that you love me, you love me!'

"'I DO love you, Ermak,' whispered Zuleika.

"'Then by heaven and earth I thank you! By heaven and earth you
have made me happy! You have given me all, all that my tortured
soul has for immemorial years been seeking! 'Tis for this that
you have led me hither, my guiding star--'tis for this that you
have conducted me to the Girdle of Stone! To all the world will I
now show my Zuleika, and no man, demon or monster of Hell, shall
bid me nay! Oh, if men would but understand the mysterious
passions of her tender heart, and see the poem which lurks in
each of her little tears! Suffer me to dry those tears with my
kisses! Suffer me to drink of those heavenly drops, 0h being who
art not of this earth!'

"'Ermak,' said Zuleika, 'the world is cruel, and men are unjust.
But LET them drive us from their midst--let them judge us, my
beloved Ermak! What has a poor maiden who was reared amid the
snows of Siberia to do with their cold, icy, self-sufficient
world? Men cannot understand me, my darling, my sweetheart.'

"'Is that so? Then shall the sword of the Cossacks sing and
whistle over their heads!' cried Ermak with a furious look in his
eyes."

What must Ermak have felt when he learnt that his Zuleika had
been murdered, Barbara?--that, taking advantages of the cover of
night, the blind old Kouchoum had, in Ermak's absence, broken
into the latter's tent, and stabbed his own daughter in mistake
for the man who had robbed him of sceptre and crown?

"'Oh that I had a stone whereon to whet my sword!' cried Ermak in
the madness of his wrath as he strove to sharpen his steel blade
upon the enchanted rock. 'I would have his blood, his blood! I
would tear him limb from limb, the villain!'"

Then Ermak, unable to survive the loss of his Zuleika, throws
himself into the Irtisch, and the tale comes to an end.

Here, again, is another short extract--this time written in a
more comical vein, to make people laugh:

"Do you know Ivan Prokofievitch Zheltopuzh? He is the man who
took a piece out of Prokofi Ivanovitch's leg. Ivan's character is
one of the rugged order, and therefore, one that is rather
lacking in virtue. Yet he has a passionate relish for radishes
and honey. Once he also possessed a friend named Pelagea
Antonovna. Do you know Pelagea Antonovna? She is the woman who
always puts on her petticoat wrong side outwards."

What humour, Barbara--what purest humour! We rocked with laughter
when he read it aloud to us. Yes, that is the kind of man he is.
Possibly the passage is a trifle over-frolicsome, but at least it
is harmless, and contains no freethought or liberal ideas. In
passing, I may say that Rataziaev is not only a supreme writer,
but also a man of upright life--which is more than can be said
for most writers.

What, do you think, is an idea that sometimes enters my head? In
fact, what if I myself were to write something? How if suddenly a
book were to make its appearance in the world bearing the title
of "The Poetical Works of Makar Dievushkin"? What THEN, my angel?
How should you view, should you receive, such an event? I may say
of myself that never, after my book had appeared, should I have
the hardihood to show my face on the Nevski Prospect; for would
it not be too dreadful to hear every one saying, "Here comes the
literateur and poet, Dievushkin--yes, it is Dievushkin himself"?
What, in such a case, should I do with my feet (for I may tell
you that almost always my shoes are patched, or have just been
resoled, and therefore look anything but becoming)? To think that
the great writer Dievushkin should walk about in patched
footgear! If a duchess or a countess should recognise me, what
would she say, poor woman? Perhaps, though, she would not notice
my shoes at all, since it may reasonably be supposed that
countesses do not greatly occupy themselves with footgear,
especially with the footgear of civil service officials (footgear
may differ from footgear, it must be remembered). Besides, I
should find that the countess had heard all about me, for my
friends would have betrayed me to her--Rataziaev among the first
of them, seeing that he often goes to visit Countess V., and
practically lives at her house. She is said to be a woman of
great intellect and wit. An artful dog, that Rataziaev!

But enough of this. I write this sort of thing both to amuse
myself and to divert your thoughts. Goodbye now, my angel. This
is a long epistle that I am sending you, but the reason is that
today I feel in good spirits after dining at Rataziaev's. There I
came across a novel which I hardly know how to describe to you.
Do not think the worse of me on that account, even though I bring
you another book instead (for I certainly mean to bring one). The
novel in question was one of Paul de Kock's, and not a novel for
you to read. No, no! Such a work is unfit for your eyes. In fact,
it is said to have greatly offended the critics of St.
Petersburg. Also, I am sending you a pound of bonbons--bought
specially for yourself. Each time that you eat one, beloved,
remember the sender. Only, do not bite the iced ones, but suck
them gently, lest they make your teeth ache. Perhaps, too, you
like comfits? Well, write and tell me if it is so. Goodbye,
goodbye. Christ watch over you, my darling!--Always your faithful
friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

June 27th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--Thedora tells me that, should I
wish, there are some people who will be glad to help me by
obtaining me an excellent post as governess in a certain house.
What think you, my friend? Shall I go or not? Of course, I should
then cease to be a burden to you, and the post appears to be a
comfortable one. On the other hand, the idea of entering a
strange house appals me. The people in it are landed gentry, and
they will begin to ask me questions, and to busy themselves about
me. What answers shall I then return? You see, I am now so unused
to society--so shy! I like to live in a corner to which I have
long grown used. Yes, the place with which one is familiar is
always the best. Even if for companion one has but sorrow, that
place will still be the best.... God alone knows what duties the
post will entail. Perhaps I shall merely be required to act as
nursemaid; and in any case, I hear that the governess there has
been changed three times in two years. For God's sake, Makar
Alexievitch, advise me whether to go or not. Why do you never
come near me now? Do let my eyes have an occasional sight of you.
Mass on Sundays is almost the only time when we see one another.
How retiring you have become! So also have I, even though, in a
way, I am your kinswoman. You must have ceased to love me, Makar
Alexievitch. I spend many a weary hour because of it. Sometimes,
when dusk is falling, I find myself lonely--oh, so lonely!
Thedora has gone out somewhere, and I sit here and think, and
think, and think. I remember all the past, its joys and its
sorrows. It passes before my eyes in detail, it glimmers at me as
out of a mist; and as it does so, well-known faces appear, which
seem actually to be present with me in this room! Most frequently
of all, I see my mother. Ah, the dreams that come to me! I feel
that my health is breaking, so weak am I. When this morning I
arose, sickness took me until I vomited and vomited. Yes, I feel,
I know, that death is approaching. Who will bury me when it has
come? Who will visit my tomb? Who will sorrow for me? And now it
is in a strange place, in the house of a stranger, that I may
have to die! Yes, in a corner which I do not know! ... My God,
how sad a thing is life! ... Why do you send me comfits to eat?
Whence do you get the money to buy them? Ah, for God's sake keep
the money, keep the money. Thedora has sold a carpet which I have
made. She got fifty roubles for it, which is very good--I had
expected less. Of the fifty roubles I shall give Thedora three,
and with the remainder make myself a plain, warm dress. Also, I
am going to make you a waistcoat--to make it myself, and out of
good material.

Also, Thedora has brought me a book--"The Stories of Bielkin"--
which I will forward you, if you would care to read it. Only, do
not soil it, nor yet retain it, for it does not belong to me. It
is by Pushkin. Two years ago I read these stories with my mother,
and it would hurt me to read them again. If you yourself have any
books, pray let me have them--so long as they have not been
obtained from Rataziaev. Probably he will be giving you one of
his own works when he has had one printed. How is it that his
compositions please you so much, Makar Alexievitch? I think them
SUCH rubbish!

--Now goodbye. How I have been chattering on! When feeling sad, I
always like to talk of something, for it acts upon me like
medicine--I begin to feel easier as soon as I have uttered what
is preying upon my heart. Good bye, good-bye, my friend--Your own

B. D.

June 28th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--Away with melancholy! Really,
beloved, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! How can you allow
such thoughts to enter your head? Really and truly you are quite
well; really and truly you are, my darling. Why, you are blooming
--simply blooming. True, I see a certain touch of pallor in your
face, but still you are blooming. A fig for dreams and visions!
Yes, for shame, dearest! Drive away those fancies; try to despise
them. Why do I sleep so well? Why am I never ailing? Look at ME,
beloved. I live well, I sleep peacefully, I retain my health, I
can ruffle it with my juniors. In fact, it is a pleasure to see
me. Come, come, then, sweetheart! Let us have no more of this. I
know that that little head of yours is capable of any fancy--that
all too easily you take to dreaming and repining; but for my
sake, cease to do so.

Are you to go to these people, you ask me? Never! No, no, again
no! How could you think of doing such a thing as taking a
journey? I will not allow it--I intend to combat your intention
with all my might. I will sell my frockcoat, and walk the streets
in my shirt sleeves, rather than let you be in want. But no,
Barbara. I know you, I know you. This is merely a trick, merely a
trick. And probably Thedora alone is to blame for it. She appears
to be a foolish old woman, and to be able to persuade you to do
anything. Do not believe her, my dearest. I am sure that you know
what is what, as well as SHE does. Eh, sweetheart? She is a
stupid, quarrelsome, rubbish-talking old woman who brought her
late husband to the grave. Probably she has been plaguing you as
much as she did him. No, no, dearest; you must not take this
step. What should I do then? What would there be left for ME to
do? Pray put the idea out of your head. What is it you lack here?
I cannot feel sufficiently overjoyed to be near you, while, for
your part, you love me well, and can live your life here as
quietly as you wish. Read or sew, whichever you like--or read and
do not sew. Only, do not desert me. Try, yourself, to imagine how
things would seem after you had gone. Here am I sending you
books, and later we will go for a walk. Come, come, then, my
Barbara! Summon to your aid your reason, and cease to babble of
trifles.

As soon as I can I will come and see you, and then you shall tell
me the whole story. This will not do, sweetheart; this certainly
will not do. Of course, I know that I am not an educated man, and
have received but a sorry schooling, and have had no inclination
for it, and think too much of Rataziaev, if you will; but he is
my friend, and therefore, I must put in a word or two for him.
Yes, he is a splendid writer. Again and again I assert that he
writes magnificently. I do not agree with you about his works,
and never shall. He writes too ornately, too laconically, with
too great a wealth of imagery and imagination. Perhaps you have
read him without insight, Barbara? Or perhaps you were out of
spirits at the time, or angry with Thedora about something, or
worried about some mischance? Ah, but you should read him
sympathetically, and, best of all, at a time when you are feeling
happy and contented and pleasantly disposed-- for instance, when
you have a bonbon or two in your mouth. Yes, that is the way to
read Rataziaev. I do not dispute (indeed, who would do so?) that
better writers than he exist--even far better; but they are good,
and he is good too--they write well, and he writes well. It is
chiefly for his own sake that he writes, and he is to be approved
for so doing.

Now goodbye, dearest. More I cannot write, for I must hurry away
to business. Be of good cheer, and the Lord God watch over you!--
Your faithful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

P.S--Thank you so much for the book, darling! I will read it
through, this volume of Pushkin, and tonight come to you.



MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--No, no, my friend, I must not go on
living near you. I have been thinking the matter over, and come
to the conclusion that I should be doing very wrong to refuse so
good a post. I should at least have an assured crust of bread; I
might at least set to work to earn my employers' favour, and even
try to change my character if required to do so. Of course it is
a sad and sorry thing to have to live among strangers, and to be
forced to seek their patronage, and to conceal and constrain
one's own personality-- but God will help me. I must not remain
forever a recluse, for similar chances have come my way before. I
remember how, when a little girl at school, I used to go home on
Sundays and spend the time in frisking and dancing about.
Sometimes my mother would chide me for so doing, but I did not
care, for my heart was too joyous, and my spirits too buoyant,
for that. Yet as the evening of Sunday came on, a sadness as of
death would overtake me, for at nine o'clock I had to return to
school, where everything was cold and strange and severe--where
the governesses, on Mondays, lost their tempers, and nipped my
ears, and made me cry. On such occasions I would retire to a
corner and weep alone; concealing my tears lest I should be
called lazy. Yet it was not because I had to study that I used to
weep, and in time I grew more used to things, and, after my
schooldays were over, shed tears only when I was parting with
friends. . . .

It is not right for me to live in dependence upon you. The
thought tortures me. I tell you this frankly, for the reason that
frankness with you has become a habit. Cannot I see that daily,
at earliest dawn, Thedora rises to do washing and scrubbing, and
remains working at it until late at night, even though her poor
old bones must be aching for want of rest? Cannot I also see that
YOU are ruining yourself for me, and hoarding your last kopeck
that you may spend it on my behalf? You ought not so to act, my
friend, even though you write that you would rather sell your all
than let me want for anything. I believe in you, my friend--I
entirely believe in your good heart; but, you say that to me now
(when, perhaps, you have received some unexpected sum or
gratuity) and there is still the future to be thought of. You
yourself know that I am always ailing--that I cannot work as you
do, glad though I should be of any work if I could get it; so
what else is there for me to do? To sit and repine as I watch you
and Thedora? But how would that be of any use to you? AM I
necessary to you, comrade of mine? HAVE I ever done you any good?
Though I am bound to you with my whole soul, and love you dearly
and strongly and wholeheartedly, a bitter fate has ordained that
that love should be all that I have to give--that I should be
unable, by creating for you subsistence, to repay you for all
your kindness. Do not, therefore, detain me longer, but think the
matter out, and give me your opinion on it. In expectation of
which I remain your sweetheart,

B. D.

July 1st.

Rubbish, rubbish, Barbara!--What you say is sheer rubbish. Stay
here, rather, and put such thoughts out of your head. None of
what you suppose is true. I can see for myself that it is not.
Whatsoever you lack here, you have but to ask me for it. Here you
love and are loved, and we might easily be happy and contented
together. What could you want more? What have you to do with
strangers? You cannot possibly know what strangers are like. I
know it, though, and could have told you if you had asked me.
There is a stranger whom I know, and whose bread I have eaten. He
is a cruel man, Barbara--a man so bad that he would be unworthy
of your little heart, and would soon tear it to pieces with his
railings and reproaches and black looks. On the other hand, you
are safe and well here--you are as safe as though you were
sheltered in a nest. Besides, you would, as it were, leave me
with my head gone. For what should I have to do when you were
gone? What could I, an old man, find to do? Are you not necessary
to me? Are you not useful to me? Eh? Surely you do not think that
you are not useful? You are of great use to me, Barbara, for you
exercise a beneficial influence upon my life. Even at this
moment, as I think of you, I feel cheered, for always I can write
letters to you, and put into them what I am feeling, and receive
from you detailed answers.... I have bought you a wardrobe, and
also procured you a bonnet; so you see that you have only to give
me a commission for it to be executed. . . . No-- in what way are
you not useful? What should I do if I were deserted in my old
age? What would become of me? Perhaps you never thought of that,
Barbara--perhaps you never said to yourself, "How could HE get on
without me?" You see, I have grown so accustomed to you. What
else would it end in, if you were to go away? Why, in my hiking
to the Neva's bank and doing away with myself. Ah, Barbara,
darling, I can see that you want me to be taken away to the
Volkovo Cemetery in a broken-down old hearse, with some poor
outcast of the streets to accompany my coffin as chief mourner,
and the gravediggers to heap my body with clay, and depart and
leave me there. How wrong of you, how wrong of you, my beloved!
Yes, by heavens, how wrong of you! I am returning you your book,
little friend; and ,if you were to ask of me my opinion of it, I
should say that never before in my life had I read a book so
splendid. I keep wondering how I have hitherto contrived to
remain such an owl. For what have I ever done? From what wilds
did I spring into existence? I KNOW nothing--I know simply
NOTHING. My ignorance is complete. Frankly, I am not an educated
man, for until now I have read scarcely a single book--only "A
Portrait of Man" (a clever enough work in its way), "The Boy Who
Could Play Many Tunes Upon Bells", and "Ivik's Storks". That is
all. But now I have also read "The Station Overseer" in your
little volume; and it is wonderful to think that one may live and
yet be ignorant of the fact that under one's very nose there may
be a book in which one's whole life is described as in a picture.
Never should I have guessed that, as soon as ever one begins to
read such a book, it sets one on both to remember and to consider
and to foretell events. Another reason why I liked this book so
much is that, though, in the case of other works (however clever
they be), one may read them, yet remember not a word of them (for
I am a man naturally dull of comprehension, and unable to read
works of any great importance),--although, as I say, one may read
such works, one reads such a book as YOURS as easily as though it
had been written by oneself, and had taken possession of one's
heart, and turned it inside out for inspection, and were
describing it in detail as a matter of perfect simplicity. Why, I
might almost have written the book myself! Why not, indeed? I can
feel just as the people in the book do, and find myself in
positions precisely similar to those of, say, the character
Samson Virin. In fact, how many good-hearted wretches like Virin
are there not walking about amongst us? How easily, too, it is
all described! I assure you, my darling, that I almost shed tears
when I read that Virin so took to drink as to lose his memory,
become morose, and spend whole days over his liquor; as also that
he choked with grief and wept bitterly when, rubbing his eyes
with his dirty hand, he bethought him of his wandering lamb, his
daughter Dunasha! How natural, how natural! You should read the
book for yourself. The thing is actually alive. Even I can see
that; even I can realise that it is a picture cut from the very
life around me. In it I see our own Theresa (to go no further)
and the poor Tchinovnik--who is just such a man as this Samson
Virin, except for his surname of Gorshkov. The book describes
just what might happen to ourselves--to myself in particular.
Even a count who lives in the Nevski Prospect or in Naberezhnaia
Street might have a similar experience, though he might APPEAR to
be different, owing to the fact that his life is cast on a higher
plane. Yes, just the same things might happen to him--just the
same things. . . . Here you are wishing to go away and leave us;
yet, be careful lest it would not be I who had to pay the penalty
of your doing so. For you might ruin both yourself and me. For
the love of God, put away these thoughts from you, my darling,
and do not torture me in vain. How could you, my poor little
unfledged nestling, find yourself food, and defend yourself from
misfortune, and ward off the wiles of evil men? Think better of
it, Barbara, and pay no more heed to foolish advice and calumny,
but read your book again, and read it with attention. It may do
you much good.

I have spoken of Rataziaev's "The Station Overseer". However, the
author has told me that the work is old-fashioned, since,
nowadays, books are issued with illustrations and embellishments
of different sorts (though I could not make out all that he
said). Pushkin he adjudges a splendid poet, and one who has done
honour to Holy Russia. Read your book again, Barbara, and follow
my advice, and make an old man happy. The Lord God Himself will
reward you. Yes, He will surely reward you.--Your faithful
friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.



MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Today Thedora came to me with
fifteen roubles in silver. How glad was the poor woman when I
gave her three of them! I am writing to you in great haste, for I
am busy cutting out a waistcoat to send to you--buff, with a
pattern of flowers. Also I am sending you a book of stories; some
of which I have read myself, particularly one called "The Cloak."
. . . You invite me to go to the theatre with you. But will it
not cost too much? Of course we might sit in the gallery. It is a
long time (indeed I cannot remember when I last did so) since I
visited a theatre! Yet I cannot help fearing that such an
amusement is beyond our means. Thedora keeps nodding her head,
and saying that you have taken to living above your income. I
myself divine the same thing by the amount which you have spent
upon me. Take care, dear friend, that misfortune does not come of
it, for Thedora has also informed me of certain rumours
concerning your inability to meet your landlady's bills. In fact,
I am very anxious about you. Now, goodbye, for I must hasten away
to see about another matter--about the changing of the ribands on
my bonnet.

P.S--Do you know, if we go to the theatre, I think that I shall
wear my new hat and black mantilla. Will that not look nice?

July 7th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--SO much for yesterday! Yes,
dearest, we have both been caught playing the fool, for I have
become thoroughly bitten with the actress of whom I spoke. Last
night I listened to her with all my ears, although, strangely
enough, it was practically my first sight of her, seeing that
only once before had I been to the theatre. In those days I lived
cheek by jowl with a party of five young men--a most noisy crew-
and one night I accompanied them, willy-nilly, to the theatre,
though I held myself decently aloof from their doings, and only
assisted them for company's sake. How those fellows talked to me
of this actress! Every night when the theatre was open, the
entire band of them (they always seemed to possess the requisite
money) would betake themselves to that place of entertainment,
where they ascended to the gallery, and clapped their hands, and
repeatedly recalled the actress in question. In fact, they went
simply mad over her. Even after we had returned home they would
give me no rest, but would go on talking about her all night, and
calling her their Glasha, and declaring themselves to be in love
with "the canary-bird of their hearts." My defenseless self, too,
they would plague about the woman, for I was as young as they.
What a figure I must have cut with them on the fourth tier of the
gallery! Yet, I never got a sight of more than just a corner of
the curtain, but had to content myself with listening. She had a
fine, resounding, mellow voice like a nightingale's, and we all
of us used to clap our hands loudly, and to shout at the top of
our lungs. In short, we came very near to being ejected. On the
first occasion I went home walking as in a mist, with a single
rouble left in my pocket, and an interval of ten clear days
confronting me before next pay-day. Yet, what think you, dearest?
The very next day, before going to work, I called at a French
perfumer's, and spent my whole remaining capital on some eau-de-
Cologne and scented soap! Why I did so I do not know. Nor did I
dine at home that day, but kept walking and walking past her
windows (she lived in a fourth-storey flat on the Nevski
Prospect). At length I returned to my own lodging, but only to
rest a short hour before again setting off to the Nevski Prospect

and resuming my vigil before her windows. For a month and a half
I kept this up--dangling in her train. Sometimes I would hire
cabs, and discharge them in view of her abode; until at length I
had entirely ruined myself, and got into debt. Then I fell out of
love with her--I grew weary of the pursuit. . . . You see,
therefore, to what depths an actress can reduce a decent man. In
those days I was young. Yes, in those days I was VERY young.

M. D.

July 8th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--The book which I received from you
on the 6th of this month I now hasten to return, while at the
same time hastening also to explain matters to you in this
accompanying letter. What a misfortune, my beloved, that you
should have brought me to such a pass! Our lots in life are
apportioned by the Almighty according to our human deserts. To
such a one He assigns a life in a general's epaulets or as a
privy councillor--to such a one, I say, He assigns a life of
command; whereas to another one, He allots only a life of
unmurmuring toil and suffering. These things are calculated
according to a man's CAPACITY. One man may be capable of one
thing, and another of another, and their several capacities are
ordered by the Lord God himself. I have now been thirty years in
the public service, and have fulfilled my duties irreproachably,
remained abstemious, and never been detected in any unbecoming
behaviour. As a citizen, I may confess--I confess it freely--I
have been guilty of certain shortcomings; yet those shortcomings
have been combined with certain virtues. I am respected by my
superiors, and even his Excellency has had no fault to find with
me; and though I have never been shown any special marks of
favour, I know that every one finds me at least satisfactory.
Also, my writing is sufficiently legible and clear. Neither too
rounded nor too fine, it is a running hand, yet always suitable.
Of our staff only Ivan Prokofievitch writes a similar hand. Thus
have I lived till the grey hairs of my old age; yet I can think
of no serious fault committed. Of course, no one is free from
MINOR faults. Everyone has some of them, and you among the rest,
my beloved. But in grave or in audacious offences never have I
been detected, nor in infringements of regulations, nor in
breaches of the public peace. No, never! This you surely know,
even as the author of your book must have known it. Yes, he also
must have known it when he sat down to write. I had not expected
this of you, my Barbara. I should never have expected it.

What? In future I am not to go on living peacefully in my little
corner, poor though that corner be I am not to go on living, as
the proverb has it, without muddying the water, or hurting any
one, or forgetting the fear of the Lord God and of oneself? I am
not to see, forsooth, that no man does me an injury, or breaks
into my home--I am not to take care that all shall go well with
me, or that I have clothes to wear, or that my shoes do not
require mending, or that I be given work to do, or that I possess
sufficient meat and drink? Is it nothing that, where the pavement
is rotten, I have to walk on tiptoe to save my boots? If I write
to you overmuch concerning myself, is it concerning ANOTHER man,
rather, that I ought to write--concerning HIS wants, concerning
HIS lack of tea to drink (and all the world needs tea)? Has it
ever been my custom to pry into other men's mouths, to see what
is being put into them? Have I ever been known to offend any one
in that respect? No, no, beloved! Why should I desire to insult
other folks when they are not molesting ME? Let me give you an
example of what I mean. A man may go on slaving and slaving in
the public service, and earn the respect of his superiors (for
what it is worth), and then, for no visible reason at all, find
himself made a fool of. Of course he may break out now and then
(I am not now referring only to drunkenness), and (for example)
buy himself a new pair of shoes, and take pleasure in seeing his
feet looking well and smartly shod. Yes, I myself have known what
it is to feel like that (I write this in good faith). Yet I am
nonetheless astonished that Thedor Thedorovitch should neglect
what is being said about him, and take no steps to defend
himself. True, he is only a subordinate official, and sometimes
loves to rate and scold; yet why should he not do so--why should
he not indulge in a little vituperation when he feels like it?
Suppose it to be NECESSARY, for FORM'S sake, to scold, and to set
everyone right, and to shower around abuse (for, between
ourselves, Barbara, our friend cannot get on WITHOUT abuse--so
much so that every one humours him, and does things behind his
back)? Well, since officials differ in rank, and every official
demands that he shall be allowed to abuse his fellow officials in
proportion to his rank, it follows that the TONE also of official
abuse should become divided into ranks, and thus accord with the
natural order of things. All the world is built upon the system
that each one of us shall have to yield precedence to some other
one, as well as to enjoy a certain power of abusing his fellows.
Without such a provision the world could not get on at all, and
simple chaos would ensue. Yet I am surprised that our Thedor
should continue to overlook insults of the kind that he endures.

Why do I do my official work at all? Why is that necessary? Will
my doing of it lead anyone who reads it to give me a greatcoat,
or to buy me a new pair of shoes? No, Barbara. Men only read the
documents, and then require me to write more. Sometimes a man
will hide himself away, and not show his face abroad, for the
mere reason that, though he has done nothing to be ashamed of, he
dreads the gossip and slandering which are everywhere to be
encountered. If his civic and family life have to do with
literature, everything will be printed and read and laughed over
and discussed; until at length, he hardly dare show his face in
the street at all, seeing that he will have been described by
report as recognisable through his gait alone! Then, when he has
amended his ways, and grown gentler (even though he still
continues to be loaded with official work), he will come to be
accounted a virtuous, decent citizen who has deserved well of his
comrades, rendered obedience to his superiors, wished noone any
evil, preserved the fear of God in his heart, and died lamented.
Yet would it not be better, instead of letting the poor fellow
die, to give him a cloak while yet he is ALIVE--to give it to
this same Thedor Thedorovitch (that is to say, to myself)? Yes,
'twere far better if, on hearing the tale of his subordinate's
virtues, the chief of the department were to call the deserving
man into his office, and then and there to promote him, and to
grant him an increase of salary. Thus vice would be punished,
virtue would prevail, and the staff of that department would live
in peace together. Here we have an example from everyday,
commonplace life. How, therefore, could you bring yourself to
send me that book, my beloved? It is a badly conceived work,
Barbara, and also unreal, for the reason that in creation such a
Tchinovnik does not exist. No, again I protest against it, little
Barbara; again I protest.--Your most humble, devoted servant,

M. D.

July 27th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Your latest conduct and letters
had frightened me, and left me thunderstruck and plunged in
doubt, until what you have said about Thedor explained the
situation. Why despair and go into such frenzies, Makar
Alexievitch? Your explanations only partially satisfy me. Perhaps
I did wrong to insist upon accepting a good situation when it was
offered me, seeing that from my last experience in that way I
derived a shock which was anything but a matter for jesting. You
say also that your love for me has compelled you to hide yourself
in retirement. Now, how much I am indebted to you I realised when
you told me that you were spending for my benefit the sum which
you are always reported to have laid by at your bankers; but, now
that I have learnED that you never possessed such a fund, but
that, on hearing of my destitute plight, and being moved by it,
you decided to spend upon me the whole of your salary--even to
forestall it--and when I had fallen ill, actually to sell your
clothes--when I learnED all this I found myself placed in the
harassing position of not knowing how to accept it all, nor what
to think of it. Ah, Makar Alexievitch! You ought to have stopped
at your first acts of charity--acts inspired by sympathy and the
love of kinsfolk, rather than have continued to squander your
means upon what was unnecessary. Yes, you have betrayed our
friendship, Makar Alexievitch, in that you have not been open
with me; and, now that I see that your last coin has been spent
upon dresses and bon-bons and excursions and books and visits to
the theatre for me, I weep bitter tears for my unpardonable
improvidence in having accepted these things without giving so
much as a thought to your welfare. Yes, all that you have done to
give me pleasure has become converted into a source of grief, and
left behind it only useless regret. Of late I have remarked that
you were looking depressed; and though I felt fearful that
something unfortunate was impending, what has happened would
otherwise never have entered my head. To think that your better
sense should so play you false, Makar Alexievitch! What will
people think of you, and say of you? Who will want to know you?
You whom, like everyone else, I have valued for your goodness of
heart and modesty and good sense--YOU, I say, have now given way
to an unpleasant vice of which you seem never before to have been
guilty. What were my feelings when Thedora informed me that you
had been discovered drunk in the street, and taken home by the
police? Why, I felt petrified with astonishment--although, in
view of the fact that you had failed me for four days, I had been
expecting some such extraordinary occurrence. Also, have you
thought what your superiors will say of you when they come to
learn the true reason of your absence? You say that everyone is
laughing at you, that every one has learnED of the bond which
exists between us, and that your neighbours habitually refer to
me with a sneer. Pay no attention to this, Makar Alexievitch; for
the love of God, be comforted. Also, the incident between you and
the officers has much alarmed me, although I had heard certain
rumours concerning it. Pray explain to me what it means. You
write, too, that you have been afraid to be open with me, for the
reason that your confessions might lose you my friendship. Also,
you say that you are in despair at the thought of being unable to
help me in my illness, owing to the fact that you have sold
everything which might have maintained me, and preserved me in
sickness, as well as that you have borrowed as much as it is
possible for you to borrow, and are daily experiencing
unpleasantness with your landlady. Well, in failing to reveal all
this to me you chose the worse course. Now, however, I know all.
You have forced me to recognise that I have been the cause of
your unhappy plight, as well as that my own conduct has brought
upon myself a twofold measure of sorrow. The fact leaves me
thunderstruck, Makar Alexievitch. Ah, friend, an infectious
disease is indeed a misfortune, for now we poor and miserable
folk must perforce keep apart from one another, lest the
infection be increased. Yes, I have brought upon you calamities
which never before in your humble, solitary life you had
experienced. This tortures and exhausts me more than I can tell
to think of.

Write to me quite frankly. Tell me how you came to embark upon
such a course of conduct. Comfort, oh, comfort me if you can. It
is not self-love that prompts me to speak of my own comforting,
but my friendship and love for you, which will never fade from my
heart. Goodbye. I await your answer with impatience. You have
thought but poorly of me, Makar Alexievitch.--Your friend and
lover,

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.