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.
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.
