September 19th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to let you know that
Rataziaev has found me some work to do for a certain writer--the
latter having submitted to him a large manuscript. Glory be to
God, for this means a large amount of work to do. Yet, though the
copy is wanted in haste, the original is so carelessly written
that I hardly know how to set about my task. Indeed, certain
parts of the manuscript are almost undecipherable. I have agreed
to do the work for forty kopecks a sheet. You see therefore (and
this is my true reason for writing to you), that we shall soon be
receiving money from an extraneous source. Goodbye now, as I must
begin upon my labours.--Your sincere friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 23rd.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I have not written to you these
three days past for the reason that I have been so worried and
alarmed.
Three days ago Bwikov came again to see me. At the time I was
alone, for Thedora had gone out somewhere. As soon as I opened
the door the sight of him so terrified me that I stood rooted to
the spot, and could feel myself turning pale. Entering with his
usual loud laugh, he took a chair, and sat down. For a long while
I could not collect my thoughts; I just sat where I was, and went
on with my work. Soon his smile faded, for my appearance seemed
somehow to have struck him. You see, of late I have grown thin,
and my eyes and cheeks have fallen in, and my face has become as
white as a sheet; so that anyone who knew me a year ago would
scarcely recognise me now. After a prolonged inspection, Bwikov
seemed to recover his spirits, for he said something to which I
duly replied. Then again he laughed. Thus he sat for a whole
hour- -talking to me the while, and asking me questions about one
thing and another. At length, just before he rose to depart, he
took me by the hand, and said (to quote his exact words):
"Between ourselves, Barbara Alexievna, that kinswoman of yours
and my good friend and acquaintance--I refer to Anna Thedorovna -
is a very bad woman " (he also added a grosser term of
opprobrium). "First of all she led your cousin astray, and then
she ruined yourself. I also have behaved like a villain, but such
is the way of the world." Again he laughed. Next, having remarked
that, though not a master of eloquence, he had always considered
that obligations of gentility obliged him to have with me a clear
and outspoken explanation, he went on to say that he sought my
hand in marriage; that he looked upon it as a duty to restore to
me my honour; that he could offer me riches; that, after
marriage, he would take me to his country seat in the Steppes,
where we would hunt hares; that he intended never to visit St.
Petersburg again, since everything there was horrible, and he had
to entertain a worthless nephew whom he had sworn to disinherit
in favour of a legal heir; and, finally, that it was to obtain
such a legal heir that he was seeking my hand in marriage.
Lastly, he remarked that I seemed to be living in very poor
circumstances (which was not surprising, said he, in view of the
kennel that I inhabited); that I should die if I remained a month
longer in that den; that all lodgings in St. Petersburg were
detestable; and that he would be glad to know if I was in want of
anything.
So thunderstruck was I with the proposal that I could only burst
into tears. These tears he interpreted as a sign of gratitude,
for he told me that he had always felt assured of my good sense,
cleverness, and sensibility, but that hitherto he had hesitated
to take this step until he should have learned precisely how I
was getting on. Next he asked me some questions about YOU; saying
that he had heard of you as a man of good principle, and that
since he was unwilling to remain your debtor, would a sum of five
hundred roubles repay you for all you had done for me? To this I
replied that your services to myself had been such as could never
be requited with money; whereupon, he exclaimed that I was
talking rubbish and nonsense; that evidently I was still young
enough to read poetry; that romances of this kind were the
undoing of young girls, that books only corrupted morality, and
that, for his part, he could not abide them. "You ought to live
as long as I have done," he added, "and THEN you will see what
men can be."
With that he requested me to give his proposal my favourable
consideration--saying that he would not like me to take such an
important step unguardedly, since want of thought and impetuosity
often spelt ruin to youthful inexperience, but that he hoped to
receive an answer in the affirmative. "Otherwise," said he, "I
shall have no choice but to marry a certain merchant's daughter
in Moscow, in order that I may keep my vow to deprive my nephew
of the inheritance.--Then he pressed five hundred roubles into my
hand--to buy myself some bonbons, as he phrased it--and wound up
by saying that in the country I should grow as fat as a doughnut
or a cheese rolled in butter; that at the present moment he was
extremely busy; and that, deeply engaged in business though he
had been all day, he had snatched the present opportunity of
paying me a visit. At length he departed.
For a long time I sat plunged in reflection. Great though my
distress of mind was, I soon arrived at a decision.... My friend,
I am going to marry this man; I have no choice but to accept his
proposal. If anyone could save me from this squalor, and restore
to me my good name, and avert from me future poverty and want and
misfortune, he is the man to do it. What else have I to look for
from the future? What more am I to ask of fate? Thedora declares
that one need NEVER lose one's happiness; but what, I ask HER,
can be called happiness under such circumstances as mine? At all
events I see no other road open, dear friend. I see nothing else
to be done. I have worked until I have ruined my health. I cannot
go on working forever. Shall I go out into the world? Nay; I am
worn to a shadow with grief, and become good for nothing. Sickly
by nature, I should merely be a burden upon other folks. Of
course this marriage will not bring me paradise, but what else
does there remain, my friend--what else does there remain? What
other choice is left?
I had not asked your advice earlier for the reason that I wanted
to think the matter over alone. However, the decision which you
have just read is unalterable, and I am about to announce it to
Bwikov himself, who in any case has pressed me for a speedy
reply, owing to the fact (so he says) that his business will not
wait nor allow him to remain here longer, and that therefore, no
trifle must be allowed to stand in its way. God alone knows
whether I shall be happy, but my fate is in His holy, His
inscrutable hand, and I have so decided. Bwikov is said to be
kind-hearted. He will at least respect me, and perhaps I shall be
able to return that respect. What more could be looked for from
such a marriage?
I have now told you all, Makar Alexievitch, and feel sure that
you will understand my despondency. Do not, however, try to
divert me from my intention, for all your efforts will be in
vain. Think for a moment; weigh in your heart for a moment all
that has led me to take this step. At first my anguish was
extreme, but now I am quieter. What awaits me I know not. What
must be must be, and as God may send....
Bwikov has just arrived, so I am leaving this letter unfinished.
Otherwise I had much else to say to you. Bwikov is even now at
the door! ...
September 23rd.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to reply to you--I hasten
to express to you my extreme astonishment. . . . In passing, I
may mention that yesterday we buried poor Gorshkov. . . .
Yes, Bwikov has acted nobly, and you have no choice but to accept
him. All things are in God's hands. This is so, and must always
be so; and the purposes of the Divine Creator are at once good
and inscrutable, as also is Fate, which is one with Him. . . .
Thedora will share your happiness--for, of course, you will be
happy, and free from want, darling, dearest, sweetest of angels!
But why should the matter be so hurried? Oh, of course--Monsieur
Bwikov's business affairs. Only a man who has no affairs to see
to can afford to disregard such things. I got a glimpse of
Monsieur Bwikov as he was leaving your door. He is a fine-looking
man--a very fine-looking man; though that is not the point that I
should most have noticed had I been quite myself at the time. . .
In the future shall we be able to write letters to one another? I
keep wondering and wondering what has led you to say all that you
have said. To think that just when twenty pages of my copying are
completed THIS has happened! . . . I suppose you will be able to
make many purchases now--to buy shoes and dresses and all sorts
of things? Do you remember the shops in Gorokhovaia Street of
which I used to speak? . . .
But no. You ought not to go out at present--you simply ought not
to, and shall not. Presently, you will he able to buy many, many
things, and to, keep a carriage. Also, at present the weather is
bad. Rain is descending in pailfuls, and it is such a soaking
kind of rain that--that you might catch cold from it, my darling,
and the chill might go to your heart. Why should your fear of
this man lead you to take such risks when all the time I am here
to do your bidding? So Thedora declares great happiness to be
awaiting you, does she? She is a gossiping old woman, and
evidently desires to ruin you.
Shall you be at the all-night Mass this evening, dearest? I
should like to come and see you there. Yes, Bwikov spoke but the
truth when he said that you are a woman of virtue, wit, and good
feeling. Yet I think he would do far better to marry the
merchant's daughter. What think YOU about it? Yes, 'twould be far
better for him. As soon as it grows dark tonight I mean to come
and sit with you for an hour. Tonight twilight will close in
early, so I shall soon be with you. Yes, come what may, I mean to
see you for an hour. At present, I suppose, you are expecting
Bwikov, but I will come as soon as he has gone. So stay at home
until I have arrived, dearest.
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 27th.
DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH, -Bwikov has just informed me that I must
have at least three dozen linen blouses; so I must go at once and
look for sempstresses to make two out of the three dozen, since
time presses. Indeed, Monsieur Bwikov is quite angry about the
fuss which these fripperies are entailing, seeing that there
remain but five days before the wedding, and we are to depart on
the following day. He keeps rushing about and declaring that no
time ought to be wasted on trifles. I am terribly worried, and
scarcely able to stand on my feet. There is so much to do, and,
perhaps, so much that were better left undone! Moreover, I have
no blond or other lace; so THERE is another item to be purchased,
since Bwikov declares that he cannot have his bride look like a
cook, but, on the contrary, she must "put the noses of the great
ladies out of joint." That is his expression. I wish, therefore,
that you would go to Madame Chiffon's, in Gorokhovaia Street, and
ask her, in the first place, to send me some sempstresses, and,
in the second place, to give herself the trouble of coming in
person, as I am too ill to go out. Our new flat is very cold, and
still in great disorder. Also, Bwikov has an aunt who is at her
last gasp through old age, and may die before our departure. He
himself, however, declares this to be nothing, and says that she
will soon recover. He is not yet living with me, and I have to go
running hither and thither to find him. Only Thedora is acting as
my servant, together with Bwikov's valet, who oversees
everything, but has been absent for the past three days.
Each morning Bwikov goes to business, and loses his temper.
Yesterday he even had some trouble with the police because of his
thrashing the steward of these buildings. . . I have no one to
send with this letter so I am going to post it. . . Ah! I had
almost forgotten the most important point--which is that I should
like you to go and tell Madame Chiffon that I wish the blond lace
to be changed in conformity with yesterday's patterns, if she
will be good enough to bring with her a new assortment. Also say
that I have altered my mind about the satin, which I wish to be
tamboured with crochet-work; also, that tambour is to be used
with monograms on the various garments. Do you hear? Tambour, not
smooth work. Do not forget that it is to be tambour. Another
thing I had almost forgotten, which is that the lappets of the
fur cloak must be raised, and the collar bound with lace. Please
tell her these things, Makar Alexievitch.--Your friend,
B. D.
P.S.--I am so ashamed to trouble you with my commissions! This is
the third morning that you will have spent in running about for
my sake. But what else am I to do? The whole place is in
disorder, and I myself am ill. Do not be vexed with me, Makar
Alexievitch. I am feeling so depressed! What is going to become
of me, dear friend, dear, kind, old Makar Alexievitch? I dread to
look forward into the future. Somehow I feel apprehensive; I am
living, as it were, in a mist. Yet, for God's sake, forget none
of my commissions. I am so afraid lest you should make a mistake!
Remember that everything is to be tambour work, not smooth.
September 27th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I have carefully fulfilled your
commissions. Madame Chiffon informs me that she herself had
thought of using tambour work as being more suitable (though I
did not quite take in all she said). Also, she has informed me
that, since you have given certain directions in writing, she has
followed them (though again I do not clearly remember all that
she said--I only remember that she said a very great deal, for
she is a most tiresome old woman). These observations she will
soon be repeating to you in person. For myself, I feel absolutely
exhausted, and have not been to the office today. . .
Do not despair about the future, dearest. To save you trouble I
would visit every shop in St. Petersburg. You write that you dare
not look forward into the future. But by tonight, at seven
o'clock, you will have learned all, for Madame Chiffon will have
arrived in person to see you. Hope on, and everything will order
itself for the best. Of course, I am referring only to these
accursed gewgaws, to these frills and fripperies! Ah me, ah me,
how glad I shall be to see you, my angel! Yes, how glad I shall
be! Twice already today I have passed the gates of your abode.
Unfortunately, this Bwikov is a man of such choler that--Well,
things are as they are.
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
