September 28th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--For God's sake go to the
jeweller's, and tell him that, after all, he need not make the
pearl and emerald earrings. Monsieur Bwikov says that they will
cost him too much, that they will burn a veritable hole in his
pocket. In fact, he has lost his temper again, and declares that
he is being robbed. Yesterday he added that, had he but known,
but foreseen, these expenses, he would never have married. Also,
he says that, as things are, he intends only to have a plain
wedding, and then to depart. "You must not look for any dancing
or festivity or entertainment of guests, for our gala times are
still in the air." Such were his words. God knows I do not want
such things, but none the less Bwikov has forbidden them. I made
him no answer on the subject, for he is a man all too easily
irritated. What, what is going to become ofme?
B. D.
September 28th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--All is well as regards the
jeweller. Unfortunately, I have also to say that I myself have
fallen ill, and cannot rise from bed. Just when so many things
need to be done, I have gone and caught a chill, the devil take
it! Also I have to tell you that, to complete my misfortunes, his
Excellency has been pleased to become stricter. Today he railed
at and scolded Emelia Ivanovitch until the poor fellow was quite
put about. That is the sum of my news.
No--there is something else concerning which I should like to
write to you, but am afraid to obtrude upon your notice. I am a
simple, dull fellow who writes down whatsoever first comes into
his head--Your friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 29th.
MY OWN BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Today, dearest, I saw Thedora, who
informed me that you are to be married tomorrow, and on the
following day to go away--for which purpose Bwikov has ordered a
post-chaise....
Well, of the incident of his Excellency, I have already told you.
Also I have verified the bill from the shop in Gorokhovaia
Street. It is correct, but very long. Why is Monsieur Bwikov so
out of humour with you? Nay, but you must be of good cheer, my
darling. I am so, and shall always be so, so long as you are
happy. I should have come to the church tomorrow, but, alas,
shall be prevented from doing so by the pain in my loins. Also, I
would have written an account of the ceremony, but that there
will be no one to report to me the details. . . .
Yes, you have been a very good friend to Thedora, dearest. You
have acted kindly, very kindly, towards her. For every such deed
God will bless you. Good deeds never go unrewarded, nor does
virtue ever fail to win the crown of divine justice, be it early
or be it late. Much else should I have liked to write to you.
Every hour, every minute I could occupy in writing. Indeed I
could write to you forever! Only your book, "The Stories of
Bielkin", is left to me. Do not deprive me of it, I pray you, but
suffer me to keep it. It is not so much because I wish to read
the book for its own sake, as because winter is coming on, when
the evenings will be long and dreary, and one will want to read
at least SOMETHING.
Do you know, I am going to move from my present quarters into
your old ones, which I intend to rent from Thedora; for I could
never part with that good old woman. Moreover, she is such a
splendid worker. Yesterday I inspected your empty room in detail,
and inspected your embroidery-frame, with the work still hanging
on it. It had been left untouched in its corner. Next, I
inspected the work itself, of which there still remained a few
remnants, and saw that you had used one of my letters for a spool
upon which to wind your thread. Also, on the table I found a
scrap of paper which had written on it, "My dearest Makar
Alexievitch I hasten to--" that was all. Evidently, someone had
interrupted you at an interesting point. Lastly, behind a screen
there was your little bed. . . . Oh darling of darlings!!! . . .
Well, goodbye now, goodbye now, but for God's sake send me
something in answer to this letter!
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 3Oth.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--All is over! The die is cast! What
my lot may have in store I know not, but I am submissive to the
will of God. Tomorrow, then, we depart. For the last time, I take
my leave of you, my friend beyond price, my benefactor, my dear
one! Do not grieve for me, but try to live happily. Think of me
sometimes, and may the blessing of Almighty God light upon you!
For myself, I shall often have you in remembrance, and recall you
in my prayers. Thus our time together has come to an end. Little
comfort in my new life shall I derive from memories of the past.
The more, therefore, shall I cherish the recollection of you, and
the dearer will you ever be to my heart. Here, you have been my
only friend; here, you alone have loved me. Yes, I have seen all,
I have known all--I have throughout known how well you love me. A
single smile of mine, a single stroke from my pen, has been able
to make you happy. . . . But now you must forget me. . . . How
lonely you will be! Why should you stay here at all, kind,
inestimable, but solitary, friend of mine?
To your care I entrust the book, the embroidery frame, and the
letter upon which I had begun. When you look upon the few words
which the letter contains you will be able mentally to read in
thought all that you would have liked further to hear or receive
from me--all that I would so gladly have written, but can never
now write. Think sometimes of your poor little Barbara who loved
you so well. All your letters I have left behind me in the top
drawer of Thedora's chest of drawers. . . You write that you are
ill, but Monsieur Bwikov will not let me leave the house today;
so that I can only write to you. Also, I will write again before
long. That is a promise. Yet God only knows when I shall be able
to do so. . . .
Now we must bid one another forever farewell, my friend, my
beloved, my own! Yes, it must be forever! Ah, how at this moment
I could embrace you! Goodbye, dear friend--goodbye, goodbye! May
you ever rest well and happy! To the end I shall keep you in my
prayers. How my heart is aching under its load of sorrow! . . .
Monsieur Bwikov is just calling for me. . . .--Your ever loving
B.
P.S.--My heart is full! It is full to bursting of tears! Sorrow
has me in its grip, and is tearing me to pieces. Goodbye. My God,
what grief! Do not, do not forget your poor Barbara!
BELOVED BARBARA--MY JEWEL, MY PRICELESS ONE,--You are now almost
en route, you are now just about to depart! Would that they had
torn my heart out of my breast rather than have taken you away
from me! How could you allow it? You weep, yet you go! And only
this moment I have received from you a letter stained with your
tears! It must be that you are departing unwillingly; it must be
that you are being abducted against your will; it must be that
you are sorry for me; it must be that--that you LOVE me! . . .
Yet how will it fare with you now? Your heart will soon have
become chilled and sick and depressed. Grief will soon have
sucked away its life; grief will soon have rent it in twain! Yes,
you will die where you be, and be laid to rest in the cold, moist
earth where there is no one to bewail you. Monsieur Bwikov will
only be hunting hares! . . .
Ah, my darling, my darling! WHY did you come to this decision?
How could you bring yourself to take such a step? What have you
done, have you done, have you done? Soon they will be carrying
you away to the tomb; soon your beauty will have become defiled,
my angel. Ah, dearest one, you are as weak as a feather. And
where have I been all this time? What have I been thinking of? I
have treated you merely as a forward child whose head was aching.
Fool that I was, I neither saw nor understood. I have behaved as
though, right or wrong, the matter was in no way my concern. Yes,
I have been running about after fripperies! . . . Ah, but I WILL
leave my bed. Tomorrow I WILL rise sound and well, and be once
more myself. . . .
Dearest, I could throw myself under the wheels of a passing
vehicle rather than that you should go like this. By what right
is it being done? . . . I will go with you; I will run behind
your carriage if you will not take me--yes, I will run, and run
so long as the power is in me, and until my breath shall have
failed. Do you know whither you are going? Perhaps you will not
know, and will have to ask me? Before you there lie the Steppes,
my darling--only the Steppes, the naked Steppes, the Steppes that
are as bare as the palm of my hand. THERE there live only
heartless old women and rude peasants and drunkards. THERE the
trees have already shed their leaves. THERE there abide but rain
and cold. Why should you go thither? True, Monsieur Bwikov will
have his diversions in that country--he will be able to hunt the
hare; but what of yourself? Do you wish to become a mere estate
lady? Nay; look at yourself, my seraph of heaven. Are you in any
way fitted for such a role? How could you play it? To whom should
I write letters? To whom should I send these missives? Whom
should I call "my darling"? To whom should I apply that name of
endearment? Where, too, could I find you?
When you are gone, Barbara, I shall die--for certain I shall die,
for my heart cannot bear this misery. I love you as I love the
light of God; I love you as my own daughter; to you I have
devoted my love in its entirety; only for you have I lived at
all; only because you were near me have I worked and copied
manuscripts and committed my views to paper under the guise of
friendly letters.
Perhaps you did not know all this, but it has been so. How, then,
my beloved, could you bring yourself to leave me? Nay, you MUST
not go--it is impossible, it is sheerly, it is utterly,
impossible. The rain will fall upon you, and you are weak, and
will catch cold. The floods will stop your carriage. No sooner
will it have passed the city barriers than it will break down,
purposely break down. Here, in St. Petersburg, they are bad
builders of carriages. Yes, I know well these carriage-builders.
They are jerry-builders who can fashion a toy, but nothing that
is durable. Yes, I swear they can make nothing that is durable. . . .
All that I can do is to go upon my knees before Monsieur Bwikov,
and to tell him all, to tell him all. Do you also tell
him all, dearest, and reason with him. Tell him that you MUST
remain here, and must not go. Ah, why did he not marry that
merchant's daughter in Moscow? Let him go and marry her now. She
would suit him far better and for reasons which I well know. Then
I could keep you. For what is he to you, this Monsieur Bwikov?
Why has he suddenly become so dear to your heart? Is it because he
can buy you gewgaws? What are THEY? What use are THEY? They are
so much rubbish. One should consider human life rather than mere
finery.
Nevertheless, as soon as I have received my next instalment of
salary I mean to buy you a new cloak. I mean to buy it at a shop
with which I am acquainted. Only, you must wait until my next
installment is due, my angel of a Barbara. Ah, God, my God! To
think that you are going away into the Steppes with Monsieur
Bwikov--that you are going away never to return! . . . Nay, nay,
but you SHALL write to me. You SHALL write me a letter as soon as
you have started, even if it be your last letter of all, my
dearest. Yet will it be your last letter? How has it come about
so suddenly, so irrevocably, that this letter should be your
last? Nay, nay; I will write, and you shall write--yes, NOW, when
at length I am beginning to improve my style. Style? I do not
know what I am writing. I never do know what I am writing. I
could not possibly know, for I never read over what I have
written, nor correct its orthography. At the present moment, I am
writing merely for the sake of writing, and to put as much as
possible into this last letter of mine. . . .
Ah, dearest, my pet, my own darling!...
