No More Learning

Then I will take the eleventh book, and give it to
him MYSELF, as being my gift. If we do that, you will have a present for
him and I shall have one--both of us alike. ”

“Why do you not want us to present our gifts together, Zachar
Petrovitch? ” I asked him.

“Oh, very well,” he replied. “Very well, Barbara Alexievna. Only--only,
I thought that--”

The old man broke off in confusion, while his face flushed with the
exertion of thus expressing himself. For a moment or two he sat glued to
his seat.

“You see,” he went on, “I play the fool too much. I am forever playing
the fool, and cannot help myself, though I know that it is wrong to do
so. At home it is often cold, and sometimes there are other troubles
as well, and it all makes me depressed. Well, whenever that happens, I
indulge a little, and occasionally drink too much. Now, Petinka does not
like that; he loses his temper about it, Barbara Alexievna, and scolds
me, and reads me lectures. So I want by my gift to show him that I am
mending my ways, and beginning to conduct myself better. For a long time
past, I have been saving up to buy him a book--yes, for a long time past
I have been saving up for it, since it is seldom that I have any
money, unless Petinka happens to give me some. He knows that, and,
consequently, as soon as ever he perceives the use to which I have put
his money, he will understand that it is for his sake alone that I have
acted. ”

My heart ached for the old man. Seeing him looking at me with such
anxiety, I made up my mind without delay.

“I tell you what,” I said. “Do you give him all the books. ”

“ALL? ” he ejaculated. “ALL the books? ”

“Yes, all of them. ”

“As my own gift? ” “Yes, as your own gift. ”

“As my gift alone? ”

“Yes, as your gift alone. ”

Surely I had spoken clearly enough, yet the old man seemed hardly to
understand me.

“Well,” said he after reflection, “that certainly would be
splendid--certainly it would be most splendid. But what about yourself,
Barbara Alexievna? ”

“Oh, I shall give your son nothing. ”

“What? ” he cried in dismay. “Are you going to give Petinka nothing--do
you WISH to give him nothing? ” So put about was the old fellow with what
I had said, that he seemed almost ready to renounce his own proposal
if only I would give his son something. What a kind heart he had! I
hastened to assure him that I should certainly have a gift of some sort
ready, since my one wish was to avoid spoiling his pleasure.

“Provided that your son is pleased,” I added, “and that you are pleased,
I shall be equally pleased, for in my secret heart I shall feel as
though I had presented the gift. ”

This fully reassured the old man. He stopped with us another couple of
hours, yet could not sit still for a moment, but kept jumping up from
his seat, laughing, cracking jokes with Sasha, bestowing stealthy kisses
upon myself, pinching my hands, and making silent grimaces at Anna
Thedorovna. At length, she turned him out of the house. In short, his
transports of joy exceeded anything that I had yet beheld.

On the festal day he arrived exactly at eleven o’clock, direct from
Mass. He was dressed in a carefully mended frockcoat, a new waistcoat,
and a pair of new shoes, while in his arms he carried our pile of
books. Next we all sat down to coffee (the day being Sunday) in Anna
Thedorovna’s parlour. The old man led off the meal by saying
that Pushkin was a magnificent poet. Thereafter, with a return to
shamefacedness and confusion, he passed suddenly to the statement that
a man ought to conduct himself properly; that, should he not do so, it
might be taken as a sign that he was in some way overindulging himself;
and that evil tendencies of this sort led to the man’s ruin and
degradation. Then the orator sketched for our benefit some terrible
instances of such incontinence, and concluded by informing us that for
some time past he had been mending his own ways, and conducting himself
in exemplary fashion, for the reason that he had perceived the justice
of his son’s precepts, and had laid them to heart so well that he, the
father, had really changed for the better: in proof whereof, he now
begged to present to the said son some books for which he had long been
setting aside his savings.

As I listened to the old man I could not help laughing and crying in
a breath. Certainly he knew how to lie when the occasion required! The
books were transferred to his son’s room, and arranged upon a shelf,
where Pokrovski at once guessed the truth about them. Then the old man
was invited to dinner and we all spent a merry day together at cards and
forfeits. Sasha was full of life, and I rivalled her, while Pokrovski
paid me numerous attentions, and kept seeking an occasion to speak to me
alone. But to allow this to happen I refused. Yes, taken all in all, it
was the happiest day that I had known for four years.

But now only grievous, painful memories come to my recollection, for I
must enter upon the story of my darker experiences. It may be that that
is why my pen begins to move more slowly, and seems as though it were
going altogether to refuse to write. The same reason may account for my
having undertaken so lovingly and enthusiastically a recounting of even
the smallest details of my younger, happier days. But alas! those days
did not last long, and were succeeded by a period of black sorrow which
will close only God knows when!

My misfortunes began with the illness and death of Pokrovski, who was
taken worse two months after what I have last recorded in these memoirs.
During those two months he worked hard to procure himself a livelihood
since hitherto he had had no assured position. Like all consumptives, he
never--not even up to his last moment--altogether abandoned the hope of
being able to enjoy a long life. A post as tutor fell in his way, but he
had never liked the profession; while for him to become a civil servant
was out of the question, owing to his weak state of health. Moreover, in
the latter capacity he would have had to have waited a long time for his
first instalment of salary. Again, he always looked at the darker side
of things, for his character was gradually being warped, and his health
undermined by his illness, though he never noticed it. Then autumn came
on, and daily he went out to business--that is to say, to apply for and
to canvass for posts--clad only in a light jacket; with the result that,
after repeated soakings with rain, he had to take to his bed, and
never again left it. He died in mid-autumn at the close of the month of
October.

Throughout his illness I scarcely ever left his room, but waited on him
hand and foot. Often he could not sleep for several nights at a time.
Often, too, he was unconscious, or else in a delirium; and at such times
he would talk of all sorts of things--of his work, of his books, of his
father, of myself. At such times I learned much which I had not hitherto
known or divined about his affairs. During the early part of his illness
everyone in the house looked askance at me, and Anna Thedorovna would
nod her head in a meaning manner; but, I always looked them straight in
the face, and gradually they ceased to take any notice of my concern for
Pokrovski. At all events my mother ceased to trouble her head about it.

Sometimes Pokrovski would know who I was, but not often, for more
usually he was unconscious. Sometimes, too, he would talk all night with
some unknown person, in dim, mysterious language that caused his gasping
voice to echo hoarsely through the narrow room as through a sepulchre;
and at such times, I found the situation a strange one. During his last
night he was especially lightheaded, for then he was in terrible agony,
and kept rambling in his speech until my soul was torn with pity.
Everyone in the house was alarmed, and Anna Thedorovna fell to praying
that God might soon take him. When the doctor had been summoned, the
verdict was that the patient would die with the morning.

That night the elder Pokrovski spent in the corridor, at the door of his
son’s room. Though given a mattress to lie upon, he spent his time in
running in and out of the apartment. So broken with grief was he that
he presented a dreadful spectacle, and appeared to have lost both
perception and feeling. His head trembled with agony, and his body
quivered from head to foot as at times he murmured to himself something
which he appeared to be debating. Every moment I expected to see him go
out of his mind. Just before dawn he succumbed to the stress of mental
agony, and fell asleep on his mattress like a man who has been beaten;
but by eight o’clock the son was at the point of death, and I ran to
wake the father. The dying man was quite conscious, and bid us all
farewell. Somehow I could not weep, though my heart seemed to be
breaking.

The last moments were the most harassing and heartbreaking of all. For
some time past Pokrovski had been asking for something with his failing
tongue, but I had been unable to distinguish his words. Yet my heart had
been bursting with grief. Then for an hour he had lain quieter, except
that he had looked sadly in my direction, and striven to make some sign
with his death-cold hands. At last he again essayed his piteous request
in a hoarse, deep voice, but the words issued in so many inarticulate
sounds, and once more I failed to divine his meaning. By turns I brought
each member of the household to his bedside, and gave him something to
drink, but he only shook his head sorrowfully. Finally, I understood
what it was he wanted. He was asking me to draw aside the curtain from
the window, and to open the casements. Probably he wished to take his
last look at the daylight and the sun and all God’s world. I pulled back
the curtain, but the opening day was as dull and mournful--looking as
though it had been the fast-flickering life of the poor invalid. Of
sunshine there was none. Clouds overlaid the sky as with a shroud of
mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening under a fine
drizzle which was beating against the window-panes, and streaking their
dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold, dirty moisture. Only a scanty
modicum of daylight entered to war with the trembling rays of the ikon
lamp. The dying man threw me a wistful look, and nodded. The next moment
he had passed away.

The funeral was arranged for by Anna Thedorovna. A plain coffin was
bought, and a broken-down hearse hired; while, as security for
this outlay, she seized the dead man’s books and other articles.
Nevertheless, the old man disputed the books with her, and, raising an
uproar, carried off as many of them as he could--stuffing his pockets
full, and even filling his hat. Indeed, he spent the next three days
with them thus, and refused to let them leave his sight even when it was
time for him to go to church. Throughout he acted like a man bereft
of sense and memory. With quaint assiduity he busied himself about the
bier--now straightening the candlestick on the dead man’s breast, now
snuffing and lighting the other candles. Clearly his thoughts were
powerless to remain long fixed on any subject. Neither my mother nor
Anna Thedorovna were present at the requiem, for the former was ill
and the latter was at loggerheads with the old man. Only myself and
the father were there. During the service a sort of panic, a sort of
premonition of the future, came over me, and I could hardly hold myself
upright. At length the coffin had received its burden and was screwed
down; after which the bearers placed it upon a bier, and set out. I
accompanied the cortege only to the end of the street. Here the
driver broke into a trot, and the old man started to run behind the
hearse--sobbing loudly, but with the motion of his running ever and anon
causing the sobs to quaver and become broken off. Next he lost his hat,
the poor old fellow, yet would not stop to pick it up, even though the
rain was beating upon his head, and a wind was rising and the sleet kept
stinging and lashing his face. It seemed as though he were impervious
to the cruel elements as he ran from one side of the hearse to the
other--the skirts of his old greatcoat flapping about him like a pair
of wings. From every pocket of the garment protruded books, while in his
hand he carried a specially large volume, which he hugged closely to his
breast. The passers-by uncovered their heads and crossed themselves as
the cortege passed, and some of them, having done so, remained staring
in amazement at the poor old man. Every now and then a book would slip
from one of his pockets and fall into the mud; whereupon somebody,
stopping him, would direct his attention to his loss, and he would stop,
pick up the book, and again set off in pursuit of the hearse. At the
corner of the street he was joined by a ragged old woman; until at
length the hearse turned a corner, and became hidden from my eyes. Then
I went home, and threw myself, in a transport of grief, upon my mother’s
breast--clasping her in my arms, kissing her amid a storm of sobs and
tears, and clinging to her form as though in my embraces I were holding
my last friend on earth, that I might preserve her from death. Yet
already death was standing over her. . . .




June 11th

How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar
Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was
everything! And I had not seen anything green for such a long time!
During my illness I used to think that I should never get better, that
I was certainly going to die. Judge, then, how I felt yesterday! True,
I may have seemed to you a little sad, and you must not be angry with me
for that. Happy and light-hearted though I was, there were moments, even
at the height of my felicity, when, for some unknown reason, depression
came sweeping over my soul. I kept weeping about trifles, yet could not
say why I was grieved. The truth is that I am unwell--so much so, that
I look at everything from the gloomy point of view. The pale, clear sky,
the setting sun, the evening stillness--ah, somehow I felt disposed
to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart seemed to be
over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it. But why should
I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart to express itself;
still more difficult for it to forego self-expression. Yet possibly
you may understand me. Tears and laughter! . . . How good you are, Makar
Alexievitch! Yesterday you looked into my eyes as though you could
read in them all that I was feeling--as though you were rejoicing at my
happiness. Whether it were a group of shrubs or an alleyway or a vista
of water that we were passing, you would halt before me, and stand
gazing at my face as though you were showing me possessions of your own.
It told me how kind is your nature, and I love you for it. Today I am
again unwell, for yesterday I wetted my feet, and took a chill. Thedora
also is unwell; both of us are ailing. Do not forget me. Come and see me
as often as you can. --Your own,

BARBARA ALEXIEVNA.




June 12th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--I had supposed that you meant to describe
our doings of the other day in verse; yet from you there has arrived
only a single sheet of writing. Nevertheless, I must say that, little
though you have put into your letter, that little is not expressed with
rare beauty and grace. Nature, your descriptions of rural scenes, your
analysis of your own feelings--the whole is beautifully written. Alas,
I have no such talent! Though I may fill a score of pages, nothing comes
of it--I might as well never have put pen to paper. Yes, this I know
from experience.

You say, my darling, that I am kind and good, that I could not harm
my fellow-men, that I have power to comprehend the goodness of God
(as expressed in nature’s handiwork), and so on. It may all be so, my
dearest one--it may all be exactly as you say. Indeed, I think that you
are right. But if so, the reason is that when one reads such a letter
as you have just sent me, one’s heart involuntarily softens, and
affords entrance to thoughts of a graver and weightier order. Listen, my
darling; I have something to tell you, my beloved one.

I will begin from the time when I was seventeen years old and first
entered the service--though I shall soon have completed my thirtieth
year of official activity. I may say that at first I was much pleased
with my new uniform; and, as I grew older, I grew in mind, and fell
to studying my fellow-men. Likewise I may say that I lived an upright
life--so much so that at last I incurred persecution. This you may not
believe, but it is true. To think that men so cruel should exist! For
though, dearest one, I am dull and of no account, I have feelings like
everyone else. Consequently, would you believe it, Barbara, when I
tell you what these cruel fellows did to me? I feel ashamed to tell
it you--and all because I was of a quiet, peaceful, good-natured
disposition!

Things began with “this or that, Makar Alexievitch, is your fault. ”
Then it went on to “I need hardly say that the fault is wholly Makar
Alexievitch’s. ” Finally it became “OF COURSE Makar Alexievitch is to
blame. ” Do you see the sequence of things, my darling? Every mistake
was attributed to me, until “Makar Alexievitch” became a byword in our
department. Also, while making of me a proverb, these fellows could not
give me a smile or a civil word. They found fault with my boots, with
my uniform, with my hair, with my figure. None of these things were to
their taste: everything had to be changed. And so it has been from
that day to this. True, I have now grown used to it, for I can
grow accustomed to anything (being, as you know, a man of peaceable
disposition, like all men of small stature)--yet why should these things
be? Whom have I harmed? Whom have I ever supplanted? Whom have I ever
traduced to his superiors? No, the fault is that more than once I have
asked for an increase of salary. But have I ever CABALLED for it? No,
you would be wrong in thinking so, my dearest one. HOW could I ever
have done so? You yourself have had many opportunities of seeing how
incapable I am of deceit or chicanery.

Why then, should this have fallen to my lot? . . . However, since you think
me worthy of respect, my darling, I do not care, for you are far and
away the best person in the world. . . . What do you consider to be the
greatest social virtue?
In private conversation Evstafi Ivanovitch once
told me that the greatest social virtue might be considered to be an
ability to get money to spend. Also, my comrades used jestingly (yes,
I know only jestingly) to propound the ethical maxim that a man ought
never to let himself become a burden upon anyone. Well, I am a burden
upon no one. It is my own crust of bread that I eat; and though that
crust is but a poor one, and sometimes actually a maggoty one, it has
at least been EARNED, and therefore, is being put to a right and lawful
use. What therefore, ought I to do? I know that I can earn but little by
my labours as a copyist; yet even of that little I am proud, for it has
entailed WORK, and has wrung sweat from my brow. What harm is there in
being a copyist? “He is only an amanuensis,” people say of me. But what
is there so disgraceful in that? My writing is at least legible, neat,
and pleasant to look upon--and his Excellency is satisfied with it.
Indeed, I transcribe many important documents. At the same time, I know
that my writing lacks STYLE, which is why I have never risen in the
service. Even to you, my dear one, I write simply and without tricks,
but just as a thought may happen to enter my head. Yes, I know all this;
but if everyone were to become a fine writer, who would there be left to
act as copyists? . . . Whatsoever questions I may put to you in my letters,
dearest, I pray you to answer them. I am sure that you need me, that I
can be of use to you; and, since that is so, I must not allow myself
to be distracted by any trifle. Even if I be likened to a rat, I do not
care, provided that that particular rat be wanted by you, and be of use
in the world, and be retained in its position, and receive its reward.
But what a rat it is!

Enough of this, dearest one. I ought not to have spoken of it, but I
lost my temper. Still, it is pleasant to speak the truth sometimes.
Goodbye, my own, my darling, my sweet little comforter! I will come to
you soon--yes, I will certainly come to you. Until I do so, do not fret
yourself. With me I shall be bringing a book. Once more goodbye. --Your
heartfelt well-wisher,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




June 20th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I am writing to you post-haste--I am
hurrying my utmost to get my work finished in time. What do you suppose
is the reason for this? It is because an opportunity has occurred for
you to make a splendid purchase. Thedora tells me that a retired civil
servant of her acquaintance has a uniform to sell--one cut to regulation
pattern and in good repair, as well as likely to go very cheap. Now, DO
not tell me that you have not got the money, for I know from your own
lips that you HAVE. Use that money, I pray you, and do not hoard it. See
what terrible garments you walk about in! They are shameful--they are
patched all over! In fact, you have nothing new whatever. That this is
so, I know for certain, and I care not WHAT you tell me about it. So
listen to me for once, and buy this uniform. Do it for MY sake. Do it to
show that you really love me.

You have sent me some linen as a gift. But listen to me, Makar
Alexievitch. You are simply ruining yourself. Is it a jest that you
should spend so much money, such a terrible amount of money, upon me?
How you love to play the spendthrift! I tell you that I do not need it,
that such expenditure is unnecessary. I know, I am CERTAIN, that you
love me--therefore, it is useless to remind me of the fact with gifts.
Nor do I like receiving them, since I know how much they must have cost
you. No--put your money to a better use. I beg, I beseech of you, to
do so. Also, you ask me to send you a continuation of my memoirs--to
conclude them. But I know not how I contrived even to write as much of
them as I did; and now I have not the strength to write further of my
past, nor the desire to give it a single thought. Such recollections are
terrible to me. Most difficult of all is it for me to speak of my poor
mother, who left her destitute daughter a prey to villains. My heart
runs blood whenever I think of it; it is so fresh in my memory that
I cannot dismiss it from my thoughts, nor rest for its insistence,
although a year has now elapsed since the events took place. But all
this you know.

Also, I have told you what Anna Thedorovna is now intending. She accuses
me of ingratitude, and denies the accusations made against herself with
regard to Monsieur Bwikov. Also, she keeps sending for me, and telling
me that I have taken to evil courses, but that if I will return to her,
she will smooth over matters with Bwikov, and force him to confess his
fault. Also, she says that he desires to give me a dowry. Away with them
all! I am quite happy here with you and good Thedora, whose devotion to
me reminds me of my old nurse, long since dead. Distant kinsman though
you may be, I pray you always to defend my honour. Other people I do
not wish to know, and would gladly forget if I could. . . . What are they
wanting with me now? Thedora declares it all to be a trick, and says
that in time they will leave me alone. God grant it be so!

B. D.




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!
Oh 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.