No More Learning

” I
inquired of him; whereupon he replied: “It is this, Makar Alexievitch.
You have once before been my benefactor. Pray again show me the charity
of God, and assist my unfortunate family. My wife and children have
nothing to eat. To think that a father should have to say this! ” I was
about to speak again when he interrupted me. “You see,” he continued,
“I am afraid of the other lodgers here. That is to say, I am not so much
afraid of, as ashamed to address them, for they are a proud, conceited
lot of men. Nor would I have troubled even you, my friend and former
benefactor, were it not that I know that you yourself have experienced
misfortune and are in debt; wherefore, I have ventured to come and make
this request of you, in that I know you not only to be kind-hearted, but
also to be in need, and for that reason the more likely to sympathise
with me in my distress. ” To this he added an apology for his awkwardness
and presumption. I replied that, glad though I should have been to
serve him, I had nothing, absolutely nothing, at my disposal. “Ah, Makar
Alexievitch,” he went on, “surely it is not much that I am asking of
you? My-my wife and children are starving. C-could you not afford me
just a grivennik? ” At that my heart contracted, “How these people put me
to shame! ” thought I. But I had only twenty kopecks left, and upon them
I had been counting for meeting my most pressing requirements. “No, good
sir, I cannot,” said I. “Well, what you will,” he persisted. “Perhaps
ten kopecks? ” Well I got out my cash-box, and gave him the twenty. It
was a good deed. To think that such poverty should exist! Then I had
some further talk with him. “How is it,” I asked him, “that, though you
are in such straits, you have hired a room at five roubles? ” He replied
that though, when he engaged the room six months ago, he paid three
months’ rent in advance, his affairs had subsequently turned out badly,
and never righted themselves since. You see, Barbara, he was sued at
law by a merchant who had defrauded the Treasury in the matter of a
contract. When the fraud was discovered the merchant was prosecuted, but
the transactions in which he had engaged involved Gorshkov, although
the latter had been guilty only of negligence, want of prudence, and
culpable indifference to the Treasury’s interests. True, the affair had
taken place some years ago, but various obstacles had since combined
to thwart Gorshkov. “Of the disgrace put upon me,” said he to me, “I am
innocent. True, I to a certain extent disobeyed orders, but never did
I commit theft or embezzlement. ” Nevertheless the affair lost him
his character. He was dismissed the service, and though not adjudged
capitally guilty, has been unable since to recover from the merchant a
large sum of money which is his by right, as spared to him (Gorshkov)
by the legal tribunal. True, the tribunal in question did not altogether
believe in Gorshkov, but I do so. The matter is of a nature so complex
and crooked that probably a hundred years would be insufficient to
unravel it; and, though it has now to a certain extent been cleared up,
the merchant still holds the key to the situation. Personally I side
with Gorshkov, and am very sorry for him. Though lacking a post of any
kind, he still refuses to despair, though his resources are completely
exhausted. Yes, it is a tangled affair, and meanwhile he must live, for,
unfortunately, another child which has been born to him has entailed
upon the family fresh expenses. Also, another of his children recently
fell ill and died--which meant yet further expense. Lastly, not only is
his wife in bad health, but he himself is suffering from a complaint of
long standing. In short, he has had a very great deal to undergo. Yet he
declares that daily he expects a favourable issue to his affair--that he
has no doubt of it whatever. I am terribly sorry for him, and said what
I could to give him comfort, for he is a man who has been much bullied
and misled. He had come to me for protection from his troubles, so I did
my best to soothe him. Now, goodbye, my darling. May Christ watch over
you and preserve your health. Dearest one, even to think of you is like
medicine to my ailing soul. Though I suffer for you, I at least suffer
gladly. --Your true friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 9th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I am beside myself as I take up my pen,
for a most terrible thing has happened. My head is whirling round. Ah,
beloved, how am I to tell you about it all? I had never foreseen what
has happened. But no--I cannot say that I had NEVER foreseen it, for my
mind DID get an inkling of what was coming, through my seeing something
very similar to it in a dream.

I will tell you the whole story--simply, and as God may put it into my
heart. Today I went to the office as usual, and, upon arrival, sat down
to write. You must know that I had been engaged on the same sort of
work yesterday, and that, while executing it, I had been approached by
Timothei Ivanovitch with an urgent request for a particular document.
“Makar Alexievitch,” he had said, “pray copy this out for me. Copy it
as quickly and as carefully as you can, for it will require to be signed
today. ” Also let me tell you, dearest, that yesterday I had not been
feeling myself, nor able to look at anything. I had been troubled with
grave depression--my breast had felt chilled, and my head clouded. All
the while I had been thinking of you, my darling. Well, I set to work
upon the copying, and executed it cleanly and well, except for the
fact that, whether the devil confused my mind, or a mysterious fate so
ordained, or the occurrence was simply bound to happen, I left out a
whole line of the document, and thus made nonsense of it! The work had
been given me too late for signature last night, so it went before his
Excellency this morning. I reached the office at my usual hour, and sat
down beside Emelia Ivanovitch. Here I may remark that for a long time
past I have been feeling twice as shy and diffident as I used to do; I
have been finding it impossible to look people in the face. Let only
a chair creak, and I become more dead than alive. Today, therefore, I
crept humbly to my seat and sat down in such a crouching posture that
Efim Akimovitch (the most touchy man in the world) said to me sotto
voce: “What on earth makes you sit like that, Makar Alexievitch? ” Then
he pulled such a grimace that everyone near us rocked with laughter at
my expense. I stopped my ears, frowned, and sat without moving, for I
found this the best method of putting a stop to such merriment. All at
once I heard a bustle and a commotion and the sound of someone running
towards us. Did my ears deceive me? It was I who was being summoned in
peremptory tones! My heart started to tremble within me, though I could
not say why. I only know that never in my life before had it trembled
as it did then. Still I clung to my chair--and at that moment was hardly
myself at all. The voices were coming nearer and nearer, until they were
shouting in my ear: “Dievushkin! Dievushkin! Where is Dievushkin? ” Then
at length I raised my eyes, and saw before me Evstafi Ivanovitch. He
said to me: “Makar Alexievitch, go at once to his Excellency. You have
made a mistake in a document. ” That was all, but it was enough, was
it not? I felt dead and cold as ice--I felt absolutely deprived of the
power of sensation; but, I rose from my seat and went whither I had
been bidden. Through one room, through two rooms, through three rooms I
passed, until I was conducted into his Excellency’s cabinet itself. Of
my thoughts at that moment I can give no exact account. I merely saw his
Excellency standing before me, with a knot of people around him. I have
an idea that I did not salute him--that I forgot to do so. Indeed,
so panic-stricken was I, that my teeth were chattering and my knees
knocking together. In the first place, I was greatly ashamed of my
appearance (a glance into a mirror on the right had frightened me with
the reflection of myself that it presented), and, in the second place, I
had always been accustomed to comport myself as though no such person
as I existed. Probably his Excellency had never before known that I was
even alive. Of course, he might have heard, in passing, that there was
a man named Dievushkin in his department; but never for a moment had he
had any intercourse with me.

He began angrily: “What is this you have done, sir? Why are you not
more careful? The document was wanted in a hurry, and you have gone
and spoiled it. What do you think of it? ”--the last being addressed
to Evstafi Ivanovitch. More I did not hear, except for some flying
exclamations of “What negligence and carelessness! How awkward this is! ”
and so on. I opened my mouth to say something or other; I tried to
beg pardon, but could not. To attempt to leave the room, I had not
the hardihood. Then there happened something the recollection of which
causes the pen to tremble in my hand with shame. A button of mine--the
devil take it! --a button of mine that was hanging by a single thread
suddenly broke off, and hopped and skipped and rattled and rolled until
it had reached the feet of his Excellency himself--this amid a profound
general silence! THAT was what came of my intended self-justification
and plea for mercy! THAT was the only answer that I had to return to my
chief!

The sequel I shudder to relate. At once his Excellency’s attention
became drawn to my figure and costume. I remembered what I had seen
in the mirror, and hastened to pursue the button. Obstinacy of a sort
seized upon me, and I did my best to arrest the thing, but it slipped
away, and kept turning over and over, so that I could not grasp it, and
made a sad spectacle of myself with my awkwardness. Then there came over
me a feeling that my last remaining strength was about to leave me, and
that all, all was lost--reputation, manhood, everything! In both ears I
seemed to hear the voices of Theresa and Phaldoni. At length, however, I
grasped the button, and, raising and straightening myself, stood humbly
with clasped hands--looking a veritable fool! But no. First of all I
tried to attach the button to the ragged threads, and smiled each time
that it broke away from them, and smiled again. In the beginning his
Excellency had turned away, but now he threw me another glance, and I
heard him say to Evstafi Ivanovitch: “What on earth is the matter with
the fellow? Look at the figure he cuts! Who to God is he? ” Ah, beloved,
only to hear that, “Who to God is he? ” Truly I had made myself a marked
man! In reply to his Excellency Evstafi murmured: “He is no one of any
note, though his character is good. Besides, his salary is sufficient as
the scale goes. ” “Very well, then; but help him out of his difficulties
somehow,” said his Excellency. “Give him a trifle of salary in advance. ”
“It is all forestalled,” was the reply. “He drew it some time ago. But
his record is good. There is nothing against him. ” At this I felt as
though I were in Hell fire. I could actually have died! “Well, well,”
said his Excellency, “let him copy out the document a second time.
Dievushkin, come here. You are to make another copy of this paper, and
to make it as quickly as possible. ” With that he turned to some
other officials present, issued to them a few orders, and the company
dispersed. No sooner had they done so than his Excellency hurriedly
pulled out a pocket-book, took thence a note for a hundred roubles, and,
with the words, “Take this. It is as much as I can afford. Treat it as
you like,” placed the money in my hand! At this, dearest, I started
and trembled, for I was moved to my very soul. What next I did I hardly
know, except that I know that I seized his Excellency by the hand.
But he only grew very red, and then--no, I am not departing by a
hair’s-breadth from the truth--it is true--that he took this unworthy
hand in his, and shook it! Yes, he took this hand of mine in his, and
shook it, as though I had been his equal, as though I had been a general
like himself! “Go now,” he said. “This is all that I can do for you.
Make no further mistakes, and I will overlook your fault. ”

What I think about it is this: I beg of you and of Thedora, and had
I any children I should beg of them also, to pray ever to God for his
Excellency. I should say to my children: “For your father you need not
pray; but for his Excellency, I bid you pray until your lives shall
end. ” Yes, dear one--I tell you this in all solemnity, so hearken well
unto my words--that though, during these cruel days of our adversity,
I have nearly died of distress of soul at the sight of you and your
poverty, as well as at the sight of myself and my abasement and
helplessness, I yet care less for the hundred roubles which his
Excellency has given me than for the fact that he was good enough to
take the hand of a wretched drunkard in his own and press it. By that
act he restored me to myself. By that act he revived my courage, he made
life forever sweet to me. . . . Yes, sure am I that, sinner though I be
before the Almighty, my prayers for the happiness and prosperity of his
Excellency will yet ascend to the Heavenly Throne! . . .

But, my darling, for the moment I am terribly agitated and distraught.
My heart is beating as though it would burst my breast, and all my body
seems weak. . . . I send you forty-five roubles in notes. Another twenty
I shall give to my landlady, and the remaining thirty-five I shall
keep--twenty for new clothes and fifteen for actual living expenses. But
these experiences of the morning have shaken me to the core, and I
must rest awhile. It is quiet, very quiet, here. My breath is coming in
jerks--deep down in my breast I can hear it sobbing and trembling. . . .
I will come and see you soon, but at the moment my head is aching with
these various sensations. God sees all things, my darling, my priceless
treasure! --Your steadfast friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 10th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I am unspeakably rejoiced at your good
fortune, and fully appreciate the kindness of your superior. Now, take
a rest from your cares. Only do not AGAIN spend money to no advantage.
Live as quietly and as frugally as possible, and from today begin always
to set aside something, lest misfortune again overtake you. Do not, for
God’s sake, worry yourself--Thedora and I will get on somehow. Why have
you sent me so much money? I really do not need it--what I had already
would have been quite sufficient. True, I shall soon be needing further
funds if I am to leave these lodgings, but Thedora is hoping before long
to receive repayment of an old debt. Of course, at least TWENTY roubles
will have to be set aside for indispensable requirements, but the
remainder shall be returned to you. Pray take care of it, Makar
Alexievitch. Now, goodbye. May your life continue peacefully, and may
you preserve your health and spirits. I would have written to you at
greater length had I not felt so terribly weary. Yesterday I never left
my bed. I am glad that you have promised to come and see me. Yes, you
MUST pay me a visit.

B. D.




September 11th.

MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I implore you not to leave me now that
I am once more happy and contented. Disregard what Thedora says, and I
will do anything in the world for you. I will behave myself better, even
if only out of respect for his Excellency, and guard my every action.
Once more we will exchange cheerful letters with one another, and make
mutual confidence of our thoughts and joys and sorrows (if so be that
we shall know any more sorrows? ). Yes, we will live twice as happily
and comfortably as of old.
Also, we will exchange books. . . . Angel of my
heart, a great change has taken place in my fortunes--a change very much
for the better. My landlady has become more accommodating; Theresa has
recovered her senses; even Phaldoni springs to do my bidding. Likewise,
I have made my peace with Rataziaev. He came to see me of his own
accord, the moment that he heard the glad tidings. There can be no doubt
that he is a good fellow, that there is no truth in the slanders that
one hears of him. For one thing, I have discovered that he never had
any intention of putting me and yourself into a book. This he told me
himself, and then read to me his latest work. As for his calling me
“Lovelace,” he had intended no rudeness or indecency thereby. The term
is merely one of foreign derivation, meaning a clever fellow, or, in
more literary and elegant language, a gentleman with whom one must
reckon. That is all; it was a mere harmless jest, my beloved. Only
ignorance made me lose my temper, and I have expressed to him my
regret. . . . How beautiful is the weather today, my little Barbara! True,
there was a slight frost in the early morning, as though scattered
through a sieve, but it was nothing, and the breeze soon freshened the
air. I went out to buy some shoes, and obtained a splendid pair. Then,
after a stroll along the Nevski Prospect, I read “The Daily Bee”. This
reminds me that I have forgotten to tell you the most important thing of
all. It happened like this:

This morning I had a talk with Emelia Ivanovitch and Aksenti
Michaelovitch concerning his Excellency. Apparently, I am not the only
person to whom he has acted kindly and been charitable, for he is known
to the whole world for his goodness of heart. In many quarters his
praises are to be heard; in many quarters he has called forth tears
of gratitude. Among other things, he undertook the care of an orphaned
girl, and married her to an official, the son of a poor widow, and found
this man place in a certain chancellory, and in other ways benefited
him. Well, dearest, I considered it to be my duty to add my mite by
publishing abroad the story of his Excellency’s gracious treatment of
myself. Accordingly, I related the whole occurrence to my interlocutors,
and concealed not a single detail. In fact, I put my pride into my
pocket--though why should I feel ashamed of having been elated by such
an occurrence? “Let it only be noised afield,” said I to myself, and it
will resound greatly to his Excellency’s credit. --So I expressed myself
enthusiastically on the subject and never faltered. On the contrary,
I felt proud to have such a story to tell. I referred to every one
concerned (except to yourself, of course, dearest)--to my landlady, to
Phaldoni, to Rataziaev, to Markov. I even mentioned the matter of my
shoes! Some of those standing by laughed--in fact every one present did
so, but probably it was my own figure or the incident of my shoes--more
particularly the latter--that excited merriment, for I am sure it was
not meant ill-naturedly. My hearers may have been young men, or well
off; certainly they cannot have been laughing with evil intent at what
I had said. Anything against his Excellency CANNOT have been in their
thoughts. Eh, Barbara?

Even now I cannot wholly collect my faculties, so upset am I by recent
events. . . . Have you any fuel to go on with, Barbara? You must not expose
yourself to cold. Also, you have depressed my spirits with your fears
for the future. Daily I pray to God on your behalf. Ah, HOW I pray
to Him! . . . Likewise, have you any woollen stockings to wear, and warm
clothes generally? Mind you, if there is anything you need, you must
not hurt an old man’s feelings by failing to apply to him for what you
require. The bad times are gone now, and the future is looking bright
and fair.

But what bad times they were, Barbara, even though they be gone, and
can no longer matter! As the years pass on we shall gradually recover
ourselves. How clearly I remember my youth! In those days I never had
a kopeck to spare. Yet, cold and hungry though I was, I was always
light-hearted. In the morning I would walk the Nevski Prospect, and meet
nice-looking people, and be happy all day. Yes, it was a glorious, a
glorious time! It was good to be alive, especially in St. Petersburg.
Yet it is but yesterday that I was beseeching God with tears to pardon
me my sins during the late sorrowful period--to pardon me my murmurings
and evil thoughts and gambling and drunkenness. And you I remembered in
my prayers, for you alone have encouraged and comforted me, you alone
have given me advice and instruction. I shall never forget that,
dearest. Today I gave each one of your letters a kiss. . . . Goodbye,
beloved. I have been told that there is going to be a sale of clothing
somewhere in this neighbourhood. Once more goodbye, goodbye, my
angel--Yours in heart and soul,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 15th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I am in terrible distress. I feel sure
that something is about to happen. The matter, my beloved friend, is
that Monsieur Bwikov is again in St. Petersburg, for Thedora has met
him. He was driving along in a drozhki, but, on meeting Thedora, he
ordered the coachman to stop, sprang out, and inquired of her where she
was living; but this she would not tell him. Next, he said with a
smile that he knew quite well who was living with her (evidently Anna
Thedorovna had told him); whereupon Thedora could hold out no longer,
but then and there, in the street, railed at and abused him--telling him
that he was an immoral man, and the cause of all my misfortunes. To
this he replied that a person who did not possess a groat must surely be
rather badly off; to which Thedora retorted that I could always either
live by the labour of my hands or marry--that it was not so much a
question of my losing posts as of my losing my happiness, the ruin of
which had led almost to my death. In reply he observed that, though
I was still quite young, I seemed to have lost my wits, and that my
“virtue appeared to be under a cloud” (I quote his exact words). Both
I and Thedora had thought that he does not know where I live; but,
last night, just as I had left the house to make a few purchases in the
Gostinni Dvor, he appeared at our rooms (evidently he had not wanted to
find me at home), and put many questions to Thedora concerning our way
of living. Then, after inspecting my work, he wound up with: “Who is
this tchinovnik friend of yours? ” At the moment you happened to be
passing through the courtyard, so Thedora pointed you out, and the man
peered at you, and laughed. Thedora next asked him to depart--telling
him that I was still ill from grief, and that it would give me great
pain to see him there; to which, after a pause, he replied that he had
come because he had had nothing better to do. Also, he was for giving
Thedora twenty-five roubles, but, of course, she declined them. What
does it all mean? Why has he paid this visit? I cannot understand his
getting to know about me. I am lost in conjecture. Thedora, however,
says that Aksinia, her sister-in-law (who sometimes comes to see her),
is acquainted with a laundress named Nastasia, and that this woman has
a cousin in the position of watchman to a department of which a certain
friend of Anna Thedorovna’s nephew forms one of the staff. Can it be,
therefore, that an intrigue has been hatched through THIS channel? But
Thedora may be entirely mistaken. We hardly know what to think. What if
he should come again? The very thought terrifies me. When Thedora told
me of this last night such terror seized upon me that I almost swooned
away. What can the man be wanting? At all events, I refuse to know such
people. What have they to do with my wretched self? Ah, how I am haunted
with anxiety, for every moment I keep thinking that Bwikov is at hand!
WHAT will become of me? WHAT MORE has fate in store for me? For Christ’s
sake come and see me, Makar Alexievitch! For Christ’s sake come and see
me soon!




September 18th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Today there took place in this house
a most lamentable, a most mysterious, a most unlooked-for occurrence.
First of all, let me tell you that poor Gorshkov has been entirely
absolved of guilt. The decision has been long in coming, but this
morning he went to hear the final resolution read. It was entirely in
his favour. Any culpability which had been imputed to him for negligence
and irregularity was removed by the resolution. Likewise, he was
authorised to recover of the merchant a large sum of money. Thus, he
stands entirely justified, and has had his character cleansed from
all stain. In short, he could not have wished for a more complete
vindication. When he arrived home at three o’clock he was looking as
white as a sheet, and his lips were quivering. Yet there was a smile on
his face as he embraced his wife and children. In a body the rest of us
ran to congratulate him, and he was greatly moved by the act. Bowing to
us, he pressed our hands in turn. As he did so I thought, somehow, that
he seemed to have grown taller and straighter, and that the pus-drops
seemed to have disappeared from his eyelashes. Yet how agitated he was,
poor fellow! He could not rest quietly for two minutes together, but
kept picking up and then dropping whatsoever came to his hand, and
bowing and smiling without intermission, and sitting down and getting
up, and again sitting down, and chattering God only knows what about his
honour and his good name and his little ones. How he did talk--yes, and
weep too! Indeed, few of ourselves could refrain from tears; although
Rataziaev remarked (probably to encourage Gorshkov) that honour mattered
nothing when one had nothing to eat, and that money was the chief thing
in the world, and that for it alone ought God to be thanked. Then he
slapped Gorshkov on the shoulder, but I thought that Gorshkov somehow
seemed hurt at this. He did not express any open displeasure, but threw
Rataziaev a curious look, and removed his hand from his shoulder. ONCE
upon a time he would not have acted thus; but characters differ. For
example, I myself should have hesitated, at such a season of rejoicing,
to seem proud, even though excessive deference and civility at such a
moment might have been construed as a lapse both of moral courage and of
mental vigour. However, this is none of my business. All that Gorshkov
said was: “Yes, money IS a good thing, glory be to God! ” In fact, the
whole time that we remained in his room he kept repeating to himself:
“Glory be to God, glory be to God! ” His wife ordered a richer and more
delicate meal than usual, and the landlady herself cooked it, for at
heart she is not a bad woman. But until the meal was served Gorshkov
could not remain still. He kept entering everyone’s room in turn
(whether invited thither or not), and, seating himself smilingly upon
a chair, would sometimes say something, and sometimes not utter a word,
but get up and go out again. In the naval officer’s room he even took a
pack of playing-cards into his hand, and was thereupon invited to make
a fourth in a game; but after losing a few times, as well as making
several blunders in his play, he abandoned the pursuit. “No,” said he,
“that is the sort of man that I am--that is all that I am good for,” and
departed. Next, encountering myself in the corridor, he took my hands in
his, and gazed into my face with a rather curious air. Then he pressed
my hands again, and moved away still smiling, smiling, but in an odd,
weary sort of manner, much as a corpse might smile. Meanwhile his wife
was weeping for joy, and everything in their room was decked in holiday
guise. Presently dinner was served, and after they had dined Gorshkov
said to his wife: “See now, dearest, I am going to rest a little while;”
and with that went to bed. Presently he called his little daughter to
his side, and, laying his hand upon the child’s head, lay a long while
looking at her. Then he turned to his wife again, and asked her: “What
of Petinka? Where is our Petinka? ” whereupon his wife crossed herself,
and replied: “Why, our Petinka is dead! ” “Yes, yes, I know--of course,”
said her husband. “Petinka is now in the Kingdom of Heaven. ” This showed
his wife that her husband was not quite in his right senses--that the
recent occurrence had upset him; so she said: “My dearest, you must
sleep awhile. ” “I will do so,” he replied, “--at once--I am rather--”
And he turned over, and lay silent for a time. Then again he turned
round and tried to say something, but his wife could not hear what it
was. “What do you say? ” she inquired, but he made no reply. Then again
she waited a few moments until she thought to herself, “He has gone to
sleep,” and departed to spend an hour with the landlady. At the end
of that hour she returned--only to find that her husband had not yet
awoken, but was still lying motionless. “He is sleeping very soundly,”
she reflected as she sat down and began to work at something or other.
Since then she has told us that when half an hour or so had elapsed she
fell into a reverie. What she was thinking of she cannot remember, save
that she had forgotten altogether about her husband. Then she awoke with
a curious sort of sensation at her heart. The first thing that struck
her was the deathlike stillness of the room. Glancing at the bed,
she perceived her husband to be lying in the same position as before.
Thereupon she approached him, turned the coverlet back, and saw that he
was stiff and cold--that he had died suddenly, as though smitten with a
stroke. But of what precisely he died God only knows. The affair has so
terribly impressed me that even now I cannot fully collect my
thoughts. It would scarcely be believed that a human being could die so
simply--and he such a poor, needy wretch, this Gorshkov! What a
fate, what a fate, to be sure! His wife is plunged in tears and
panic-stricken, while his little daughter has run away somewhere to hide
herself. In their room, however, all is bustle and confusion, for the
doctors are about to make an autopsy on the corpse. But I cannot
tell you things for certain; I only know that I am most grieved, most
grieved. How sad to think that one never knows what even a day,
what even an hour, may bring forth! One seems to die to so little
purpose! --Your own

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




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.