No More Learning

“‘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. ] thus
prepared? ’ And he smote her lightly on the cheek. ”

What think you of THAT, Barbara? True, it is a little too
outspoken--there can be no doubt of that; yet how grand it is, how
splendid! With your permission I will also quote you an extract from
Rataziaev’s story, Ermak and Zuleika:

“‘You love me, Zuleika? Say again that you love me, you love me! ’

“‘I DO love you, Ermak,’ whispered Zuleika.

“‘Then by heaven and earth I thank you! By heaven and earth you have
made me happy! You have given me all, all that my tortured soul has
for immemorial years been seeking! ‘Tis for this that you have led me
hither, my guiding star--‘tis for this that you have conducted me to
the Girdle of Stone! To all the world will I now show my Zuleika, and
no man, demon or monster of Hell, shall bid me nay! Oh, if men would but
understand the mysterious passions of her tender heart, and see the poem
which lurks in each of her little tears! Suffer me to dry those tears
with my kisses! Suffer me to drink of those heavenly drops, Oh being who
art not of this earth! ’

“‘Ermak,’ said Zuleika, ‘the world is cruel, and men are unjust. But
LET them drive us from their midst--let them judge us, my beloved Ermak!
What has a poor maiden who was reared amid the snows of Siberia to do
with their cold, icy, self-sufficient world? Men cannot understand me,
my darling, my sweetheart. ’

“‘Is that so? Then shall the sword of the Cossacks sing and whistle over
their heads! ’ cried Ermak with a furious look in his eyes. ”

What must Ermak have felt when he learnt that his Zuleika had been
murdered, Barbara? --that, taking advantages of the cover of night, the
blind old Kouchoum had, in Ermak’s absence, broken into the latter’s
tent, and stabbed his own daughter in mistake for the man who had robbed
him of sceptre and crown?

“‘Oh that I had a stone whereon to whet my sword! ’ cried Ermak in the
madness of his wrath as he strove to sharpen his steel blade upon the
enchanted rock. ‘I would have his blood, his blood! I would tear him
limb from limb, the villain! ’”

Then Ermak, unable to survive the loss of his Zuleika, throws himself
into the Irtisch, and the tale comes to an end.

Here, again, is another short extract--this time written in a more
comical vein, to make people laugh:

“Do you know Ivan Prokofievitch Zheltopuzh? He is the man who took a
piece out of Prokofi Ivanovitch’s leg. Ivan’s character is one of the
rugged order, and therefore, one that is rather lacking in virtue.
Yet he has a passionate relish for radishes and honey. Once he also
possessed a friend named Pelagea Antonovna. Do you know Pelagea
Antonovna? She is the woman who always puts on her petticoat wrong side
outwards. ”

What humour, Barbara--what purest humour! We rocked with laughter when
he read it aloud to us. Yes, that is the kind of man he is. Possibly the
passage is a trifle over-frolicsome, but at least it is harmless, and
contains no freethought or liberal ideas. In passing, I may say that
Rataziaev is not only a supreme writer, but also a man of upright
life--which is more than can be said for most writers.

What, do you think, is an idea that sometimes enters my head? In fact,
what if I myself were to write something? How if suddenly a book were
to make its appearance in the world bearing the title of “The Poetical
Works of Makar Dievushkin”? What THEN, my angel? How should you view,
should you receive, such an event? I may say of myself that never, after
my book had appeared, should I have the hardihood to show my face on
the Nevski Prospect; for would it not be too dreadful to hear every
one saying, “Here comes the literateur and poet, Dievushkin--yes, it is
Dievushkin himself. ” What, in such a case, should I do with my feet (for
I may tell you that almost always my shoes are patched, or have just
been resoled, and therefore look anything but becoming)? To think that
the great writer Dievushkin should walk about in patched footgear! If
a duchess or a countess should recognise me, what would she say, poor
woman? Perhaps, though, she would not notice my shoes at all, since
it may reasonably be supposed that countesses do not greatly occupy
themselves with footgear, especially with the footgear of civil service
officials (footgear may differ from footgear, it must be remembered).
Besides, I should find that the countess had heard all about me, for
my friends would have betrayed me to her--Rataziaev among the first of
them, seeing that he often goes to visit Countess V. , and practically
lives at her house. She is said to be a woman of great intellect and
wit. An artful dog, that Rataziaev!

But enough of this. I write this sort of thing both to amuse myself and
to divert your thoughts. Goodbye now, my angel. This is a long epistle
that I am sending you, but the reason is that today I feel in good
spirits after dining at Rataziaev’s. There I came across a novel which I
hardly know how to describe to you. Do not think the worse of me on that
account, even though I bring you another book instead (for I certainly
mean to bring one). The novel in question was one of Paul de Kock’s, and
not a novel for you to read. No, no! Such a work is unfit for your
eyes. In fact, it is said to have greatly offended the critics of St.
Petersburg. Also, I am sending you a pound of bonbons--bought specially
for yourself. Each time that you eat one, beloved, remember the sender.
Only, do not bite the iced ones, but suck them gently, lest they make
your teeth ache. Perhaps, too, you like comfits? Well, write and tell
me if it is so. Goodbye, goodbye. Christ watch over you, my
darling! --Always your faithful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




June 27th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--Thedora tells me that, should I wish,
there are some people who will be glad to help me by obtaining me an
excellent post as governess in a certain house. What think you, my
friend? Shall I go or not? Of course, I should then cease to be a burden
to you, and the post appears to be a comfortable one. On the other hand,
the idea of entering a strange house appals me. The people in it are
landed gentry, and they will begin to ask me questions, and to busy
themselves about me. What answers shall I then return? You see, I am now
so unused to society--so shy! I like to live in a corner to which I have
long grown used. Yes, the place with which one is familiar is always the
best. Even if for companion one has but sorrow, that place will still be
the best. . . . God alone knows what duties the post will entail. Perhaps
I shall merely be required to act as nursemaid; and in any case, I hear
that the governess there has been changed three times in two years. For
God’s sake, Makar Alexievitch, advise me whether to go or not. Why do
you never come near me now? Do let my eyes have an occasional sight of
you. Mass on Sundays is almost the only time when we see one another.
How retiring you have become! So also have I, even though, in a way, I
am your kinswoman. You must have ceased to love me, Makar Alexievitch. I
spend many a weary hour because of it. Sometimes, when dusk is falling,
I find myself lonely--oh, so lonely! Thedora has gone out somewhere, and
I sit here and think, and think, and think. I remember all the past, its
joys and its sorrows. It passes before my eyes in detail, it glimmers at
me as out of a mist; and as it does so, well-known faces appear, which
seem actually to be present with me in this room! Most frequently of
all, I see my mother. Ah, the dreams that come to me! I feel that my
health is breaking, so weak am I. When this morning I arose, sickness
took me until I vomited and vomited. Yes, I feel, I know, that death is
approaching. Who will bury me when it has come? Who will visit my tomb?
Who will sorrow for me? And now it is in a strange place, in the house
of a stranger, that I may have to die! Yes, in a corner which I do not
know! . . . My God, how sad a thing is life! . . . Why do you send me comfits
to eat? Whence do you get the money to buy them? Ah, for God’s sake keep
the money, keep the money. Thedora has sold a carpet which I have made.
She got fifty roubles for it, which is very good--I had expected less.
Of the fifty roubles I shall give Thedora three, and with the remainder
make myself a plain, warm dress. Also, I am going to make you a
waistcoat--to make it myself, and out of good material.

Also, Thedora has brought me a book--“The Stories of Bielkin”--which I
will forward you, if you would care to read it. Only, do not soil it,
nor yet retain it, for it does not belong to me. It is by Pushkin. Two
years ago I read these stories with my mother, and it would hurt me
to read them again. If you yourself have any books, pray let me have
them--so long as they have not been obtained from Rataziaev. Probably he
will be giving you one of his own works when he has had one printed.
How is it that his compositions please you so much, Makar Alexievitch? I
think them SUCH rubbish!

--Now goodbye. How I have been chattering on! When feeling sad, I always
like to talk of something, for it acts upon me like medicine--I begin
to feel easier as soon as I have uttered what is preying upon my heart.
Good bye, good-bye, my friend--Your own

B. D.




June 28th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--Away with melancholy! Really, beloved,
you ought to be ashamed of yourself! How can you allow such thoughts to
enter your head? Really and truly you are quite well; really and truly
you are, my darling. Why, you are blooming--simply blooming. True, I see
a certain touch of pallor in your face, but still you are blooming. A
fig for dreams and visions! Yes, for shame, dearest! Drive away those
fancies; try to despise them. Why do I sleep so well? Why am I never
ailing? Look at ME, beloved. I live well, I sleep peacefully, I retain
my health, I can ruffle it with my juniors. In fact, it is a pleasure
to see me. Come, come, then, sweetheart! Let us have no more of this.
I know that that little head of yours is capable of any fancy--that all
too easily you take to dreaming and repining; but for my sake, cease to
do so.

Are you to go to these people, you ask me? Never! No, no, again no! How
could you think of doing such a thing as taking a journey? I will not
allow it--I intend to combat your intention with all my might. I will
sell my frockcoat, and walk the streets in my shirt sleeves, rather than
let you be in want. But no, Barbara. I know you, I know you. This is
merely a trick, merely a trick. And probably Thedora alone is to
blame for it. She appears to be a foolish old woman, and to be able to
persuade you to do anything. Do not believe her, my dearest. I am sure
that you know what is what, as well as SHE does. Eh, sweetheart? She is
a stupid, quarrelsome, rubbish-talking old woman who brought her late
husband to the grave. Probably she has been plaguing you as much as she
did him. No, no, dearest; you must not take this step. What should I do
then? What would there be left for ME to do? Pray put the idea out
of your head. What is it you lack here? I cannot feel sufficiently
overjoyed to be near you, while, for your part, you love me well, and
can live your life here as quietly as you wish. Read or sew, whichever
you like--or read and do not sew. Only, do not desert me. Try, yourself,
to imagine how things would seem after you had gone. Here am I sending
you books, and later we will go for a walk. Come, come, then, my
Barbara! Summon to your aid your reason, and cease to babble of trifles.

As soon as I can I will come and see you, and then you shall tell me the
whole story. This will not do, sweetheart; this certainly will not do.
Of course, I know that I am not an educated man, and have received but a
sorry schooling, and have had no inclination for it, and think too much
of Rataziaev, if you will; but he is my friend, and therefore, I must
put in a word or two for him. Yes, he is a splendid writer. Again and
again I assert that he writes magnificently. I do not agree with
you about his works, and never shall. He writes too ornately, too
laconically, with too great a wealth of imagery and imagination.
Perhaps
you have read him without insight, Barbara? Or perhaps you were out of
spirits at the time, or angry with Thedora about something, or worried
about some mischance? Ah, but you should read him sympathetically, and,
best of all, at a time when you are feeling happy and contented and
pleasantly disposed--for instance, when you have a bonbon or two in your
mouth. Yes, that is the way to read Rataziaev. I do not dispute (indeed,
who would do so? ) that better writers than he exist--even far better;
but they are good, and he is good too--they write well, and he writes
well. It is chiefly for his own sake that he writes, and he is to be
approved for so doing.

Now goodbye, dearest. More I cannot write, for I must hurry away to
business. Be of good cheer, and the Lord God watch over you! --Your
faithful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

P. S--Thank you so much for the book, darling! I will read it through,
this volume of Pushkin, and tonight come to you.



MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--No, no, my friend, I must not go on living
near you. I have been thinking the matter over, and come to the
conclusion that I should be doing very wrong to refuse so good a post. I
should at least have an assured crust of bread; I might at least set to
work to earn my employers’ favour, and even try to change my character
if required to do so. Of course it is a sad and sorry thing to have to
live among strangers, and to be forced to seek their patronage, and to
conceal and constrain one’s own personality--but God will help me. I
must not remain forever a recluse, for similar chances have come my way
before. I remember how, when a little girl at school, I used to go home
on Sundays and spend the time in frisking and dancing about. Sometimes
my mother would chide me for so doing, but I did not care, for my heart
was too joyous, and my spirits too buoyant, for that. Yet as the evening
of Sunday came on, a sadness as of death would overtake me, for at nine
o’clock I had to return to school, where everything was cold and strange
and severe--where the governesses, on Mondays, lost their tempers, and
nipped my ears, and made me cry. On such occasions I would retire to a
corner and weep alone; concealing my tears lest I should be called lazy.
Yet it was not because I had to study that I used to weep, and in time I
grew more used to things, and, after my schooldays were over, shed tears
only when I was parting with friends. . . .

It is not right for me to live in dependence upon you. The thought
tortures me. I tell you this frankly, for the reason that frankness
with you has become a habit. Cannot I see that daily, at earliest dawn,
Thedora rises to do washing and scrubbing, and remains working at it
until late at night, even though her poor old bones must be aching for
want of rest? Cannot I also see that YOU are ruining yourself for me,
and hoarding your last kopeck that you may spend it on my behalf? You
ought not so to act, my friend, even though you write that you would
rather sell your all than let me want for anything. I believe in you, my
friend--I entirely believe in your good heart; but, you say that to me
now (when, perhaps, you have received some unexpected sum or gratuity)
and there is still the future to be thought of. You yourself know that I
am always ailing--that I cannot work as you do, glad though I should be
of any work if I could get it; so what else is there for me to do? To
sit and repine as I watch you and Thedora? But how would that be of any
use to you? AM I necessary to you, comrade of mine? HAVE I ever done
you any good? Though I am bound to you with my whole soul, and love you
dearly and strongly and wholeheartedly, a bitter fate has ordained that
that love should be all that I have to give--that I should be unable,
by creating for you subsistence, to repay you for all your kindness. Do
not, therefore, detain me longer, but think the matter out, and give me
your opinion on it. In expectation of which I remain your sweetheart,

B. D.




July 1st.

Rubbish, rubbish, Barbara! --What you say is sheer rubbish. Stay here,
rather, and put such thoughts out of your head. None of what you suppose
is true. I can see for myself that it is not. Whatsoever you lack here,
you have but to ask me for it. Here you love and are loved, and we might
easily be happy and contented together. What could you want more? What
have you to do with strangers? You cannot possibly know what strangers
are like. I know it, though, and could have told you if you had asked
me. There is a stranger whom I know, and whose bread I have eaten. He
is a cruel man, Barbara--a man so bad that he would be unworthy of your
little heart, and would soon tear it to pieces with his railings and
reproaches and black looks. On the other hand, you are safe and well
here--you are as safe as though you were sheltered in a nest. Besides,
you would, as it were, leave me with my head gone. For what should I
have to do when you were gone? What could I, an old man, find to do? Are
you not necessary to me? Are you not useful to me? Eh? Surely you do not
think that you are not useful? You are of great use to me, Barbara, for
you exercise a beneficial influence upon my life. Even at this moment,
as I think of you, I feel cheered, for always I can write letters to
you, and put into them what I am feeling, and receive from you detailed
answers. . . . I have bought you a wardrobe, and also procured you a
bonnet; so you see that you have only to give me a commission for it to
be executed. . . . No--in what way are you not useful? What should I do
if I were deserted in my old age? What would become of me? Perhaps you
never thought of that, Barbara--perhaps you never said to yourself, “How
could HE get on without me? ” You see, I have grown so accustomed to you.
What else would it end in, if you were to go away? Why, in my hiking to
the Neva’s bank and doing away with myself. Ah, Barbara, darling, I
can see that you want me to be taken away to the Volkovo Cemetery in
a broken-down old hearse, with some poor outcast of the streets to
accompany my coffin as chief mourner, and the gravediggers to heap my
body with clay, and depart and leave me there. How wrong of you, how
wrong of you, my beloved! Yes, by heavens, how wrong of you! I am
returning you your book, little friend; and, if you were to ask of me
my opinion of it, I should say that never before in my life had I read
a book so splendid. I keep wondering how I have hitherto contrived to
remain such an owl. For what have I ever done? From what wilds did
I spring into existence? I KNOW nothing--I know simply NOTHING. My
ignorance is complete. Frankly, I am not an educated man, for until now
I have read scarcely a single book--only “A Portrait of Man” (a clever
enough work in its way), “The Boy Who Could Play Many Tunes Upon Bells”,
and “Ivik’s Storks”. That is all. But now I have also read “The Station
Overseer” in your little volume; and it is wonderful to think that one
may live and yet be ignorant of the fact that under one’s very nose
there may be a book in which one’s whole life is described as in a
picture. Never should I have guessed that, as soon as ever one begins to
read such a book, it sets one on both to remember and to consider and to
foretell events. Another reason why I liked this book so much is that,
though, in the case of other works (however clever they be), one may
read them, yet remember not a word of them (for I am a man naturally
dull of comprehension, and unable to read works of any great
importance),--although, as I say, one may read such works, one reads
such a book as YOURS as easily as though it had been written by oneself,
and had taken possession of one’s heart, and turned it inside out for
inspection, and were describing it in detail as a matter of perfect
simplicity. Why, I might almost have written the book myself! Why not,
indeed? I can feel just as the people in the book do, and find myself
in positions precisely similar to those of, say, the character Samson
Virin. In fact, how many good-hearted wretches like Virin are there not
walking about amongst us? How easily, too, it is all described! I assure
you, my darling, that I almost shed tears when I read that Virin so took
to drink as to lose his memory, become morose, and spend whole days over
his liquor; as also that he choked with grief and wept bitterly when,
rubbing his eyes with his dirty hand, he bethought him of his wandering
lamb, his daughter Dunasha! How natural, how natural! You should read
the book for yourself. The thing is actually alive. Even I can see that;
even I can realise that it is a picture cut from the very life around
me. In it I see our own Theresa (to go no further) and the poor
Tchinovnik--who is just such a man as this Samson Virin, except for
his surname of Gorshkov. The book describes just what might happen to
ourselves--to myself in particular. Even a count who lives in the Nevski
Prospect or in Naberezhnaia Street might have a similar experience,
though he might APPEAR to be different, owing to the fact that his life
is cast on a higher plane. Yes, just the same things might happen to
him--just the same things. . . . Here you are wishing to go away and leave
us; yet, be careful lest it would not be I who had to pay the penalty of
your doing so. For you might ruin both yourself and me. For the love of
God, put away these thoughts from you, my darling, and do not torture me
in vain. How could you, my poor little unfledged nestling, find yourself
food, and defend yourself from misfortune, and ward off the wiles of
evil men? Think better of it, Barbara, and pay no more heed to
foolish advice and calumny, but read your book again, and read it with
attention. It may do you much good.

I have spoken of Rataziaev’s “The Station Overseer”. However, the author
has told me that the work is old-fashioned, since, nowadays, books are
issued with illustrations and embellishments of different sorts (though
I could not make out all that he said). Pushkin he adjudges a splendid
poet, and one who has done honour to Holy Russia. Read your book again,
Barbara, and follow my advice, and make an old man happy. The Lord God
Himself will reward you. Yes, He will surely reward you. --Your faithful
friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.



MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Today Thedora came to me with fifteen
roubles in silver. How glad was the poor woman when I gave her three of
them! I am writing to you in great haste, for I am busy cutting out a
waistcoat to send to you--buff, with a pattern of flowers. Also I
am sending you a book of stories; some of which I have read myself,
particularly one called “The Cloak. ” . . . You invite me to go to the
theatre with you. But will it not cost too much? Of course we might sit
in the gallery. It is a long time (indeed I cannot remember when I last
did so) since I visited a theatre! Yet I cannot help fearing that such
an amusement is beyond our means. Thedora keeps nodding her head, and
saying that you have taken to living above your income. I myself divine
the same thing by the amount which you have spent upon me. Take care,
dear friend, that misfortune does not come of it, for Thedora has also
informed me of certain rumours concerning your inability to meet your
landlady’s bills. In fact, I am very anxious about you. Now, goodbye,
for I must hasten away to see about another matter--about the changing
of the ribands on my bonnet.

P. S. --Do you know, if we go to the theatre, I think that I shall wear my
new hat and black mantilla. Will that not look nice?





July 7th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--SO much for yesterday! Yes, dearest, we
have both been caught playing the fool, for I have become thoroughly
bitten with the actress of whom I spoke. Last night I listened to her
with all my ears, although, strangely enough, it was practically my
first sight of her, seeing that only once before had I been to the
theatre. In those days I lived cheek by jowl with a party of five young
men--a most noisy crew--and one night I accompanied them, willy-nilly,
to the theatre, though I held myself decently aloof from their doings,
and only assisted them for company’s sake. How those fellows talked to
me of this actress! Every night when the theatre was open, the entire
band of them (they always seemed to possess the requisite money) would
betake themselves to that place of entertainment, where they ascended
to the gallery, and clapped their hands, and repeatedly recalled the
actress in question. In fact, they went simply mad over her. Even after
we had returned home they would give me no rest, but would go on
talking about her all night, and calling her their Glasha, and declaring
themselves to be in love with “the canary-bird of their hearts. ” My
defenseless self, too, they would plague about the woman, for I was as
young as they. What a figure I must have cut with them on the fourth
tier of the gallery! Yet, I never got a sight of more than just a corner
of the curtain, but had to content myself with listening. She had a
fine, resounding, mellow voice like a nightingale’s, and we all of us
used to clap our hands loudly, and to shout at the top of our lungs. In
short, we came very near to being ejected. On the first occasion I went
home walking as in a mist, with a single rouble left in my pocket, and
an interval of ten clear days confronting me before next pay-day. Yet,
what think you, dearest? The very next day, before going to work, I
called at a French perfumer’s, and spent my whole remaining capital on
some eau-de-Cologne and scented soap! Why I did so I do not know. Nor
did I dine at home that day, but kept walking and walking past her
windows (she lived in a fourth-storey flat on the Nevski Prospect).
At length I returned to my own lodging, but only to rest a short hour
before again setting off to the Nevski Prospect and resuming my vigil
before her windows. For a month and a half I kept this up--dangling in
her train. Sometimes I would hire cabs, and discharge them in view of
her abode; until at length I had entirely ruined myself, and got into
debt. Then I fell out of love with her--I grew weary of the pursuit. . . .
You see, therefore, to what depths an actress can reduce a decent man.
In those days I was young. Yes, in those days I was VERY young.

M. D.




July 8th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--The book which I received from you on
the 6th of this month I now hasten to return, while at the same time
hastening also to explain matters to you in this accompanying letter.
What a misfortune, my beloved, that you should have brought me to such a
pass! Our lots in life are apportioned by the Almighty according to our
human deserts. To such a one He assigns a life in a general’s epaulets
or as a privy councillor--to such a one, I say, He assigns a life of
command; whereas to another one, He allots only a life of unmurmuring
toil and suffering. These things are calculated according to a man’s
CAPACITY. One man may be capable of one thing, and another of another,
and their several capacities are ordered by the Lord God himself. I
have now been thirty years in the public service, and have fulfilled my
duties irreproachably, remained abstemious, and never been detected
in any unbecoming behaviour. As a citizen, I may confess--I confess
it freely--I have been guilty of certain shortcomings; yet those
shortcomings have been combined with certain virtues. I am respected by
my superiors, and even his Excellency has had no fault to find with me;
and though I have never been shown any special marks of favour, I know
that every one finds me at least satisfactory. Also, my writing is
sufficiently legible and clear. Neither too rounded nor too fine, it
is a running hand, yet always suitable. Of our staff only Ivan
Prokofievitch writes a similar hand. Thus have I lived till the grey
hairs of my old age; yet I can think of no serious fault committed. Of
course, no one is free from MINOR faults. Everyone has some of them, and
you among the rest, my beloved. But in grave or in audacious offences
never have I been detected, nor in infringements of regulations, nor in
breaches of the public peace. No, never! This you surely know, even as
the author of your book must have known it. Yes, he also must have
known it when he sat down to write. I had not expected this of you, my
Barbara. I should never have expected it.

What? In future I am not to go on living peacefully in my little corner,
poor though that corner be I am not to go on living, as the proverb has
it, without muddying the water, or hurting any one, or forgetting the
fear of the Lord God and of oneself?