Whom should I call “my
darling”?
Dostoevsky - Poor Folk
These
observations she will soon be repeating to you in person. For myself, I
feel absolutely exhausted, and have not been to the office today. . .
Do not despair about the future, dearest. To save you trouble I would
visit every shop in St. Petersburg. You write that you dare not look
forward into the future. But by tonight, at seven o’clock, you will have
learned all, for Madame Chiffon will have arrived in person to see you.
Hope on, and everything will order itself for the best. Of course, I
am referring only to these accursed gewgaws, to these frills and
fripperies! Ah me, ah me, how glad I shall be to see you, my angel! Yes,
how glad I shall be! Twice already today I have passed the gates of your
abode. Unfortunately, this Bwikov is a man of such choler that--Well,
things are as they are.
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 28th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--For God’s sake go to the jeweller’s,
and tell him that, after all, he need not make the pearl and emerald
earrings. Monsieur Bwikov says that they will cost him too much, that
they will burn a veritable hole in his pocket. In fact, he has lost his
temper again, and declares that he is being robbed. Yesterday he added
that, had he but known, but foreseen, these expenses, he would never
have married. Also, he says that, as things are, he intends only to have
a plain wedding, and then to depart. “You must not look for any dancing
or festivity or entertainment of guests, for our gala times are still in
the air. ” Such were his words. God knows I do not want such things, but
none the less Bwikov has forbidden them. I made him no answer on the
subject, for he is a man all too easily irritated. What, what is going
to become of me?
B. D.
September 28th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--All is well as regards the jeweller.
Unfortunately, I have also to say that I myself have fallen ill, and
cannot rise from bed. Just when so many things need to be done, I have
gone and caught a chill, the devil take it! Also I have to tell you
that, to complete my misfortunes, his Excellency has been pleased to
become stricter. Today he railed at and scolded Emelia Ivanovitch until
the poor fellow was quite put about. That is the sum of my news.
No--there is something else concerning which I should like to write
to you, but am afraid to obtrude upon your notice. I am a simple,
dull fellow who writes down whatsoever first comes into his head--Your
friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 29th.
MY OWN BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Today, dearest, I saw Thedora, who informed
me that you are to be married tomorrow, and on the following day to go
away--for which purpose Bwikov has ordered a post-chaise. . . .
Well, of the incident of his Excellency, I have already told you. Also
I have verified the bill from the shop in Gorokhovaia Street. It is
correct, but very long. Why is Monsieur Bwikov so out of humour with
you? Nay, but you must be of good cheer, my darling. I am so, and shall
always be so, so long as you are happy. I should have come to the church
tomorrow, but, alas, shall be prevented from doing so by the pain in my
loins. Also, I would have written an account of the ceremony, but that
there will be no one to report to me the details. . . .
Yes, you have been a very good friend to Thedora, dearest. You have
acted kindly, very kindly, towards her. For every such deed God will
bless you. Good deeds never go unrewarded, nor does virtue ever fail to
win the crown of divine justice, be it early or be it late. Much else
should I have liked to write to you. Every hour, every minute I could
occupy in writing. Indeed I could write to you forever! Only your book,
“The Stories of Bielkin”, is left to me. Do not deprive me of it, I pray
you, but suffer me to keep it. It is not so much because I wish to read
the book for its own sake, as because winter is coming on, when the
evenings will be long and dreary, and one will want to read at least
SOMETHING.
Do you know, I am going to move from my present quarters into your old
ones, which I intend to rent from Thedora; for I could never part with
that good old woman. Moreover, she is such a splendid worker.
Yesterday I inspected your empty room in detail, and inspected your
embroidery-frame, with the work still hanging on it. It had been left
untouched in its corner. Next, I inspected the work itself, of which
there still remained a few remnants, and saw that you had used one of my
letters for a spool upon which to wind your thread. Also, on the table
I found a scrap of paper which had written on it, “My dearest Makar
Alexievitch I hasten to--” that was all. Evidently, someone had
interrupted you at an interesting point. Lastly, behind a screen there
was your little bed. . . . Oh darling of darlings! ! ! . . . Well, goodbye now,
goodbye now, but for God’s sake send me something in answer to this
letter!
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 30th.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--All is over! The die is cast! What my lot
may have in store I know not, but I am submissive to the will of God.
Tomorrow, then, we depart. For the last time, I take my leave of you, my
friend beyond price, my benefactor, my dear one! Do not grieve for me,
but try to live happily. Think of me sometimes, and may the blessing
of Almighty God light upon you! For myself, I shall often have you in
remembrance, and recall you in my prayers. Thus our time together
has come to an end. Little comfort in my new life shall I derive
from memories of the past. The more, therefore, shall I cherish the
recollection of you, and the dearer will you ever be to my heart. Here,
you have been my only friend; here, you alone have loved me. Yes, I have
seen all, I have known all--I have throughout known how well you love
me. A single smile of mine, a single stroke from my pen, has been able
to make you happy. . . . But now you must forget me. . . . How lonely you will
be! Why should you stay here at all, kind, inestimable, but solitary,
friend of mine?
To your care I entrust the book, the embroidery frame, and the letter
upon which I had begun. When you look upon the few words which the
letter contains you will be able mentally to read in thought all that
you would have liked further to hear or receive from me--all that I
would so gladly have written, but can never now write. Think sometimes
of your poor little Barbara who loved you so well. All your letters I
have left behind me in the top drawer of Thedora’s chest of drawers. . .
You write that you are ill, but Monsieur Bwikov will not let me leave
the house today; so that I can only write to you. Also, I will write
again before long. That is a promise. Yet God only knows when I shall be
able to do so. . . .
Now we must bid one another forever farewell, my friend, my beloved,
my own! Yes, it must be forever! Ah, how at this moment I could embrace
you! Goodbye, dear friend--goodbye, goodbye! May you ever rest well and
happy! To the end I shall keep you in my prayers. How my heart is
aching under its load of sorrow! . . . Monsieur Bwikov is just calling for
me. . . . --Your ever loving
B.
P. S. --My heart is full! It is full to bursting of tears! Sorrow has me
in its grip, and is tearing me to pieces. Goodbye. My God, what grief!
Do not, do not forget your poor Barbara!
BELOVED BARBARA--MY JEWEL, MY PRICELESS ONE,--You are now almost en
route, you are now just about to depart! Would that they had torn my
heart out of my breast rather than have taken you away from me! How
could you allow it? You weep, yet you go! And only this moment I have
received from you a letter stained with your tears! It must be that
you are departing unwillingly; it must be that you are being abducted
against your will; it must be that you are sorry for me; it must be
that--that you LOVE me! . . .
Yet how will it fare with you now? Your heart will soon have become
chilled and sick and depressed. Grief will soon have sucked away its
life; grief will soon have rent it in twain! Yes, you will die where you
be, and be laid to rest in the cold, moist earth where there is no one
to bewail you. Monsieur Bwikov will only be hunting hares! . . .
Ah, my darling, my darling! WHY did you come to this decision? How could
you bring yourself to take such a step? What have you done, have you
done, have you done? Soon they will be carrying you away to the tomb;
soon your beauty will have become defiled, my angel. Ah, dearest one,
you are as weak as a feather. And where have I been all this time? What
have I been thinking of? I have treated you merely as a forward child
whose head was aching. Fool that I was, I neither saw nor understood.
I have behaved as though, right or wrong, the matter was in no way my
concern. Yes, I have been running about after fripperies! . . . Ah, but I
WILL leave my bed. Tomorrow I WILL rise sound and well, and be once more
myself. . . .
Dearest, I could throw myself under the wheels of a passing vehicle
rather than that you should go like this. By what right is it being
done? . . . I will go with you; I will run behind your carriage if you will
not take me--yes, I will run, and run so long as the power is in me, and
until my breath shall have failed. Do you know whither you are going?
Perhaps you will not know, and will have to ask me? Before you there
lie the Steppes, my darling--only the Steppes, the naked Steppes, the
Steppes that are as bare as the palm of my hand. THERE there live only
heartless old women and rude peasants and drunkards. THERE the trees
have already shed their leaves. THERE there abide but rain and cold. Why
should you go thither? True, Monsieur Bwikov will have his diversions in
that country--he will be able to hunt the hare; but what of yourself? Do
you wish to become a mere estate lady? Nay; look at yourself, my seraph
of heaven. Are you in any way fitted for such a role? How could you
play it? To whom should I write letters? To whom should I send these
missives?
Whom should I call “my darling”? To whom should I apply that
name of endearment? Where, too, could I find you?
When you are gone, Barbara, I shall die--for certain I shall die, for my
heart cannot bear this misery. I love you as I love the light of God;
I love you as my own daughter; to you I have devoted my love in its
entirety; only for you have I lived at all; only because you were near
me have I worked and copied manuscripts and committed my views to paper
under the guise of friendly letters.
Perhaps you did not know all this, but it has been so. How, then, my
beloved, could you bring yourself to leave me? Nay, you MUST not go--it
is impossible, it is sheerly, it is utterly, impossible. The rain will
fall upon you, and you are weak, and will catch cold. The floods will
stop your carriage. No sooner will it have passed the city barriers than
it will break down, purposely break down. Here, in St. Petersburg, they
are bad builders of carriages. Yes, I know well these carriage-builders.
They are jerry-builders who can fashion a toy, but nothing that is
durable. Yes, I swear they can make nothing that is durable. . . . All that
I can do is to go upon my knees before Monsieur Bwikov, and to tell him
all, to tell him all. Do you also tell him all, dearest, and reason with
him. Tell him that you MUST remain here, and must not go. Ah, why did he
not marry that merchant’s daughter in Moscow? Let him go and marry her
now. She would suit him far better and for reasons which I well know.
Then I could keep you. For what is he to you, this Monsieur Bwikov? Why
has he suddenly become so dear to your heart? Is it because he can buy
you gewgaws? What are THEY? What use are THEY? They are so much rubbish.
One should consider human life rather than mere finery.
Nevertheless, as soon as I have received my next instalment of salary I
mean to buy you a new cloak. I mean to buy it at a shop with which I
am acquainted. Only, you must wait until my next installment is due, my
angel of a Barbara. Ah, God, my God! To think that you are going away
into the Steppes with Monsieur Bwikov--that you are going away never
to return! . . . Nay, nay, but you SHALL write to me. You SHALL write me
a letter as soon as you have started, even if it be your last letter of
all, my dearest. Yet will it be your last letter? How has it come about
so suddenly, so irrevocably, that this letter should be your last? Nay,
nay; I will write, and you shall write--yes, NOW, when at length I am
beginning to improve my style. Style? I do not know what I am writing. I
never do know what I am writing. I could not possibly know, for I never
read over what I have written, nor correct its orthography. At the
present moment, I am writing merely for the sake of writing, and to put
as much as possible into this last letter of mine. . . .
Ah, dearest, my pet, my own darling! . . .
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1. F. 3.
observations she will soon be repeating to you in person. For myself, I
feel absolutely exhausted, and have not been to the office today. . .
Do not despair about the future, dearest. To save you trouble I would
visit every shop in St. Petersburg. You write that you dare not look
forward into the future. But by tonight, at seven o’clock, you will have
learned all, for Madame Chiffon will have arrived in person to see you.
Hope on, and everything will order itself for the best. Of course, I
am referring only to these accursed gewgaws, to these frills and
fripperies! Ah me, ah me, how glad I shall be to see you, my angel! Yes,
how glad I shall be! Twice already today I have passed the gates of your
abode. Unfortunately, this Bwikov is a man of such choler that--Well,
things are as they are.
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 28th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--For God’s sake go to the jeweller’s,
and tell him that, after all, he need not make the pearl and emerald
earrings. Monsieur Bwikov says that they will cost him too much, that
they will burn a veritable hole in his pocket. In fact, he has lost his
temper again, and declares that he is being robbed. Yesterday he added
that, had he but known, but foreseen, these expenses, he would never
have married. Also, he says that, as things are, he intends only to have
a plain wedding, and then to depart. “You must not look for any dancing
or festivity or entertainment of guests, for our gala times are still in
the air. ” Such were his words. God knows I do not want such things, but
none the less Bwikov has forbidden them. I made him no answer on the
subject, for he is a man all too easily irritated. What, what is going
to become of me?
B. D.
September 28th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--All is well as regards the jeweller.
Unfortunately, I have also to say that I myself have fallen ill, and
cannot rise from bed. Just when so many things need to be done, I have
gone and caught a chill, the devil take it! Also I have to tell you
that, to complete my misfortunes, his Excellency has been pleased to
become stricter. Today he railed at and scolded Emelia Ivanovitch until
the poor fellow was quite put about. That is the sum of my news.
No--there is something else concerning which I should like to write
to you, but am afraid to obtrude upon your notice. I am a simple,
dull fellow who writes down whatsoever first comes into his head--Your
friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 29th.
MY OWN BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Today, dearest, I saw Thedora, who informed
me that you are to be married tomorrow, and on the following day to go
away--for which purpose Bwikov has ordered a post-chaise. . . .
Well, of the incident of his Excellency, I have already told you. Also
I have verified the bill from the shop in Gorokhovaia Street. It is
correct, but very long. Why is Monsieur Bwikov so out of humour with
you? Nay, but you must be of good cheer, my darling. I am so, and shall
always be so, so long as you are happy. I should have come to the church
tomorrow, but, alas, shall be prevented from doing so by the pain in my
loins. Also, I would have written an account of the ceremony, but that
there will be no one to report to me the details. . . .
Yes, you have been a very good friend to Thedora, dearest. You have
acted kindly, very kindly, towards her. For every such deed God will
bless you. Good deeds never go unrewarded, nor does virtue ever fail to
win the crown of divine justice, be it early or be it late. Much else
should I have liked to write to you. Every hour, every minute I could
occupy in writing. Indeed I could write to you forever! Only your book,
“The Stories of Bielkin”, is left to me. Do not deprive me of it, I pray
you, but suffer me to keep it. It is not so much because I wish to read
the book for its own sake, as because winter is coming on, when the
evenings will be long and dreary, and one will want to read at least
SOMETHING.
Do you know, I am going to move from my present quarters into your old
ones, which I intend to rent from Thedora; for I could never part with
that good old woman. Moreover, she is such a splendid worker.
Yesterday I inspected your empty room in detail, and inspected your
embroidery-frame, with the work still hanging on it. It had been left
untouched in its corner. Next, I inspected the work itself, of which
there still remained a few remnants, and saw that you had used one of my
letters for a spool upon which to wind your thread. Also, on the table
I found a scrap of paper which had written on it, “My dearest Makar
Alexievitch I hasten to--” that was all. Evidently, someone had
interrupted you at an interesting point. Lastly, behind a screen there
was your little bed. . . . Oh darling of darlings! ! ! . . . Well, goodbye now,
goodbye now, but for God’s sake send me something in answer to this
letter!
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 30th.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--All is over! The die is cast! What my lot
may have in store I know not, but I am submissive to the will of God.
Tomorrow, then, we depart. For the last time, I take my leave of you, my
friend beyond price, my benefactor, my dear one! Do not grieve for me,
but try to live happily. Think of me sometimes, and may the blessing
of Almighty God light upon you! For myself, I shall often have you in
remembrance, and recall you in my prayers. Thus our time together
has come to an end. Little comfort in my new life shall I derive
from memories of the past. The more, therefore, shall I cherish the
recollection of you, and the dearer will you ever be to my heart. Here,
you have been my only friend; here, you alone have loved me. Yes, I have
seen all, I have known all--I have throughout known how well you love
me. A single smile of mine, a single stroke from my pen, has been able
to make you happy. . . . But now you must forget me. . . . How lonely you will
be! Why should you stay here at all, kind, inestimable, but solitary,
friend of mine?
To your care I entrust the book, the embroidery frame, and the letter
upon which I had begun. When you look upon the few words which the
letter contains you will be able mentally to read in thought all that
you would have liked further to hear or receive from me--all that I
would so gladly have written, but can never now write. Think sometimes
of your poor little Barbara who loved you so well. All your letters I
have left behind me in the top drawer of Thedora’s chest of drawers. . .
You write that you are ill, but Monsieur Bwikov will not let me leave
the house today; so that I can only write to you. Also, I will write
again before long. That is a promise. Yet God only knows when I shall be
able to do so. . . .
Now we must bid one another forever farewell, my friend, my beloved,
my own! Yes, it must be forever! Ah, how at this moment I could embrace
you! Goodbye, dear friend--goodbye, goodbye! May you ever rest well and
happy! To the end I shall keep you in my prayers. How my heart is
aching under its load of sorrow! . . . Monsieur Bwikov is just calling for
me. . . . --Your ever loving
B.
P. S. --My heart is full! It is full to bursting of tears! Sorrow has me
in its grip, and is tearing me to pieces. Goodbye. My God, what grief!
Do not, do not forget your poor Barbara!
BELOVED BARBARA--MY JEWEL, MY PRICELESS ONE,--You are now almost en
route, you are now just about to depart! Would that they had torn my
heart out of my breast rather than have taken you away from me! How
could you allow it? You weep, yet you go! And only this moment I have
received from you a letter stained with your tears! It must be that
you are departing unwillingly; it must be that you are being abducted
against your will; it must be that you are sorry for me; it must be
that--that you LOVE me! . . .
Yet how will it fare with you now? Your heart will soon have become
chilled and sick and depressed. Grief will soon have sucked away its
life; grief will soon have rent it in twain! Yes, you will die where you
be, and be laid to rest in the cold, moist earth where there is no one
to bewail you. Monsieur Bwikov will only be hunting hares! . . .
Ah, my darling, my darling! WHY did you come to this decision? How could
you bring yourself to take such a step? What have you done, have you
done, have you done? Soon they will be carrying you away to the tomb;
soon your beauty will have become defiled, my angel. Ah, dearest one,
you are as weak as a feather. And where have I been all this time? What
have I been thinking of? I have treated you merely as a forward child
whose head was aching. Fool that I was, I neither saw nor understood.
I have behaved as though, right or wrong, the matter was in no way my
concern. Yes, I have been running about after fripperies! . . . Ah, but I
WILL leave my bed. Tomorrow I WILL rise sound and well, and be once more
myself. . . .
Dearest, I could throw myself under the wheels of a passing vehicle
rather than that you should go like this. By what right is it being
done? . . . I will go with you; I will run behind your carriage if you will
not take me--yes, I will run, and run so long as the power is in me, and
until my breath shall have failed. Do you know whither you are going?
Perhaps you will not know, and will have to ask me? Before you there
lie the Steppes, my darling--only the Steppes, the naked Steppes, the
Steppes that are as bare as the palm of my hand. THERE there live only
heartless old women and rude peasants and drunkards. THERE the trees
have already shed their leaves. THERE there abide but rain and cold. Why
should you go thither? True, Monsieur Bwikov will have his diversions in
that country--he will be able to hunt the hare; but what of yourself? Do
you wish to become a mere estate lady? Nay; look at yourself, my seraph
of heaven. Are you in any way fitted for such a role? How could you
play it? To whom should I write letters? To whom should I send these
missives?
Whom should I call “my darling”? To whom should I apply that
name of endearment? Where, too, could I find you?
When you are gone, Barbara, I shall die--for certain I shall die, for my
heart cannot bear this misery. I love you as I love the light of God;
I love you as my own daughter; to you I have devoted my love in its
entirety; only for you have I lived at all; only because you were near
me have I worked and copied manuscripts and committed my views to paper
under the guise of friendly letters.
Perhaps you did not know all this, but it has been so. How, then, my
beloved, could you bring yourself to leave me? Nay, you MUST not go--it
is impossible, it is sheerly, it is utterly, impossible. The rain will
fall upon you, and you are weak, and will catch cold. The floods will
stop your carriage. No sooner will it have passed the city barriers than
it will break down, purposely break down. Here, in St. Petersburg, they
are bad builders of carriages. Yes, I know well these carriage-builders.
They are jerry-builders who can fashion a toy, but nothing that is
durable. Yes, I swear they can make nothing that is durable. . . . All that
I can do is to go upon my knees before Monsieur Bwikov, and to tell him
all, to tell him all. Do you also tell him all, dearest, and reason with
him. Tell him that you MUST remain here, and must not go. Ah, why did he
not marry that merchant’s daughter in Moscow? Let him go and marry her
now. She would suit him far better and for reasons which I well know.
Then I could keep you. For what is he to you, this Monsieur Bwikov? Why
has he suddenly become so dear to your heart? Is it because he can buy
you gewgaws? What are THEY? What use are THEY? They are so much rubbish.
One should consider human life rather than mere finery.
Nevertheless, as soon as I have received my next instalment of salary I
mean to buy you a new cloak. I mean to buy it at a shop with which I
am acquainted. Only, you must wait until my next installment is due, my
angel of a Barbara. Ah, God, my God! To think that you are going away
into the Steppes with Monsieur Bwikov--that you are going away never
to return! . . . Nay, nay, but you SHALL write to me. You SHALL write me
a letter as soon as you have started, even if it be your last letter of
all, my dearest. Yet will it be your last letter? How has it come about
so suddenly, so irrevocably, that this letter should be your last? Nay,
nay; I will write, and you shall write--yes, NOW, when at length I am
beginning to improve my style. Style? I do not know what I am writing. I
never do know what I am writing. I could not possibly know, for I never
read over what I have written, nor correct its orthography. At the
present moment, I am writing merely for the sake of writing, and to put
as much as possible into this last letter of mine. . . .
Ah, dearest, my pet, my own darling! . . .
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