No More Learning

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. ] 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!