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Title: Poor Folk

Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translator: C. J. Hogarth

Release Date: August, 2000 [EBook #2302]
Last Updated: October 27, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POOR FOLK ***




Produced by Martin Adamson





POOR FOLK

By Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translated by C. J. Hogarth




April 8th

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--How happy I was last night--how
immeasurably, how impossibly happy! That was because for once in your
life you had relented so far as to obey my wishes. At about eight
o’clock I awoke from sleep (you know, my beloved one, that I always like
to sleep for a short hour after my work is done)--I awoke, I say, and,
lighting a candle, prepared my paper to write, and trimmed my pen. Then
suddenly, for some reason or another, I raised my eyes--and felt my
very heart leap within me! For you had understood what I wanted, you had
understood what my heart was craving for. Yes, I perceived that a corner
of the curtain in your window had been looped up and fastened to the
cornice as I had suggested should be done; and it seemed to me that your
dear face was glimmering at the window, and that you were looking at me
from out of the darkness of your room, and that you were thinking of
me. Yet how vexed I felt that I could not distinguish your sweet face
clearly! For there was a time when you and I could see one another
without any difficulty at all. Ah me, but old age is not always a
blessing, my beloved one! At this very moment everything is standing
awry to my eyes, for a man needs only to work late overnight in his
writing of something or other for, in the morning, his eyes to be red,
and the tears to be gushing from them in a way that makes him ashamed to
be seen before strangers. However, I was able to picture to myself your
beaming smile, my angel--your kind, bright smile; and in my heart there
lurked just such a feeling as on the occasion when I first kissed you,
my little Barbara. Do you remember that, my darling? Yet somehow you
seemed to be threatening me with your tiny finger. Was it so, little
wanton? You must write and tell me about it in your next letter.

But what think you of the plan of the curtain, Barbara? It is a charming
one, is it not? No matter whether I be at work, or about to retire to
rest, or just awaking from sleep, it enables me to know that you are
thinking of me, and remembering me--that you are both well and happy.
Then when you lower the curtain, it means that it is time that I, Makar
Alexievitch, should go to bed; and when again you raise the curtain, it
means that you are saying to me, “Good morning,” and asking me how I am,
and whether I have slept well. “As for myself,” adds the curtain, “I am
altogether in good health and spirits, glory be to God! ” Yes, my heart’s
delight, you see how easy a plan it was to devise, and how much writing
it will save us! It is a clever plan, is it not? And it was my own
invention, too! Am I not cunning in such matters, Barbara Alexievna?

Well, next let me tell you, dearest, that last night I slept better
and more soundly than I had ever hoped to do, and that I am the more
delighted at the fact in that, as you know, I had just settled into a
new lodging--a circumstance only too apt to keep one from sleeping! This
morning, too, I arose (joyous and full of love) at cockcrow. How good
seemed everything at that hour, my darling! When I opened my window I
could see the sun shining, and hear the birds singing, and smell the air
laden with scents of spring. In short, all nature was awaking to life
again. Everything was in consonance with my mood; everything seemed fair
and spring-like. Moreover, I had a fancy that I should fare well today.
But my whole thoughts were bent upon you. “Surely,” thought I, “we
mortals who dwell in pain and sorrow might with reason envy the birds
of heaven which know not either! ” And my other thoughts were similar
to these. In short, I gave myself up to fantastic comparisons. A little
book which I have says the same kind of thing in a variety of ways. For
instance, it says that one may have many, many fancies, my Barbara--that
as soon as the spring comes on, one’s thoughts become uniformly pleasant
and sportive and witty, for the reason that, at that season, the mind
inclines readily to tenderness, and the world takes on a more roseate
hue. From that little book of mine I have culled the following passage,
and written it down for you to see. In particular does the author
express a longing similar to my own, where he writes:

“Why am I not a bird free to seek its quest? ”

And he has written much else, God bless him!

But tell me, my love--where did you go for your walk this morning? Even
before I had started for the office you had taken flight from your room,
and passed through the courtyard--yes, looking as vernal-like as a
bird in spring. What rapture it gave me to see you! Ah, little Barbara,
little Barbara, you must never give way to grief, for tears are of no
avail, nor sorrow. I know this well--I know it of my own experience. So
do you rest quietly until you have regained your health a little. But
how is our good Thedora? What a kind heart she has! You write that she
is now living with you, and that you are satisfied with what she does.
True, you say that she is inclined to grumble, but do not mind that,
Barbara. God bless her, for she is an excellent soul!

But what sort of an abode have I lighted upon, Barbara Alexievna? What
sort of a tenement, do you think, is this? Formerly, as you know, I used
to live in absolute stillness--so much so that if a fly took wing
it could plainly be heard buzzing. Here, however, all is turmoil and
shouting and clatter. The PLAN of the tenement you know already. Imagine
a long corridor, quite dark, and by no means clean. To the right a dead
wall, and to the left a row of doors stretching as far as the line of
rooms extends. These rooms are tenanted by different people--by one,
by two, or by three lodgers as the case may be, but in this arrangement
there is no sort of system, and the place is a perfect Noah’s Ark. Most
of the lodgers are respectable, educated, and even bookish people. In
particular they include a tchinovnik (one of the literary staff in some
government department), who is so well-read that he can expound Homer or
any other author--in fact, ANYTHING, such a man of talent is he! Also,
there are a couple of officers (for ever playing cards), a midshipman,
and an English tutor. But, to amuse you, dearest, let me describe these
people more categorically in my next letter, and tell you in detail
about their lives. As for our landlady, she is a dirty little old woman
who always walks about in a dressing-gown and slippers, and never ceases
to shout at Theresa. I myself live in the kitchen--or, rather, in a
small room which forms part of the kitchen. The latter is a very large,
bright, clean, cheerful apartment with three windows in it, and a
partition-wall which, running outwards from the front wall, makes a sort
of little den, a sort of extra room, for myself. Everything in this den
is comfortable and convenient, and I have, as I say, a window to myself.
So much for a description of my dwelling-place. Do not think, dearest,
that in all this there is any hidden intention. The fact that I live in
the kitchen merely means that I live behind the partition wall in that
apartment--that I live quite alone, and spend my time in a quiet fashion
compounded of trifles. For furniture I have provided myself with a
bed, a table, a chest of drawers, and two small chairs. Also, I have
suspended an ikon. True, better rooms MAY exist in the world than
this--much better rooms; yet COMFORT is the chief thing. In fact, I
have made all my arrangements for comfort’s sake alone; so do not for a
moment imagine that I had any other end in view. And since your window
happens to be just opposite to mine, and since the courtyard between us
is narrow and I can see you as you pass,--why, the result is that this
miserable wretch will be able to live at once more happily and with less
outlay. The dearest room in this house costs, with board, thirty-five
roubles--more than my purse could well afford; whereas MY room costs
only twenty-four, though formerly I used to pay thirty, and so had to
deny myself many things (I could drink tea but seldom, and never could
indulge in tea and sugar as I do now). But, somehow, I do not like
having to go without tea, for everyone else here is respectable, and the
fact makes me ashamed. After all, one drinks tea largely to please one’s
fellow men, Barbara, and to give oneself tone and an air of gentility
(though, of myself, I care little about such things, for I am not a
man of the finicking sort). Yet think you that, when all things
needful--boots and the rest--have been paid for, much will remain? Yet I
ought not to grumble at my salary,--I am quite satisfied with it; it is
sufficient. It has sufficed me now for some years, and, in addition, I
receive certain gratuities.

Well good-bye, my darling. I have bought you two little pots of
geraniums--quite cheap little pots, too--as a present. Perhaps you would
also like some mignonette? Mignonette it shall be if only you will write
to inform me of everything in detail. Also, do not misunderstand the
fact that I have taken this room, my dearest. Convenience and nothing
else, has made me do so. The snugness of the place has caught my fancy.
Also, I shall be able to save money here, and to hoard it against the
future. Already I have saved a little money as a beginning. Nor must
you despise me because I am such an insignificant old fellow that a fly
could break me with its wing. True, I am not a swashbuckler; but perhaps
there may also abide in me the spirit which should pertain to every man
who is at once resigned and sure of himself. Good-bye, then, again, my
angel. I have now covered close upon a whole two sheets of notepaper,
though I ought long ago to have been starting for the office. I kiss
your hands, and remain ever your devoted slave, your faithful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

P. S. --One thing I beg of you above all things--and that is, that you
will answer this letter as FULLY as possible. With the letter I send you
a packet of bonbons. Eat them for your health’s sake, nor, for the love
of God, feel any uneasiness about me. Once more, dearest one, good-bye.




April 8th

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Do you know, must quarrel with you. Yes,
good Makar Alexievitch, I really cannot accept your presents, for I know
what they must have cost you--I know to what privations and self-denial
they must have led. How many times have I not told you that I stand in
need of NOTHING, of absolutely NOTHING, as well as that I shall never be
in a position to recompense you for all the kindly acts with which you
have loaded me? Why, for instance, have you sent me geraniums? A little
sprig of balsam would not have mattered so much--but geraniums! Only
have I to let fall an unguarded word--for example, about geraniums--and
at once you buy me some! How much they must have cost you! Yet what a
charm there is in them, with their flaming petals! Wherever did you
get these beautiful plants? I have set them in my window as the most
conspicuous place possible, while on the floor I have placed a bench
for my other flowers to stand on (since you are good enough to enrich me
with such presents). Unfortunately, Thedora, who, with her sweeping and
polishing, makes a perfect sanctuary of my room, is not over-pleased
at the arrangement. But why have you sent me also bonbons? Your letter
tells me that something special is afoot with you, for I find in it so
much about paradise and spring and sweet odours and the songs of birds.
Surely, thought I to myself when I received it, this is as good as
poetry! Indeed, verses are the only thing that your letter lacks,
Makar Alexievitch. And what tender feelings I can read in it--what
roseate-coloured fancies! To the curtain, however, I had never given a
thought. The fact is that when I moved the flower-pots, it LOOPED ITSELF
up. There now!

Ah, Makar Alexievitch, you neither speak of nor give any account of what
you have spent upon me. You hope thereby to deceive me, to make it
seem as though the cost always falls upon you alone, and that there
is nothing to conceal. Yet I KNOW that for my sake you deny yourself
necessaries. For instance, what has made you go and take the room which
you have done, where you will be worried and disturbed, and where you
have neither elbow-space nor comfort--you who love solitude, and never
like to have any one near you? To judge from your salary, I should think
that you might well live in greater ease than that. Also, Thedora tells
me that your circumstances used to be much more affluent than they are
at present. Do you wish, then, to persuade me that your whole existence
has been passed in loneliness and want and gloom, with never a cheering
word to help you, nor a seat in a friend’s chimney-corner? Ah, kind
comrade, how my heart aches for you! But do not overtask your health,
Makar Alexievitch. For instance, you say that your eyes are over-weak
for you to go on writing in your office by candle-light. Then why do so?
I am sure that your official superiors do not need to be convinced of
your diligence!

Once more I implore you not to waste so much money upon me. I know
how much you love me, but I also know that you are not rich. . . . This
morning I too rose in good spirits. Thedora had long been at work; and
it was time that I too should bestir myself. Indeed I was yearning to
do so, so I went out for some silk, and then sat down to my labours. All
the morning I felt light-hearted and cheerful. Yet now my thoughts are
once more dark and sad--once more my heart is ready to sink.

Ah, what is going to become of me? What will be my fate? To have to be
so uncertain as to the future, to have to be unable to foretell what is
going to happen, distresses me deeply. Even to look back at the past
is horrible, for it contains sorrow that breaks my very heart at the
thought of it. Yes, a whole century in tears could I spend because of
the wicked people who have wrecked my life!

But dusk is coming on, and I must set to work again. Much else should I
have liked to write to you, but time is lacking, and I must hasten. Of
course, to write this letter is a pleasure enough, and could never be
wearisome; but why do you not come to see me in person? Why do you not,
Makar Alexievitch? You live so close to me, and at least SOME of your
time is your own. I pray you, come. I have just seen Theresa. She was
looking so ill, and I felt so sorry for her, that I gave her twenty
kopecks. I am almost falling asleep. Write to me in fullest detail, both
concerning your mode of life, and concerning the people who live with
you, and concerning how you fare with them. I should so like to know!
Yes, you must write again. Tonight I have purposely looped the curtain
up. Go to bed early, for, last night, I saw your candle burning until
nearly midnight. Goodbye! I am now feeling sad and weary. Ah that
I should have to spend such days as this one has been. Again
good-bye. --Your friend,

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.




April 8th

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--To think that a day like this should have
fallen to my miserable lot! Surely you are making fun of an old man? . . .
However, it was my own fault--my own fault entirely. One ought not to
grow old holding a lock of Cupid’s hair in one’s hand. Naturally one is
misunderstood. . . . Yet man is sometimes a very strange being. By all the
Saints, he will talk of doing things, yet leave them undone, and remain
looking the kind of fool from whom may the Lord preserve us! . . . Nay, I
am not angry, my beloved; I am only vexed to think that I should have
written to you in such stupid, flowery phraseology. Today I went hopping
and skipping to the office, for my heart was under your influence, and
my soul was keeping holiday, as it were. Yes, everything seemed to
be going well with me. Then I betook myself to my work. But with what
result? I gazed around at the old familiar objects, at the old familiar
grey and gloomy objects. They looked just the same as before. Yet
WERE those the same inkstains, the same tables and chairs, that I had
hitherto known? Yes, they WERE the same, exactly the same; so why should
I have gone off riding on Pegasus’ back? Whence had that mood arisen?
It had arisen from the fact that a certain sun had beamed upon me, and
turned the sky to blue.
And what tender feelings I can read in it--what
roseate-coloured fancies! To the curtain, however, I had never given a
thought. The fact is that when I moved the flower-pots, it LOOPED ITSELF
up. There now!

Ah, Makar Alexievitch, you neither speak of nor give any account of what
you have spent upon me. You hope thereby to deceive me, to make it
seem as though the cost always falls upon you alone, and that there
is nothing to conceal. Yet I KNOW that for my sake you deny yourself
necessaries. For instance, what has made you go and take the room which
you have done, where you will be worried and disturbed, and where you
have neither elbow-space nor comfort--you who love solitude, and never
like to have any one near you? To judge from your salary, I should think
that you might well live in greater ease than that. Also, Thedora tells
me that your circumstances used to be much more affluent than they are
at present. Do you wish, then, to persuade me that your whole existence
has been passed in loneliness and want and gloom, with never a cheering
word to help you, nor a seat in a friend’s chimney-corner? Ah, kind
comrade, how my heart aches for you! But do not overtask your health,
Makar Alexievitch. For instance, you say that your eyes are over-weak
for you to go on writing in your office by candle-light. Then why do so?
I am sure that your official superiors do not need to be convinced of
your diligence!

Once more I implore you not to waste so much money upon me. I know
how much you love me, but I also know that you are not rich. . . . This
morning I too rose in good spirits. Thedora had long been at work; and
it was time that I too should bestir myself. Indeed I was yearning to
do so, so I went out for some silk, and then sat down to my labours. All
the morning I felt light-hearted and cheerful. Yet now my thoughts are
once more dark and sad--once more my heart is ready to sink.

Ah, what is going to become of me? What will be my fate? To have to be
so uncertain as to the future, to have to be unable to foretell what is
going to happen, distresses me deeply. Even to look back at the past
is horrible, for it contains sorrow that breaks my very heart at the
thought of it. Yes, a whole century in tears could I spend because of
the wicked people who have wrecked my life!

But dusk is coming on, and I must set to work again. Much else should I
have liked to write to you, but time is lacking, and I must hasten. Of
course, to write this letter is a pleasure enough, and could never be
wearisome; but why do you not come to see me in person? Why do you not,
Makar Alexievitch? You live so close to me, and at least SOME of your
time is your own. I pray you, come. I have just seen Theresa. She was
looking so ill, and I felt so sorry for her, that I gave her twenty
kopecks. I am almost falling asleep. Write to me in fullest detail, both
concerning your mode of life, and concerning the people who live with
you, and concerning how you fare with them. I should so like to know!
Yes, you must write again. Tonight I have purposely looped the curtain
up. Go to bed early, for, last night, I saw your candle burning until
nearly midnight. Goodbye! I am now feeling sad and weary. Ah that
I should have to spend such days as this one has been. Again
good-bye. --Your friend,

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.




April 8th

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--To think that a day like this should have
fallen to my miserable lot! Surely you are making fun of an old man? . . .
However, it was my own fault--my own fault entirely. One ought not to
grow old holding a lock of Cupid’s hair in one’s hand. Naturally one is
misunderstood. . . . Yet man is sometimes a very strange being. By all the
Saints, he will talk of doing things, yet leave them undone, and remain
looking the kind of fool from whom may the Lord preserve us! . . . Nay, I
am not angry, my beloved; I am only vexed to think that I should have
written to you in such stupid, flowery phraseology. Today I went hopping
and skipping to the office, for my heart was under your influence, and
my soul was keeping holiday, as it were. Yes, everything seemed to
be going well with me. Then I betook myself to my work. But with what
result? I gazed around at the old familiar objects, at the old familiar
grey and gloomy objects. They looked just the same as before. Yet
WERE those the same inkstains, the same tables and chairs, that I had
hitherto known? Yes, they WERE the same, exactly the same; so why should
I have gone off riding on Pegasus’ back? Whence had that mood arisen?
It had arisen from the fact that a certain sun had beamed upon me, and
turned the sky to blue. But why so? Why is it, sometimes, that sweet
odours seem to be blowing through a courtyard where nothing of the sort
can be? They must be born of my foolish fancy, for a man may stray so
far into sentiment as to forget his immediate surroundings, and to give
way to the superfluity of fond ardour with which his heart is charged.
On the other hand, as I walked home from the office at nightfall my feet
seemed to lag, and my head to be aching. Also, a cold wind seemed to be
blowing down my back (enraptured with the spring, I had gone out clad
only in a thin overcoat). Yet you have misunderstood my sentiments,
dearest. They are altogether different to what you suppose. It is a
purely paternal feeling that I have for you. I stand towards you in
the position of a relative who is bound to watch over your lonely
orphanhood. This I say in all sincerity, and with a single purpose,
as any kinsman might do. For, after all, I AM a distant kinsman of
yours--the seventh drop of water in the pudding, as the proverb has
it--yet still a kinsman, and at the present time your nearest relative
and protector, seeing that where you had the right to look for help and
protection, you found only treachery and insult. As for poetry, I may
say that I consider it unbecoming for a man of my years to devote his
faculties to the making of verses. Poetry is rubbish. Even boys at
school ought to be whipped for writing it.

Why do you write thus about “comfort” and “peace” and the rest? I am
not a fastidious man, nor one who requires much. Never in my life have I
been so comfortable as now. Why, then, should I complain in my old age?
I have enough to eat, I am well dressed and booted. Also, I have my
diversions. You see, I am not of noble blood. My father himself was not
a gentleman; he and his family had to live even more plainly than I do.
Nor am I a milksop. Nevertheless, to speak frankly, I do not like my
present abode so much as I used to like my old one. Somehow the latter
seemed more cosy, dearest. Of course, this room is a good one enough;
in fact, in SOME respects it is the more cheerful and interesting of the
two. I have nothing to say against it--no. Yet I miss the room that used
to be so familiar to me. Old lodgers like myself soon grow as attached
to our chattels as to a kinsman. My old room was such a snug little
place! True, its walls resembled those of any other room--I am not
speaking of that; the point is that the recollection of them seems to
haunt my mind with sadness. Curious that recollections should be so
mournful! Even what in that room used to vex me and inconvenience me now
looms in a purified light, and figures in my imagination as a thing to
be desired. We used to live there so quietly--I and an old landlady
who is now dead. How my heart aches to remember her, for she was a good
woman, and never overcharged for her rooms. Her whole time was spent in
making patchwork quilts with knitting-needles that were an arshin [An
ell. ] long. Oftentimes we shared the same candle and board. Also she had
a granddaughter, Masha--a girl who was then a mere baby, but must now be
a girl of thirteen. This little piece of mischief, how she used to make
us laugh the day long! We lived together, a happy family of three. Often
of a long winter’s evening we would first have tea at the big round
table, and then betake ourselves to our work; the while that, to amuse
the child and to keep her out of mischief, the old lady would set
herself to tell stories. What stories they were! --though stories less
suitable for a child than for a grown-up, educated person. My word! Why,
I myself have sat listening to them, as I smoked my pipe, until I have
forgotten about work altogether. And then, as the story grew grimmer,
the little child, our little bag of mischief, would grow thoughtful in
proportion, and clasp her rosy cheeks in her tiny hands, and, hiding her
face, press closer to the old landlady. Ah, how I loved to see her at
those moments! As one gazed at her one would fail to notice how the
candle was flickering, or how the storm was swishing the snow about the
courtyard. Yes, that was a goodly life, my Barbara, and we lived it
for nearly twenty years. . . . How my tongue does carry me away! Maybe
the subject does not interest you, and I myself find it a not over-easy
subject to recall--especially at the present time.

Darkness is falling, and Theresa is busying herself with something or
another. My head and my back are aching, and even my thoughts seem to
be in pain, so strangely do they occur. Yes, my heart is sad today,
Barbara. . . . What is it you have written to me? ----“Why do you not come
in PERSON to see me? ” Dear one, what would people say? I should have
but to cross the courtyard for people to begin noticing us, and asking
themselves questions. Gossip and scandal would arise, and there would be
read into the affair quite another meaning than the real one. No, little
angel, it were better that I should see you tomorrow at Vespers. That
will be the better plan, and less hurtful to us both. Nor must you chide
me, beloved, because I have written you a letter like this (reading it
through, I see it to be all odds and ends); for I am an old man now,
dear Barbara, and an uneducated one. Little learning had I in my youth,
and things refuse to fix themselves in my brain when I try to learn
them anew. No, I am not skilled in letter-writing, Barbara, and, without
being told so, or any one laughing at me for it, I know that, whenever
I try to describe anything with more than ordinary distinctness, I fall
into the mistake of talking sheer rubbish. . . . I saw you at your window
today--yes, I saw you as you were drawing down the blind! Good-bye,
goodbye, little Barbara, and may God keep you! Good-bye, my own Barbara
Alexievna! --Your sincere friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

P. S. --Do not think that I could write to you in a satirical vein, for I
am too old to show my teeth to no purpose, and people would laugh at me,
and quote our Russian proverb: “Who diggeth a pit for another one, the
same shall fall into it himself. ”




April 9th

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Are not you, my friend and benefactor,
just a little ashamed to repine and give way to such despondency? And
surely you are not offended with me? Ah! Though often thoughtless in my
speech, I never should have imagined that you would take my words as
a jest at your expense. Rest assured that NEVER should I make sport of
your years or of your character. Only my own levity is at fault; still
more, the fact that I am so weary of life.

What will such a feeling not engender? To tell you the truth, I had
supposed that YOU were jesting in your letter; wherefore, my heart was
feeling heavy at the thought that you could feel so displeased with
me. Kind comrade and helper, you will be doing me an injustice if for
a single moment you ever suspect that I am lacking in feeling or in
gratitude towards you. My heart, believe me, is able to appraise at
its true worth all that you have done for me by protecting me from my
enemies, and from hatred and persecution. Never shall I cease to pray
to God for you; and, should my prayers ever reach Him and be received of
Heaven, then assuredly fortune will smile upon you!

Today I am not well. By turns I shiver and flush with heat, and Thedora
is greatly disturbed about me. . . . Do not scruple to come and see me,
Makar Alexievitch. How can it concern other people what you do? You and
I are well enough acquainted with each other, and one’s own affairs are
one’s own affairs. Goodbye, Makar Alexievitch, for I have come to the
end of all I had to say, and am feeling too unwell to write more. Again
I beg of you not to be angry with me, but to rest assured of my constant
respect and attachment. --Your humble, devoted servant,

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.




April 12th

DEAREST MISTRESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I pray you, my beloved, to tell
me what ails you. Every one of your letters fills me with alarm. On the
other hand, in every letter I urge you to be more careful of yourself,
and to wrap up yourself warmly, and to avoid going out in bad weather,
and to be in all things prudent. Yet you go and disobey me! Ah, little
angel, you are a perfect child! I know well that you are as weak as a
blade of grass, and that, no matter what wind blows upon you, you are
ready to fade. But you must be careful of yourself, dearest; you MUST
look after yourself better; you MUST avoid all risks, lest you plunge
your friends into desolation and despair.

Dearest, you also express a wish to learn the details of my daily life
and surroundings. That wish I hasten to satisfy. Let me begin at
the beginning, since, by doing so, I shall explain things more
systematically. In the first place, on entering this house, one passes
into a very bare hall, and thence along a passage to a mean staircase.
The reception room, however, is bright, clean, and spacious, and is
lined with redwood and metal-work. But the scullery you would not care
to see; it is greasy, dirty, and odoriferous, while the stairs are in
rags, and the walls so covered with filth that the hand sticks fast
wherever it touches them. Also, on each landing there is a medley of
boxes, chairs, and dilapidated wardrobes; while the windows have had
most of their panes shattered, and everywhere stand washtubs filled with
dirt, litter, eggshells, and fish-bladders. The smell is abominable. In
short, the house is not a nice one.

As to the disposition of the rooms, I have described it to you
already. True, they are convenient enough, yet every one of them has an
ATMOSPHERE. I do not mean that they smell badly so much as that each of
them seems to contain something which gives forth a rank, sickly-sweet
odour. At first the impression is an unpleasant one, but a couple of
minutes will suffice to dissipate it, for the reason that EVERYTHING
here smells--people’s clothes, hands, and everything else--and one grows
accustomed to the rankness. Canaries, however, soon die in this house.