“Shall
I,
or shall I not (come weal, come woe) take myself off?
or shall I not (come weal, come woe) take myself off?
Dostoevsky - Poor Folk
“Peter Petrovitch,” I
continued, “can you not do ANYTHING? ” Still he maintained silence, and
seemed not to have heard me. I waited and waited. At length I determined
to make a final attempt, and plucked him by the sleeve. He muttered
something, and, his pen mended, set about his writing. There was nothing
for me to do but to depart. He and the rest of them are worthy fellows,
dearest--that I do not doubt--but they are also proud, very proud. What
have I to do with them? Yet I thought I would write and tell you all
about it. Meanwhile Emelia Ivanovitch had been encouraging me with nods
and smiles. He is a good soul, and has promised to recommend me to a
friend of his who lives in Viborskaia Street and lends money. Emelia
declares that this friend will certainly lend me a little; so tomorrow,
beloved, I am going to call upon the gentleman in question. . . . What do
you think about it? It would be a pity not to obtain a loan. My landlady
is on the point of turning me out of doors, and has refused to allow me
any more board. Also, my boots are wearing through, and have lost every
button--and I do not possess another pair! Could anyone in a government
office display greater shabbiness? It is dreadful, my Barbara--it is
simply dreadful!
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
August 4th.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--For God’s sake borrow some money as
soon as you can. I would not ask this help of you were it not for the
situation in which I am placed. Thedora and myself cannot remain any
longer in our present lodgings, for we have been subjected to great
unpleasantness, and you cannot imagine my state of agitation and
dismay. The reason is that this morning we received a visit from an
elderly--almost an old--man whose breast was studded with orders.
Greatly surprised, I asked him what he wanted (for at the moment Thedora
had gone out shopping); whereupon he began to question me as to my
mode of life and occupation, and then, without waiting for an answer,
informed me that he was uncle to the officer of whom you have spoken;
that he was very angry with his nephew for the way in which the latter
had behaved, especially with regard to his slandering of me right and
left; and that he, the uncle, was ready to protect me from the young
spendthrift’s insolence. Also, he advised me to have nothing to say to
young fellows of that stamp, and added that he sympathised with me as
though he were my own father, and would gladly help me in any way he
could. At this I blushed in some confusion, but did not greatly hasten
to thank him. Next, he took me forcibly by the hand, and, tapping my
cheek, said that I was very good-looking, and that he greatly liked the
dimples in my face (God only knows what he meant! ). Finally he tried to
kiss me, on the plea that he was an old man, the brute! At this moment
Thedora returned; whereupon, in some confusion, he repeated that he felt
a great respect for my modesty and virtue, and that he much wished to
become acquainted with me; after which he took Thedora aside, and tried,
on some pretext or another, to give her money (though of course she
declined it). At last he took himself off--again reiterating his
assurances, and saying that he intended to return with some earrings as
a present; that he advised me to change my lodgings; and, that he could
recommend me a splendid flat which he had in his mind’s eye as likely to
cost me nothing. Yes, he also declared that he greatly liked me for my
purity and good sense; that I must beware of dissolute young men; and
that he knew Anna Thedorovna, who had charged him to inform me that she
would shortly be visiting me in person. Upon that, I understood all.
What I did next I scarcely know, for I had never before found myself in
such a position; but I believe that I broke all restraints, and made the
old man feel thoroughly ashamed of himself--Thedora helping me in the
task, and well-nigh turning him neck and crop out of the tenement.
Neither of us doubt that this is Anna Thedorovna’s work--for how
otherwise could the old man have got to know about us?
Now, therefore, Makar Alexievitch, I turn to you for help. Do not, for
God’s sake, leave me in this plight. Borrow all the money that you can
get, for I have not the wherewithal to leave these lodgings, yet cannot
possibly remain in them any longer. At all events, this is Thedora’s
advice. She and I need at least twenty-five roubles, which I will repay
you out of what I earn by my work, while Thedora shall get me additional
work from day to day, so that, if there be heavy interest to pay on the
loan, you shall not be troubled with the extra burden. Nay, I will make
over to you all that I possess if only you will continue to help me.
Truly, I grieve to have to trouble you when you yourself are so hardly
situated, but my hopes rest upon you, and upon you alone. Goodbye, Makar
Alexievitch. Think of me, and may God speed you on your errand!
B. D.
August 4th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--These unlooked-for blows have shaken me
terribly, and these strange calamities have quite broken my spirit.
Not content with trying to bring you to a bed of sickness, these
lickspittles and pestilent old men are trying to bring me to the same.
And I assure you that they are succeeding--I assure you that they are.
Yet I would rather die than not help you. If I cannot help you I SHALL
die; but, to enable me to help you, you must flee like a bird out of the
nest where these owls, these birds of prey, are seeking to peck you to
death. How distressed I feel, my dearest! Yet how cruel you yourself
are! Although you are enduring pain and insult, although you, little
nestling, are in agony of spirit, you actually tell me that it grieves
you to disturb me, and that you will work off your debt to me with the
labour of your own hands! In other words, you, with your weak health,
are proposing to kill yourself in order to relieve me to term of my
financial embarrassments! Stop a moment, and think what you are saying.
WHY should you sew, and work, and torture your poor head with anxiety,
and spoil your beautiful eyes, and ruin your health? Why, indeed? Ah,
little Barbara, little Barbara! Do you not see that I shall never be any
good to you, never any good to you? At all events, I myself see it. Yet
I WILL help you in your distress. I WILL overcome every difficulty, I
WILL get extra work to do, I WILL copy out manuscripts for authors,
I WILL go to the latter and force them to employ me, I WILL so apply
myself to the work that they shall see that I am a good copyist (and
good copyists, I know, are always in demand). Thus there will be no need
for you to exhaust your strength, nor will I allow you to do so--I will
not have you carry out your disastrous intention. . . Yes, little angel,
I will certainly borrow some money. I would rather die than not do
so. Merely tell me, my own darling, that I am not to shrink from heavy
interest, and I will not shrink from it, I will not shrink from it--nay,
I will shrink from nothing. I will ask for forty roubles, to begin with.
That will not be much, will it, little Barbara? Yet will any one trust
me even with that sum at the first asking? Do you think that I am
capable of inspiring confidence at the first glance? Would the mere
sight of my face lead any one to form of me a favourable opinion? Have I
ever been able, remember you, to appear to anyone in a favourable light?
What think you? Personally, I see difficulties in the way, and feel sick
at heart at the mere prospect. However, of those forty roubles I mean
to set aside twenty-five for yourself, two for my landlady, and the
remainder for my own spending. Of course, I ought to give more than
two to my landlady, but you must remember my necessities, and see for
yourself that that is the most that can be assigned to her. We need say
no more about it. For one rouble I shall buy me a new pair of shoes, for
I scarcely know whether my old ones will take me to the office tomorrow
morning. Also, a new neck-scarf is indispensable, seeing that the old
one has now passed its first year; but, since you have promised to make
of your old apron not only a scarf, but also a shirt-front, I need think
no more of the article in question. So much for shoes and scarves. Next,
for buttons. You yourself will agree that I cannot do without buttons;
nor is there on my garments a single hem unfrayed. I tremble when I
think that some day his Excellency may perceive my untidiness, and
say--well, what will he NOT say? Yet I shall never hear what he says,
for I shall have expired where I sit--expired of mere shame at the
thought of having been thus exposed. Ah, dearest! . . . Well, my various
necessities will have left me three roubles to go on with. Part of
this sum I shall expend upon a half-pound of tobacco--for I cannot live
without tobacco, and it is nine days since I last put a pipe into my
mouth. To tell the truth, I shall buy the tobacco without acquainting
you with the fact, although I ought not so to do. The pity of it all is
that, while you are depriving yourself of everything, I keep solacing
myself with various amenities--which is why I am telling you this, that
the pangs of conscience may not torment me. Frankly, I confess that I
am in desperate straits--in such straits as I have never yet known. My
landlady flouts me, and I enjoy the respect of noone; my arrears and
debts are terrible; and in the office, though never have I found the
place exactly a paradise, noone has a single word to say to me. Yet I
hide, I carefully hide, this from every one. I would hide my person in
the same way, were it not that daily I have to attend the office where
I have to be constantly on my guard against my fellows. Nevertheless,
merely to be able to CONFESS this to you renews my spiritual strength.
We must not think of these things, Barbara, lest the thought of them
break our courage. I write them down merely to warn you NOT to think of
them, nor to torture yourself with bitter imaginings. Yet, my God, what
is to become of us? Stay where you are until I can come to you; after
which I shall not return hither, but simply disappear. Now I have
finished my letter, and must go and shave myself, inasmuch as, when that
is done, one always feels more decent, as well as consorts more easily
with decency. God speed me! One prayer to Him, and I must be off.
M. DIEVUSHKIN.
August 5th.
DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--You must not despair. Away with melancholy!
I am sending you thirty kopecks in silver, and regret that I cannot send
you more. Buy yourself what you most need until tomorrow. I myself have
almost nothing left, and what I am going to do I know not. Is it not
dreadful, Makar Alexievitch? Yet do not be downcast--it is no good being
that. Thedora declares that it would not be a bad thing if we were to
remain in this tenement, since if we left it suspicions would arise, and
our enemies might take it into their heads to look for us. On the other
hand, I do not think it would be well for us to remain here. If I were
feeling less sad I would tell you my reason.
What a strange man you are, Makar Alexievitch! You take things so much
to heart that you never know what it is to be happy. I read your letters
attentively, and can see from them that, though you worry and disturb
yourself about me, you never give a thought to yourself. Yes, every
letter tells me that you have a kind heart; but I tell YOU that that
heart is overly kind. So I will give you a little friendly advice, Makar
Alexievitch. I am full of gratitude towards you--I am indeed full for
all that you have done for me, I am most sensible of your goodness;
but, to think that I should be forced to see that, in spite of your own
troubles (of which I have been the involuntary cause), you live for me
alone--you live but for MY joys and MY sorrows and MY affection! If you
take the affairs of another person so to heart, and suffer with her to
such an extent, I do not wonder that you yourself are unhappy. Today,
when you came to see me after office-work was done, I felt afraid even
to raise my eyes to yours, for you looked so pale and desperate, and
your face had so fallen in. Yes, you were dreading to have to tell me
of your failure to borrow money--you were dreading to have to grieve and
alarm me; but, when you saw that I came very near to smiling, the load
was, I know, lifted from your heart. So do not be despondent, do not
give way, but allow more rein to your better sense. I beg and implore
this of you, for it will not be long before you see things take a turn
for the better. You will but spoil your life if you constantly lament
another person’s sorrow. Goodbye, dear friend. I beseech you not to be
over-anxious about me.
B. D.
August 5th.
MY DARLING LITTLE BARBARA,--This is well, this is well, my angel! So you
are of opinion that the fact that I have failed to obtain any money does
not matter? Then I too am reassured, I too am happy on your account.
Also, I am delighted to think that you are not going to desert your old
friend, but intend to remain in your present lodgings. Indeed, my heart
was overcharged with joy when I read in your letter those kindly words
about myself, as well as a not wholly unmerited recognition of my
sentiments. I say this not out of pride, but because now I know how much
you love me to be thus solicitous for my feelings. How good to
think that I may speak to you of them! You bid me, darling, not be
faint-hearted. Indeed, there is no need for me to be so. Think, for
instance, of the pair of shoes which I shall be wearing to the office
tomorrow! The fact is that over-brooding proves the undoing of a
man--his complete undoing. What has saved me is the fact that it is not
for myself that I am grieving, that I am suffering, but for YOU. Nor
would it matter to me in the least that I should have to walk through
the bitter cold without an overcoat or boots--I could bear it, I could
well endure it, for I am a simple man in my requirements; but the point
is--what would people say, what would every envious and hostile tongue
exclaim, when I was seen without an overcoat? It is for OTHER folk that
one wears an overcoat and boots. In any case, therefore, I should have
needed boots to maintain my name and reputation; to both of which my
ragged footgear would otherwise have spelled ruin. Yes, it is so,
my beloved, and you may believe an old man who has had many years of
experience, and knows both the world and mankind, rather than a set of
scribblers and daubers.
But I have not yet told you in detail how things have gone with me
today. During the morning I suffered as much agony of spirit as might
have been experienced in a year. ‘Twas like this: First of all, I went
out to call upon the gentleman of whom I have spoken. I started very
early, before going to the office. Rain and sleet were falling, and
I hugged myself in my greatcoat as I walked along. “Lord,” thought I,
“pardon my offences, and send me fulfilment of all my desires;” and as
I passed a church I crossed myself, repented of my sins, and reminded
myself that I was unworthy to hold communication with the Lord God. Then
I retired into myself, and tried to look at nothing; and so, walking
without noticing the streets, I proceeded on my way. Everything had an
empty air, and everyone whom I met looked careworn and preoccupied, and
no wonder, for who would choose to walk abroad at such an early hour,
and in such weather? Next a band of ragged workmen met me, and jostled
me boorishly as they passed; upon which nervousness overtook me, and
I felt uneasy, and tried hard not to think of the money that was
my errand. Near the Voskresenski Bridge my feet began to ache with
weariness, until I could hardly pull myself along; until presently I met
with Ermolaev, a writer in our office, who, stepping aside, halted, and
followed me with his eyes, as though to beg of me a glass of vodka. “Ah,
friend,” thought I, “go YOU to your vodka, but what have I to do with
such stuff? ” Then, sadly weary, I halted for a moment’s rest, and
thereafter dragged myself further on my way. Purposely I kept looking
about me for something upon which to fasten my thoughts, with which to
distract, to encourage myself; but there was nothing. Not a single idea
could I connect with any given object, while, in addition, my appearance
was so draggled that I felt utterly ashamed of it. At length I perceived
from afar a gabled house that was built of yellow wood. This, I thought,
must be the residence of the Monsieur Markov whom Emelia Ivanovitch had
mentioned to me as ready to lend money on interest. Half unconscious
of what I was doing, I asked a watchman if he could tell me to whom the
house belonged; whereupon grudgingly, and as though he were vexed at
something, the fellow muttered that it belonged to one Markov. Are ALL
watchmen so unfeeling? Why did this one reply as he did? In any case I
felt disagreeably impressed, for like always answers to like, and, no
matter what position one is in, things invariably appear to correspond
to it. Three times did I pass the house and walk the length of the
street; until the further I walked, the worse became my state of mind.
“No, never, never will he lend me anything! ” I thought to myself, “He
does not know me, and my affairs will seem to him ridiculous, and I
shall cut a sorry figure. However, let fate decide for me. Only, let
Heaven send that I do not afterwards repent me, and eat out my heart
with remorse! ” Softly I opened the wicket-gate. Horrors! A great ragged
brute of a watch-dog came flying out at me, and foaming at the mouth,
and nearly jumping out his skin! Curious is it to note what little,
trivial incidents will nearly make a man crazy, and strike terror to his
heart, and annihilate the firm purpose with which he has armed himself.
At all events, I approached the house more dead than alive, and walked
straight into another catastrophe. That is to say, not noticing the
slipperiness of the threshold, I stumbled against an old woman who
was filling milk-jugs from a pail, and sent the milk flying in every
direction! The foolish old dame gave a start and a cry, and then
demanded of me whither I had been coming, and what it was I wanted;
after which she rated me soundly for my awkwardness. Always have I found
something of the kind befall me when engaged on errands of this nature.
It seems to be my destiny invariably to run into something. Upon that,
the noise and the commotion brought out the mistress of the house--an
old beldame of mean appearance. I addressed myself directly to her:
“Does Monsieur Markov live here? ” was my inquiry. “No,” she replied, and
then stood looking at me civilly enough. “But what want you with him? ”
she continued; upon which I told her about Emelia Ivanovitch and
the rest of the business. As soon as I had finished, she called her
daughter--a barefooted girl in her teens--and told her to summon her
father from upstairs. Meanwhile, I was shown into a room which contained
several portraits of generals on the walls and was furnished with a
sofa, a large table, and a few pots of mignonette and balsam.
“Shall I,
or shall I not (come weal, come woe) take myself off? ” was my thought as
I waited there. Ah, how I longed to run away! “Yes,” I continued, “I had
better come again tomorrow, for the weather may then be better, and I
shall not have upset the milk, and these generals will not be looking at
me so fiercely. ” In fact, I had actually begun to move towards the door
when Monsieur Markov entered--a grey-headed man with thievish eyes, and
clad in a dirty dressing-gown fastened with a belt. Greetings over, I
stumbled out something about Emelia Ivanovitch and forty roubles, and
then came to a dead halt, for his eyes told me that my errand had been
futile. “No. ” said he, “I have no money. Moreover, what security
could you offer? ” I admitted that I could offer none, but again added
something about Emelia, as well as about my pressing needs. Markov heard
me out, and then repeated that he had no money. “Ah,” thought I, “I
might have known this--I might have foreseen it! ” And, to tell the
truth, Barbara, I could have wished that the earth had opened under my
feet, so chilled did I feel as he said what he did, so numbed did my
legs grow as shivers began to run down my back. Thus I remained gazing
at him while he returned my gaze with a look which said, “Well now,
my friend? Why do you not go since you have no further business to do
here? ” Somehow I felt conscience-stricken. “How is it that you are in
such need of money? ” was what he appeared to be asking; whereupon, I
opened my mouth (anything rather than stand there to no purpose at all! )
but found that he was not even listening. “I have no money,” again he
said, “or I would lend you some with pleasure. ” Several times I repeated
that I myself possessed a little, and that I would repay any loan
from him punctually, most punctually, and that he might charge me what
interest he liked, since I would meet it without fail. Yes, at that
moment I remembered our misfortunes, our necessities, and I remembered
your half-rouble. “No,” said he, “I can lend you nothing without
security,” and clinched his assurance with an oath, the robber!
How I contrived to leave the house and, passing through Viborskaia
Street, to reach the Voskresenski Bridge I do not know. I only remember
that I felt terribly weary, cold, and starved, and that it was ten
o’clock before I reached the office. Arriving, I tried to clean myself
up a little, but Sniegirev, the porter, said that it was impossible for
me to do so, and that I should only spoil the brush, which belonged to
the Government. Thus, my darling, do such fellows rate me lower than
the mat on which they wipe their boots! What is it that will most
surely break me? It is not the want of money, but the LITTLE worries
of life--these whisperings and nods and jeers. Any day his Excellency
himself may round upon me. Ah, dearest, my golden days are gone. Today I
have spent in reading your letters through; and the reading of them has
made me sad. Goodbye, my own, and may the Lord watch over you!
M. DIEVUSHKIN.
P. S. --To conceal my sorrow I would have written this letter half
jestingly; but, the faculty of jesting has not been given me. My one
desire, however, is to afford you pleasure. Soon I will come and see
you, dearest. Without fail I will come and see you.
August 11th.
O Barbara Alexievna, I am undone--we are both of us undone! Both of
us are lost beyond recall! Everything is ruined--my reputation, my
self-respect, all that I have in the world! And you as much as I. Never
shall we retrieve what we have lost. I--I have brought you to this pass,
for I have become an outcast, my darling. Everywhere I am laughed at
and despised. Even my landlady has taken to abusing me. Today she
overwhelmed me with shrill reproaches, and abased me to the level of a
hearth-brush. And last night, when I was in Rataziaev’s rooms, one of
his friends began to read a scribbled note which I had written to
you, and then inadvertently pulled out of my pocket. Oh beloved, what
laughter there arose at the recital! How those scoundrels mocked and
derided you and myself! I walked up to them and accused Rataziaev of
breaking faith. I said that he had played the traitor. But he only
replied that I had been the betrayer in the case, by indulging in
various amours. “You have kept them very dark though, Mr. Lovelace! ”
said he--and now I am known everywhere by this name of “Lovelace. ” They
know EVERYTHING about us, my darling, EVERYTHING--both about you and
your affairs and about myself; and when today I was for sending Phaldoni
to the bakeshop for something or other, he refused to go, saying that
it was not his business. “But you MUST go,” said I. “I will not,” he
replied. “You have not paid my mistress what you owe her, so I am not
bound to run your errands. ” At such an insult from a raw peasant I lost
my temper, and called him a fool; to which he retorted in a similar
vein. Upon this I thought that he must be drunk, and told him so;
whereupon he replied: “WHAT say you that I am? Suppose you yourself go
and sober up, for I know that the other day you went to visit a woman,
and that you got drunk with her on two grivenniks. ” To such a pass have
things come! I feel ashamed to be seen alive. I am, as it were, a man
proclaimed; I am in a worse plight even than a tramp who has lost his
passport. How misfortunes are heaping themselves upon me! I am lost--I
am lost for ever!
M. D.
August 13th.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--It is true that misfortune is following
upon misfortune. I myself scarcely know what to do. Yet, no matter how
you may be fairing, you must not look for help from me, for only today I
burned my left hand with the iron! At one and the same moment I dropped
the iron, made a mistake in my work, and burned myself! So now I can no
longer work. Also, these three days past, Thedora has been ailing.
My anxiety is becoming positively torturous. Nevertheless, I send you
thirty kopecks--almost the last coins that I have left to me, much as I
should have liked to have helped you more when you are so much in need.
I feel vexed to the point of weeping. Goodbye, dear friend of mine. You
will bring me much comfort if only you will come and see me today.
B. D.
August 14th.
What is the matter with you, Makar Alexievitch? Surely you cannot
fear the Lord God as you ought to do? You are not only driving me to
distraction but also ruining yourself with this eternal solicitude for
your reputation. You are a man of honour, nobility of character, and
self-respect, as everyone knows; yet, at any moment, you are ready to
die with shame! Surely you should have more consideration for your grey
hairs. No, the fear of God has departed from you. Thedora has told you
that it is out of my power to render you anymore help. See, therefore,
to what a pass you have brought me! Probably you think it is nothing to
me that you should behave so badly; probably you do not realise what you
have made me suffer. I dare not set foot on the staircase here, for if
I do so I am stared at, and pointed at, and spoken about in the most
horrible manner. Yes, it is even said of me that I am “united to a
drunkard. ” What a thing to hear! And whenever you are brought home drunk
folk say, “They are carrying in that tchinovnik. ” THAT is not the proper
way to make me help you. I swear that I MUST leave this place, and go
and get work as a cook or a laundress. It is impossible for me to stay
here. Long ago I wrote and asked you to come and see me, yet you have
not come. Truly my tears and prayers must mean NOTHING to you, Makar
Alexievitch! Whence, too, did you get the money for your debauchery? For
the love of God be more careful of yourself, or you will be ruined. How
shameful, how abominable of you! So the landlady would not admit you
last night, and you spent the night on the doorstep? Oh, I know all
about it. Yet if only you could have seen my agony when I heard the
news! . . . Come and see me, Makar Alexievitch, and we will once more be
happy together. Yes, we will read together, and talk of old times, and
Thedora shall tell you of her pilgrimages in former days. For God’s sake
beloved, do not ruin both yourself and me. I live for you alone; it
is for your sake alone that I am still here. Be your better self once
more--the self which still can remain firm in the face of misfortune.
Poverty is no crime; always remember that. After all, why should we
despair? Our present difficulties will pass away, and God will right
us. Only be brave. I send you two grivenniks for the purchase of some
tobacco or anything else that you need; but, for the love of heaven, do
not spend the money foolishly. Come you and see me soon; come without
fail. Perhaps you may be ashamed to meet me, as you were before, but you
NEED not feel like that--such shame would be misplaced. Only do bring
with you sincere repentance and trust in God, who orders all things for
the best.
B. D.
August 19th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,-Yes, I AM ashamed to meet you, my
darling--I AM ashamed. At the same time, what is there in all this? Why
should we not be cheerful again? Why should I mind the soles of my feet
coming through my boots? The sole of one’s foot is a mere bagatelle--it
will never be anything but just a base, dirty sole. And shoes do not
matter, either. The Greek sages used to walk about without them, so why
should we coddle ourselves with such things? Yet why, also, should I
be insulted and despised because of them? Tell Thedora that she is a
rubbishy, tiresome, gabbling old woman, as well as an inexpressibly
foolish one. As for my grey hairs, you are quite wrong about them,
inasmuch as I am not such an old man as you think. Emelia sends you
his greeting. You write that you are in great distress, and have been
weeping. Well, I too am in great distress, and have been weeping. Nay,
nay. I wish you the best of health and happiness, even as I am well and
happy myself, so long as I may remain, my darling,--Your friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
August 21st.
MY DEAR AND KIND BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I feel that I am guilty, I feel
that I have sinned against you. Yet also I feel, from what you say, that
it is no use for me so to feel. Even before I had sinned I felt as I do
now; but I gave way to despair, and the more so as recognised my fault.
Darling, I am not cruel or hardhearted. To rend your little soul would
be the act of a blood-thirsty tiger, whereas I have the heart of a
sheep. You yourself know that I am not addicted to bloodthirstiness,
and therefore that I cannot really be guilty of the fault in question,
seeing that neither my mind nor my heart have participated in it.
Nor can I understand wherein the guilt lies. To me it is all a mystery.
When you sent me those thirty kopecks, and thereafter those two
grivenniks, my heart sank within me as I looked at the poor little
money. To think that though you had burned your hand, and would soon be
hungry, you could write to me that I was to buy tobacco! What was I to
do? Remorselessly to rob you, an orphan, as any brigand might do? I
felt greatly depressed, dearest. That is to say, persuaded that I should
never do any good with my life, and that I was inferior even to the
sole of my own boot, I took it into my head that it was absurd for me to
aspire at all--rather, that I ought to account myself a disgrace and an
abomination. Once a man has lost his self-respect, and has decided to
abjure his better qualities and human dignity, he falls headlong, and
cannot choose but do so. It is decreed of fate, and therefore I am not
guilty in this respect.
That evening I went out merely to get a breath of fresh air, but one
thing followed another--the weather was cold, all nature was looking
mournful, and I had fallen in with Emelia. This man had spent everything
that he possessed, and, at the time I met him, had not for two days
tasted a crust of bread. He had tried to raise money by pawning,
but what articles he had for the purpose had been refused by the
pawnbrokers. It was more from sympathy for a fellow-man than from any
liking for the individual that I yielded. That is how the fault arose,
dearest.
He spoke of you, and I mingled my tears with his. Yes, he is a man
of kind, kind heart--a man of deep feeling. I often feel as he did,
dearest, and, in addition, I know how beholden to you I am. As soon as
ever I got to know you I began both to realise myself and to love you;
for until you came into my life I had been a lonely man--I had been, as
it were, asleep rather than alive. In former days my rascally colleagues
used to tell me that I was unfit even to be seen; in fact, they so
disliked me that at length I began to dislike myself, for, being
frequently told that I was stupid, I began to believe that I really was
so. But the instant that YOU came into my life, you lightened the dark
places in it, you lightened both my heart and my soul. Gradually, I
gained rest of spirit, until I had come to see that I was no worse
than other men, and that, though I had neither style nor brilliancy nor
polish, I was still a MAN as regards my thoughts and feelings. But now,
alas! pursued and scorned of fate, I have again allowed myself to abjure
my own dignity. Oppressed of misfortune, I have lost my courage. Here is
my confession to you, dearest. With tears I beseech you not to inquire
further into the matter, for my heart is breaking, and life has grown
indeed hard and bitter for me--Beloved, I offer you my respect, and
remain ever your faithful friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 3rd.
The reason why I did not finish my last letter, Makar Alexievitch, was
that I found it so difficult to write. There are moments when I am glad
to be alone--to grieve and repine without any one to share my sorrow:
and those moments are beginning to come upon me with ever-increasing
frequency. Always in my reminiscences I find something which is
inexplicable, yet strongly attractive--so much so that for hours together
I remain insensible to my surroundings, oblivious of reality. Indeed,
in my present life there is not a single impression that I
encounter--pleasant or the reverse--which does not recall to my mind
something of a similar nature in the past. More particularly is this the
case with regard to my childhood, my golden childhood. Yet such moments
always leave me depressed. They render me weak, and exhaust my powers of
fancy; with the result that my health, already not good, grows steadily
worse.
However, this morning it is a fine, fresh, cloudless day, such as we
seldom get in autumn. The air has revived me and I greet it with joy.
Yet to think that already the fall of the year has come! How I used
to love the country in autumn! Then but a child, I was yet a sensitive
being who loved autumn evenings better than autumn mornings. I remember
how beside our house, at the foot of a hill, there lay a large pond, and
how the pond--I can see it even now! --shone with a broad, level surface
that was as clear as crystal. On still evenings this pond would be at
rest, and not a rustle would disturb the trees which grew on its banks
and overhung the motionless expanse of water. How fresh it used to seem,
yet how cold! The dew would be falling upon the turf, lights would be
beginning to shine forth from the huts on the pond’s margin, and the
cattle would be wending their way home. Then quietly I would slip out
of the house to look at my beloved pond, and forget myself in
contemplation. Here and there a fisherman’s bundle of brushwood would be
burning at the water’s edge, and sending its light far and wide over
the surface.
continued, “can you not do ANYTHING? ” Still he maintained silence, and
seemed not to have heard me. I waited and waited. At length I determined
to make a final attempt, and plucked him by the sleeve. He muttered
something, and, his pen mended, set about his writing. There was nothing
for me to do but to depart. He and the rest of them are worthy fellows,
dearest--that I do not doubt--but they are also proud, very proud. What
have I to do with them? Yet I thought I would write and tell you all
about it. Meanwhile Emelia Ivanovitch had been encouraging me with nods
and smiles. He is a good soul, and has promised to recommend me to a
friend of his who lives in Viborskaia Street and lends money. Emelia
declares that this friend will certainly lend me a little; so tomorrow,
beloved, I am going to call upon the gentleman in question. . . . What do
you think about it? It would be a pity not to obtain a loan. My landlady
is on the point of turning me out of doors, and has refused to allow me
any more board. Also, my boots are wearing through, and have lost every
button--and I do not possess another pair! Could anyone in a government
office display greater shabbiness? It is dreadful, my Barbara--it is
simply dreadful!
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
August 4th.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--For God’s sake borrow some money as
soon as you can. I would not ask this help of you were it not for the
situation in which I am placed. Thedora and myself cannot remain any
longer in our present lodgings, for we have been subjected to great
unpleasantness, and you cannot imagine my state of agitation and
dismay. The reason is that this morning we received a visit from an
elderly--almost an old--man whose breast was studded with orders.
Greatly surprised, I asked him what he wanted (for at the moment Thedora
had gone out shopping); whereupon he began to question me as to my
mode of life and occupation, and then, without waiting for an answer,
informed me that he was uncle to the officer of whom you have spoken;
that he was very angry with his nephew for the way in which the latter
had behaved, especially with regard to his slandering of me right and
left; and that he, the uncle, was ready to protect me from the young
spendthrift’s insolence. Also, he advised me to have nothing to say to
young fellows of that stamp, and added that he sympathised with me as
though he were my own father, and would gladly help me in any way he
could. At this I blushed in some confusion, but did not greatly hasten
to thank him. Next, he took me forcibly by the hand, and, tapping my
cheek, said that I was very good-looking, and that he greatly liked the
dimples in my face (God only knows what he meant! ). Finally he tried to
kiss me, on the plea that he was an old man, the brute! At this moment
Thedora returned; whereupon, in some confusion, he repeated that he felt
a great respect for my modesty and virtue, and that he much wished to
become acquainted with me; after which he took Thedora aside, and tried,
on some pretext or another, to give her money (though of course she
declined it). At last he took himself off--again reiterating his
assurances, and saying that he intended to return with some earrings as
a present; that he advised me to change my lodgings; and, that he could
recommend me a splendid flat which he had in his mind’s eye as likely to
cost me nothing. Yes, he also declared that he greatly liked me for my
purity and good sense; that I must beware of dissolute young men; and
that he knew Anna Thedorovna, who had charged him to inform me that she
would shortly be visiting me in person. Upon that, I understood all.
What I did next I scarcely know, for I had never before found myself in
such a position; but I believe that I broke all restraints, and made the
old man feel thoroughly ashamed of himself--Thedora helping me in the
task, and well-nigh turning him neck and crop out of the tenement.
Neither of us doubt that this is Anna Thedorovna’s work--for how
otherwise could the old man have got to know about us?
Now, therefore, Makar Alexievitch, I turn to you for help. Do not, for
God’s sake, leave me in this plight. Borrow all the money that you can
get, for I have not the wherewithal to leave these lodgings, yet cannot
possibly remain in them any longer. At all events, this is Thedora’s
advice. She and I need at least twenty-five roubles, which I will repay
you out of what I earn by my work, while Thedora shall get me additional
work from day to day, so that, if there be heavy interest to pay on the
loan, you shall not be troubled with the extra burden. Nay, I will make
over to you all that I possess if only you will continue to help me.
Truly, I grieve to have to trouble you when you yourself are so hardly
situated, but my hopes rest upon you, and upon you alone. Goodbye, Makar
Alexievitch. Think of me, and may God speed you on your errand!
B. D.
August 4th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--These unlooked-for blows have shaken me
terribly, and these strange calamities have quite broken my spirit.
Not content with trying to bring you to a bed of sickness, these
lickspittles and pestilent old men are trying to bring me to the same.
And I assure you that they are succeeding--I assure you that they are.
Yet I would rather die than not help you. If I cannot help you I SHALL
die; but, to enable me to help you, you must flee like a bird out of the
nest where these owls, these birds of prey, are seeking to peck you to
death. How distressed I feel, my dearest! Yet how cruel you yourself
are! Although you are enduring pain and insult, although you, little
nestling, are in agony of spirit, you actually tell me that it grieves
you to disturb me, and that you will work off your debt to me with the
labour of your own hands! In other words, you, with your weak health,
are proposing to kill yourself in order to relieve me to term of my
financial embarrassments! Stop a moment, and think what you are saying.
WHY should you sew, and work, and torture your poor head with anxiety,
and spoil your beautiful eyes, and ruin your health? Why, indeed? Ah,
little Barbara, little Barbara! Do you not see that I shall never be any
good to you, never any good to you? At all events, I myself see it. Yet
I WILL help you in your distress. I WILL overcome every difficulty, I
WILL get extra work to do, I WILL copy out manuscripts for authors,
I WILL go to the latter and force them to employ me, I WILL so apply
myself to the work that they shall see that I am a good copyist (and
good copyists, I know, are always in demand). Thus there will be no need
for you to exhaust your strength, nor will I allow you to do so--I will
not have you carry out your disastrous intention. . . Yes, little angel,
I will certainly borrow some money. I would rather die than not do
so. Merely tell me, my own darling, that I am not to shrink from heavy
interest, and I will not shrink from it, I will not shrink from it--nay,
I will shrink from nothing. I will ask for forty roubles, to begin with.
That will not be much, will it, little Barbara? Yet will any one trust
me even with that sum at the first asking? Do you think that I am
capable of inspiring confidence at the first glance? Would the mere
sight of my face lead any one to form of me a favourable opinion? Have I
ever been able, remember you, to appear to anyone in a favourable light?
What think you? Personally, I see difficulties in the way, and feel sick
at heart at the mere prospect. However, of those forty roubles I mean
to set aside twenty-five for yourself, two for my landlady, and the
remainder for my own spending. Of course, I ought to give more than
two to my landlady, but you must remember my necessities, and see for
yourself that that is the most that can be assigned to her. We need say
no more about it. For one rouble I shall buy me a new pair of shoes, for
I scarcely know whether my old ones will take me to the office tomorrow
morning. Also, a new neck-scarf is indispensable, seeing that the old
one has now passed its first year; but, since you have promised to make
of your old apron not only a scarf, but also a shirt-front, I need think
no more of the article in question. So much for shoes and scarves. Next,
for buttons. You yourself will agree that I cannot do without buttons;
nor is there on my garments a single hem unfrayed. I tremble when I
think that some day his Excellency may perceive my untidiness, and
say--well, what will he NOT say? Yet I shall never hear what he says,
for I shall have expired where I sit--expired of mere shame at the
thought of having been thus exposed. Ah, dearest! . . . Well, my various
necessities will have left me three roubles to go on with. Part of
this sum I shall expend upon a half-pound of tobacco--for I cannot live
without tobacco, and it is nine days since I last put a pipe into my
mouth. To tell the truth, I shall buy the tobacco without acquainting
you with the fact, although I ought not so to do. The pity of it all is
that, while you are depriving yourself of everything, I keep solacing
myself with various amenities--which is why I am telling you this, that
the pangs of conscience may not torment me. Frankly, I confess that I
am in desperate straits--in such straits as I have never yet known. My
landlady flouts me, and I enjoy the respect of noone; my arrears and
debts are terrible; and in the office, though never have I found the
place exactly a paradise, noone has a single word to say to me. Yet I
hide, I carefully hide, this from every one. I would hide my person in
the same way, were it not that daily I have to attend the office where
I have to be constantly on my guard against my fellows. Nevertheless,
merely to be able to CONFESS this to you renews my spiritual strength.
We must not think of these things, Barbara, lest the thought of them
break our courage. I write them down merely to warn you NOT to think of
them, nor to torture yourself with bitter imaginings. Yet, my God, what
is to become of us? Stay where you are until I can come to you; after
which I shall not return hither, but simply disappear. Now I have
finished my letter, and must go and shave myself, inasmuch as, when that
is done, one always feels more decent, as well as consorts more easily
with decency. God speed me! One prayer to Him, and I must be off.
M. DIEVUSHKIN.
August 5th.
DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--You must not despair. Away with melancholy!
I am sending you thirty kopecks in silver, and regret that I cannot send
you more. Buy yourself what you most need until tomorrow. I myself have
almost nothing left, and what I am going to do I know not. Is it not
dreadful, Makar Alexievitch? Yet do not be downcast--it is no good being
that. Thedora declares that it would not be a bad thing if we were to
remain in this tenement, since if we left it suspicions would arise, and
our enemies might take it into their heads to look for us. On the other
hand, I do not think it would be well for us to remain here. If I were
feeling less sad I would tell you my reason.
What a strange man you are, Makar Alexievitch! You take things so much
to heart that you never know what it is to be happy. I read your letters
attentively, and can see from them that, though you worry and disturb
yourself about me, you never give a thought to yourself. Yes, every
letter tells me that you have a kind heart; but I tell YOU that that
heart is overly kind. So I will give you a little friendly advice, Makar
Alexievitch. I am full of gratitude towards you--I am indeed full for
all that you have done for me, I am most sensible of your goodness;
but, to think that I should be forced to see that, in spite of your own
troubles (of which I have been the involuntary cause), you live for me
alone--you live but for MY joys and MY sorrows and MY affection! If you
take the affairs of another person so to heart, and suffer with her to
such an extent, I do not wonder that you yourself are unhappy. Today,
when you came to see me after office-work was done, I felt afraid even
to raise my eyes to yours, for you looked so pale and desperate, and
your face had so fallen in. Yes, you were dreading to have to tell me
of your failure to borrow money--you were dreading to have to grieve and
alarm me; but, when you saw that I came very near to smiling, the load
was, I know, lifted from your heart. So do not be despondent, do not
give way, but allow more rein to your better sense. I beg and implore
this of you, for it will not be long before you see things take a turn
for the better. You will but spoil your life if you constantly lament
another person’s sorrow. Goodbye, dear friend. I beseech you not to be
over-anxious about me.
B. D.
August 5th.
MY DARLING LITTLE BARBARA,--This is well, this is well, my angel! So you
are of opinion that the fact that I have failed to obtain any money does
not matter? Then I too am reassured, I too am happy on your account.
Also, I am delighted to think that you are not going to desert your old
friend, but intend to remain in your present lodgings. Indeed, my heart
was overcharged with joy when I read in your letter those kindly words
about myself, as well as a not wholly unmerited recognition of my
sentiments. I say this not out of pride, but because now I know how much
you love me to be thus solicitous for my feelings. How good to
think that I may speak to you of them! You bid me, darling, not be
faint-hearted. Indeed, there is no need for me to be so. Think, for
instance, of the pair of shoes which I shall be wearing to the office
tomorrow! The fact is that over-brooding proves the undoing of a
man--his complete undoing. What has saved me is the fact that it is not
for myself that I am grieving, that I am suffering, but for YOU. Nor
would it matter to me in the least that I should have to walk through
the bitter cold without an overcoat or boots--I could bear it, I could
well endure it, for I am a simple man in my requirements; but the point
is--what would people say, what would every envious and hostile tongue
exclaim, when I was seen without an overcoat? It is for OTHER folk that
one wears an overcoat and boots. In any case, therefore, I should have
needed boots to maintain my name and reputation; to both of which my
ragged footgear would otherwise have spelled ruin. Yes, it is so,
my beloved, and you may believe an old man who has had many years of
experience, and knows both the world and mankind, rather than a set of
scribblers and daubers.
But I have not yet told you in detail how things have gone with me
today. During the morning I suffered as much agony of spirit as might
have been experienced in a year. ‘Twas like this: First of all, I went
out to call upon the gentleman of whom I have spoken. I started very
early, before going to the office. Rain and sleet were falling, and
I hugged myself in my greatcoat as I walked along. “Lord,” thought I,
“pardon my offences, and send me fulfilment of all my desires;” and as
I passed a church I crossed myself, repented of my sins, and reminded
myself that I was unworthy to hold communication with the Lord God. Then
I retired into myself, and tried to look at nothing; and so, walking
without noticing the streets, I proceeded on my way. Everything had an
empty air, and everyone whom I met looked careworn and preoccupied, and
no wonder, for who would choose to walk abroad at such an early hour,
and in such weather? Next a band of ragged workmen met me, and jostled
me boorishly as they passed; upon which nervousness overtook me, and
I felt uneasy, and tried hard not to think of the money that was
my errand. Near the Voskresenski Bridge my feet began to ache with
weariness, until I could hardly pull myself along; until presently I met
with Ermolaev, a writer in our office, who, stepping aside, halted, and
followed me with his eyes, as though to beg of me a glass of vodka. “Ah,
friend,” thought I, “go YOU to your vodka, but what have I to do with
such stuff? ” Then, sadly weary, I halted for a moment’s rest, and
thereafter dragged myself further on my way. Purposely I kept looking
about me for something upon which to fasten my thoughts, with which to
distract, to encourage myself; but there was nothing. Not a single idea
could I connect with any given object, while, in addition, my appearance
was so draggled that I felt utterly ashamed of it. At length I perceived
from afar a gabled house that was built of yellow wood. This, I thought,
must be the residence of the Monsieur Markov whom Emelia Ivanovitch had
mentioned to me as ready to lend money on interest. Half unconscious
of what I was doing, I asked a watchman if he could tell me to whom the
house belonged; whereupon grudgingly, and as though he were vexed at
something, the fellow muttered that it belonged to one Markov. Are ALL
watchmen so unfeeling? Why did this one reply as he did? In any case I
felt disagreeably impressed, for like always answers to like, and, no
matter what position one is in, things invariably appear to correspond
to it. Three times did I pass the house and walk the length of the
street; until the further I walked, the worse became my state of mind.
“No, never, never will he lend me anything! ” I thought to myself, “He
does not know me, and my affairs will seem to him ridiculous, and I
shall cut a sorry figure. However, let fate decide for me. Only, let
Heaven send that I do not afterwards repent me, and eat out my heart
with remorse! ” Softly I opened the wicket-gate. Horrors! A great ragged
brute of a watch-dog came flying out at me, and foaming at the mouth,
and nearly jumping out his skin! Curious is it to note what little,
trivial incidents will nearly make a man crazy, and strike terror to his
heart, and annihilate the firm purpose with which he has armed himself.
At all events, I approached the house more dead than alive, and walked
straight into another catastrophe. That is to say, not noticing the
slipperiness of the threshold, I stumbled against an old woman who
was filling milk-jugs from a pail, and sent the milk flying in every
direction! The foolish old dame gave a start and a cry, and then
demanded of me whither I had been coming, and what it was I wanted;
after which she rated me soundly for my awkwardness. Always have I found
something of the kind befall me when engaged on errands of this nature.
It seems to be my destiny invariably to run into something. Upon that,
the noise and the commotion brought out the mistress of the house--an
old beldame of mean appearance. I addressed myself directly to her:
“Does Monsieur Markov live here? ” was my inquiry. “No,” she replied, and
then stood looking at me civilly enough. “But what want you with him? ”
she continued; upon which I told her about Emelia Ivanovitch and
the rest of the business. As soon as I had finished, she called her
daughter--a barefooted girl in her teens--and told her to summon her
father from upstairs. Meanwhile, I was shown into a room which contained
several portraits of generals on the walls and was furnished with a
sofa, a large table, and a few pots of mignonette and balsam.
“Shall I,
or shall I not (come weal, come woe) take myself off? ” was my thought as
I waited there. Ah, how I longed to run away! “Yes,” I continued, “I had
better come again tomorrow, for the weather may then be better, and I
shall not have upset the milk, and these generals will not be looking at
me so fiercely. ” In fact, I had actually begun to move towards the door
when Monsieur Markov entered--a grey-headed man with thievish eyes, and
clad in a dirty dressing-gown fastened with a belt. Greetings over, I
stumbled out something about Emelia Ivanovitch and forty roubles, and
then came to a dead halt, for his eyes told me that my errand had been
futile. “No. ” said he, “I have no money. Moreover, what security
could you offer? ” I admitted that I could offer none, but again added
something about Emelia, as well as about my pressing needs. Markov heard
me out, and then repeated that he had no money. “Ah,” thought I, “I
might have known this--I might have foreseen it! ” And, to tell the
truth, Barbara, I could have wished that the earth had opened under my
feet, so chilled did I feel as he said what he did, so numbed did my
legs grow as shivers began to run down my back. Thus I remained gazing
at him while he returned my gaze with a look which said, “Well now,
my friend? Why do you not go since you have no further business to do
here? ” Somehow I felt conscience-stricken. “How is it that you are in
such need of money? ” was what he appeared to be asking; whereupon, I
opened my mouth (anything rather than stand there to no purpose at all! )
but found that he was not even listening. “I have no money,” again he
said, “or I would lend you some with pleasure. ” Several times I repeated
that I myself possessed a little, and that I would repay any loan
from him punctually, most punctually, and that he might charge me what
interest he liked, since I would meet it without fail. Yes, at that
moment I remembered our misfortunes, our necessities, and I remembered
your half-rouble. “No,” said he, “I can lend you nothing without
security,” and clinched his assurance with an oath, the robber!
How I contrived to leave the house and, passing through Viborskaia
Street, to reach the Voskresenski Bridge I do not know. I only remember
that I felt terribly weary, cold, and starved, and that it was ten
o’clock before I reached the office. Arriving, I tried to clean myself
up a little, but Sniegirev, the porter, said that it was impossible for
me to do so, and that I should only spoil the brush, which belonged to
the Government. Thus, my darling, do such fellows rate me lower than
the mat on which they wipe their boots! What is it that will most
surely break me? It is not the want of money, but the LITTLE worries
of life--these whisperings and nods and jeers. Any day his Excellency
himself may round upon me. Ah, dearest, my golden days are gone. Today I
have spent in reading your letters through; and the reading of them has
made me sad. Goodbye, my own, and may the Lord watch over you!
M. DIEVUSHKIN.
P. S. --To conceal my sorrow I would have written this letter half
jestingly; but, the faculty of jesting has not been given me. My one
desire, however, is to afford you pleasure. Soon I will come and see
you, dearest. Without fail I will come and see you.
August 11th.
O Barbara Alexievna, I am undone--we are both of us undone! Both of
us are lost beyond recall! Everything is ruined--my reputation, my
self-respect, all that I have in the world! And you as much as I. Never
shall we retrieve what we have lost. I--I have brought you to this pass,
for I have become an outcast, my darling. Everywhere I am laughed at
and despised. Even my landlady has taken to abusing me. Today she
overwhelmed me with shrill reproaches, and abased me to the level of a
hearth-brush. And last night, when I was in Rataziaev’s rooms, one of
his friends began to read a scribbled note which I had written to
you, and then inadvertently pulled out of my pocket. Oh beloved, what
laughter there arose at the recital! How those scoundrels mocked and
derided you and myself! I walked up to them and accused Rataziaev of
breaking faith. I said that he had played the traitor. But he only
replied that I had been the betrayer in the case, by indulging in
various amours. “You have kept them very dark though, Mr. Lovelace! ”
said he--and now I am known everywhere by this name of “Lovelace. ” They
know EVERYTHING about us, my darling, EVERYTHING--both about you and
your affairs and about myself; and when today I was for sending Phaldoni
to the bakeshop for something or other, he refused to go, saying that
it was not his business. “But you MUST go,” said I. “I will not,” he
replied. “You have not paid my mistress what you owe her, so I am not
bound to run your errands. ” At such an insult from a raw peasant I lost
my temper, and called him a fool; to which he retorted in a similar
vein. Upon this I thought that he must be drunk, and told him so;
whereupon he replied: “WHAT say you that I am? Suppose you yourself go
and sober up, for I know that the other day you went to visit a woman,
and that you got drunk with her on two grivenniks. ” To such a pass have
things come! I feel ashamed to be seen alive. I am, as it were, a man
proclaimed; I am in a worse plight even than a tramp who has lost his
passport. How misfortunes are heaping themselves upon me! I am lost--I
am lost for ever!
M. D.
August 13th.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--It is true that misfortune is following
upon misfortune. I myself scarcely know what to do. Yet, no matter how
you may be fairing, you must not look for help from me, for only today I
burned my left hand with the iron! At one and the same moment I dropped
the iron, made a mistake in my work, and burned myself! So now I can no
longer work. Also, these three days past, Thedora has been ailing.
My anxiety is becoming positively torturous. Nevertheless, I send you
thirty kopecks--almost the last coins that I have left to me, much as I
should have liked to have helped you more when you are so much in need.
I feel vexed to the point of weeping. Goodbye, dear friend of mine. You
will bring me much comfort if only you will come and see me today.
B. D.
August 14th.
What is the matter with you, Makar Alexievitch? Surely you cannot
fear the Lord God as you ought to do? You are not only driving me to
distraction but also ruining yourself with this eternal solicitude for
your reputation. You are a man of honour, nobility of character, and
self-respect, as everyone knows; yet, at any moment, you are ready to
die with shame! Surely you should have more consideration for your grey
hairs. No, the fear of God has departed from you. Thedora has told you
that it is out of my power to render you anymore help. See, therefore,
to what a pass you have brought me! Probably you think it is nothing to
me that you should behave so badly; probably you do not realise what you
have made me suffer. I dare not set foot on the staircase here, for if
I do so I am stared at, and pointed at, and spoken about in the most
horrible manner. Yes, it is even said of me that I am “united to a
drunkard. ” What a thing to hear! And whenever you are brought home drunk
folk say, “They are carrying in that tchinovnik. ” THAT is not the proper
way to make me help you. I swear that I MUST leave this place, and go
and get work as a cook or a laundress. It is impossible for me to stay
here. Long ago I wrote and asked you to come and see me, yet you have
not come. Truly my tears and prayers must mean NOTHING to you, Makar
Alexievitch! Whence, too, did you get the money for your debauchery? For
the love of God be more careful of yourself, or you will be ruined. How
shameful, how abominable of you! So the landlady would not admit you
last night, and you spent the night on the doorstep? Oh, I know all
about it. Yet if only you could have seen my agony when I heard the
news! . . . Come and see me, Makar Alexievitch, and we will once more be
happy together. Yes, we will read together, and talk of old times, and
Thedora shall tell you of her pilgrimages in former days. For God’s sake
beloved, do not ruin both yourself and me. I live for you alone; it
is for your sake alone that I am still here. Be your better self once
more--the self which still can remain firm in the face of misfortune.
Poverty is no crime; always remember that. After all, why should we
despair? Our present difficulties will pass away, and God will right
us. Only be brave. I send you two grivenniks for the purchase of some
tobacco or anything else that you need; but, for the love of heaven, do
not spend the money foolishly. Come you and see me soon; come without
fail. Perhaps you may be ashamed to meet me, as you were before, but you
NEED not feel like that--such shame would be misplaced. Only do bring
with you sincere repentance and trust in God, who orders all things for
the best.
B. D.
August 19th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,-Yes, I AM ashamed to meet you, my
darling--I AM ashamed. At the same time, what is there in all this? Why
should we not be cheerful again? Why should I mind the soles of my feet
coming through my boots? The sole of one’s foot is a mere bagatelle--it
will never be anything but just a base, dirty sole. And shoes do not
matter, either. The Greek sages used to walk about without them, so why
should we coddle ourselves with such things? Yet why, also, should I
be insulted and despised because of them? Tell Thedora that she is a
rubbishy, tiresome, gabbling old woman, as well as an inexpressibly
foolish one. As for my grey hairs, you are quite wrong about them,
inasmuch as I am not such an old man as you think. Emelia sends you
his greeting. You write that you are in great distress, and have been
weeping. Well, I too am in great distress, and have been weeping. Nay,
nay. I wish you the best of health and happiness, even as I am well and
happy myself, so long as I may remain, my darling,--Your friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
August 21st.
MY DEAR AND KIND BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I feel that I am guilty, I feel
that I have sinned against you. Yet also I feel, from what you say, that
it is no use for me so to feel. Even before I had sinned I felt as I do
now; but I gave way to despair, and the more so as recognised my fault.
Darling, I am not cruel or hardhearted. To rend your little soul would
be the act of a blood-thirsty tiger, whereas I have the heart of a
sheep. You yourself know that I am not addicted to bloodthirstiness,
and therefore that I cannot really be guilty of the fault in question,
seeing that neither my mind nor my heart have participated in it.
Nor can I understand wherein the guilt lies. To me it is all a mystery.
When you sent me those thirty kopecks, and thereafter those two
grivenniks, my heart sank within me as I looked at the poor little
money. To think that though you had burned your hand, and would soon be
hungry, you could write to me that I was to buy tobacco! What was I to
do? Remorselessly to rob you, an orphan, as any brigand might do? I
felt greatly depressed, dearest. That is to say, persuaded that I should
never do any good with my life, and that I was inferior even to the
sole of my own boot, I took it into my head that it was absurd for me to
aspire at all--rather, that I ought to account myself a disgrace and an
abomination. Once a man has lost his self-respect, and has decided to
abjure his better qualities and human dignity, he falls headlong, and
cannot choose but do so. It is decreed of fate, and therefore I am not
guilty in this respect.
That evening I went out merely to get a breath of fresh air, but one
thing followed another--the weather was cold, all nature was looking
mournful, and I had fallen in with Emelia. This man had spent everything
that he possessed, and, at the time I met him, had not for two days
tasted a crust of bread. He had tried to raise money by pawning,
but what articles he had for the purpose had been refused by the
pawnbrokers. It was more from sympathy for a fellow-man than from any
liking for the individual that I yielded. That is how the fault arose,
dearest.
He spoke of you, and I mingled my tears with his. Yes, he is a man
of kind, kind heart--a man of deep feeling. I often feel as he did,
dearest, and, in addition, I know how beholden to you I am. As soon as
ever I got to know you I began both to realise myself and to love you;
for until you came into my life I had been a lonely man--I had been, as
it were, asleep rather than alive. In former days my rascally colleagues
used to tell me that I was unfit even to be seen; in fact, they so
disliked me that at length I began to dislike myself, for, being
frequently told that I was stupid, I began to believe that I really was
so. But the instant that YOU came into my life, you lightened the dark
places in it, you lightened both my heart and my soul. Gradually, I
gained rest of spirit, until I had come to see that I was no worse
than other men, and that, though I had neither style nor brilliancy nor
polish, I was still a MAN as regards my thoughts and feelings. But now,
alas! pursued and scorned of fate, I have again allowed myself to abjure
my own dignity. Oppressed of misfortune, I have lost my courage. Here is
my confession to you, dearest. With tears I beseech you not to inquire
further into the matter, for my heart is breaking, and life has grown
indeed hard and bitter for me--Beloved, I offer you my respect, and
remain ever your faithful friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 3rd.
The reason why I did not finish my last letter, Makar Alexievitch, was
that I found it so difficult to write. There are moments when I am glad
to be alone--to grieve and repine without any one to share my sorrow:
and those moments are beginning to come upon me with ever-increasing
frequency. Always in my reminiscences I find something which is
inexplicable, yet strongly attractive--so much so that for hours together
I remain insensible to my surroundings, oblivious of reality. Indeed,
in my present life there is not a single impression that I
encounter--pleasant or the reverse--which does not recall to my mind
something of a similar nature in the past. More particularly is this the
case with regard to my childhood, my golden childhood. Yet such moments
always leave me depressed. They render me weak, and exhaust my powers of
fancy; with the result that my health, already not good, grows steadily
worse.
However, this morning it is a fine, fresh, cloudless day, such as we
seldom get in autumn. The air has revived me and I greet it with joy.
Yet to think that already the fall of the year has come! How I used
to love the country in autumn! Then but a child, I was yet a sensitive
being who loved autumn evenings better than autumn mornings. I remember
how beside our house, at the foot of a hill, there lay a large pond, and
how the pond--I can see it even now! --shone with a broad, level surface
that was as clear as crystal. On still evenings this pond would be at
rest, and not a rustle would disturb the trees which grew on its banks
and overhung the motionless expanse of water. How fresh it used to seem,
yet how cold! The dew would be falling upon the turf, lights would be
beginning to shine forth from the huts on the pond’s margin, and the
cattle would be wending their way home. Then quietly I would slip out
of the house to look at my beloved pond, and forget myself in
contemplation. Here and there a fisherman’s bundle of brushwood would be
burning at the water’s edge, and sending its light far and wide over
the surface.
