No More Learning

. . . I leapt from the chair,
and involuntarily uttered a cry--a cry wrung from me by the terrible,
torturing sensation that was upon me. Presently the door opened, and
Pokrovski entered.

I remember that I was in his arms when I recovered my senses. Carefully
seating me on a bench, he handed me a glass of water, and then asked me
a few questions--though how I answered them I do not know. “You yourself
are ill,” he said as he took my hand. “You yourself are VERY ill. You
are feverish, and I can see that you are knocking yourself out through
your neglect of your own health. Take a little rest. Lie down and go to
sleep. Yes, lie down, lie down,” he continued without giving me time to
protest. Indeed, fatigue had so exhausted my strength that my eyes
were closing from very weakness. So I lay down on the bench with the
intention of sleeping for half an hour only; but, I slept till morning.
Pokrovski then awoke me, saying that it was time for me to go and give
my mother her medicine.

When the next evening, about eight o’clock, I had rested a little and
was preparing to spend the night in a chair beside my mother (fixedly
meaning not to go to sleep this time), Pokrovski suddenly knocked at
the door. I opened it, and he informed me that, since, possibly, I
might find the time wearisome, he had brought me a few books to read. I
accepted the books, but do not, even now, know what books they were, nor
whether I looked into them, despite the fact that I never closed my eyes
the whole night long. The truth was that a strange feeling of excitement
was preventing me from sleeping, and I could not rest long in any one
spot, but had to keep rising from my chair, and walking about the
room. Throughout my whole being there seemed to be diffused a kind of
elation--of elation at Pokrovski’s attentions, at the thought that he
was anxious and uneasy about me. Until dawn I pondered and dreamed; and
though I felt sure Pokrovski would not again visit us that night, I gave
myself up to fancies concerning what he might do the following evening.

That evening, when everyone else in the house had retired to rest,
Pokrovski opened his door, and opened a conversation from the threshold
of his room. Although, at this distance of time, I cannot remember a
word of what we said to one another, I remember that I blushed, grew
confused, felt vexed with myself, and awaited with impatience the end of
the conversation although I myself had been longing for the meeting
to take place, and had spent the day in dreaming of it, and devising
a string of suitable questions and replies. Yes, that evening saw the
first strand in our friendship knitted; and each subsequent night of
my mother’s illness we spent several hours together. Little by little I
overcame his reserve, but found that each of these conversations left me
filled with a sense of vexation at myself. At the same time, I could see
with secret joy and a sense of proud elation that I was leading him to
forget his tiresome books. At last the conversation turned jestingly
upon the upsetting of the shelf. The moment was a peculiar one, for it
came upon me just when I was in the right mood for self-revelation and
candour. In my ardour, my curious phase of exaltation, I found myself
led to make a full confession of the fact that I had become wishful to
learn, to KNOW, something, since I had felt hurt at being taken for a
chit, a mere baby. . . . I repeat that that night I was in a very strange
frame of mind. My heart was inclined to be tender, and there were
tears standing in my eyes. Nothing did I conceal as I told him about
my friendship for him, about my desire to love him, about my scheme
for living in sympathy with him and comforting him, and making his
life easier. In return he threw me a look of confusion mingled with
astonishment, and said nothing. Then suddenly I began to feel terribly
pained and disappointed, for I conceived that he had failed to
understand me, or even that he might be laughing at me. Bursting into
tears like a child, I sobbed, and could not stop myself, for I had
fallen into a kind of fit; whereupon he seized my hand, kissed it, and
clasped it to his breast--saying various things, meanwhile, to comfort
me, for he was labouring under a strong emotion. Exactly what he said
I do not remember--I merely wept and laughed by turns, and blushed, and
found myself unable to speak a word for joy. Yet, for all my agitation,
I noticed that about him there still lingered an air of constraint
and uneasiness. Evidently, he was lost in wonder at my enthusiasm and
raptures--at my curiously ardent, unexpected, consuming friendship. It
may be that at first he was amazed, but that afterwards he accepted my
devotion and words of invitation and expressions of interest with the
same simple frankness as I had offered them, and responded to them
with an interest, a friendliness, a devotion equal to my own, even as a
friend or a brother would do. How happy, how warm was the feeling in my
heart! Nothing had I concealed or repressed. No, I had bared all to his
sight, and each day would see him draw nearer to me.

Truly I could not say what we did not talk about during those painful,
yet rapturous, hours when, by the trembling light of a lamp, and almost
at the very bedside of my poor sick mother, we kept midnight tryst.
Whatsoever first came into our heads we spoke of--whatsoever came riven
from our hearts, whatsoever seemed to call for utterance, found voice.
And almost always we were happy. What a grievous, yet joyous, period it
was--a period grievous and joyous at the same time! To this day it both
hurts and delights me to recall it. Joyous or bitter though it was, its
memories are yet painful. At least they seem so to me, though a certain
sweetness assuaged the pain. So, whenever I am feeling heartsick and
oppressed and jaded and sad those memories return to freshen and revive
me, even as drops of evening dew return to freshen and revive, after a
sultry day, the poor faded flower which has long been drooping in the
noontide heat.

My mother grew better, but still I continued to spend the nights on
a chair by her bedside. Often, too, Pokrovski would give me books. At
first I read them merely so as to avoid going to sleep, but afterwards I
examined them with more attention, and subsequently with actual avidity,
for they opened up to me a new, an unexpected, an unknown, an unfamiliar
world. New thoughts, added to new impressions, would come pouring
into my heart in a rich flood; and the more emotion, the more pain and
labour, it cost me to assimilate these new impressions, the dearer did
they become to me, and the more gratefully did they stir my soul to
its very depths. Crowding into my heart without giving it time even to
breathe, they would cause my whole being to become lost in a wondrous
chaos. Yet this spiritual ferment was not sufficiently strong wholly to
undo me. For that I was too fanciful, and the fact saved me.

With the passing of my mother’s illness the midnight meetings and
long conversations between myself and Pokrovski came to an end. Only
occasionally did we exchange a few words with one another--words, for
the most part, that were of little purport or substance, yet words
to which it delighted me to apportion their several meanings, their
peculiar secret values. My life had now become full--I was happy; I was
quietly, restfully happy. Thus did several weeks elapse. . . .

One day the elder Pokrovski came to see us, and chattered in a
brisk, cheerful, garrulous sort of way. He laughed, launched out into
witticisms, and, finally, resolved the riddle of his transports by
informing us that in a week’s time it would be his Petinka’s birthday,
when, in honour of the occasion, he (the father) meant to don a new
jacket (as well as new shoes which his wife was going to buy for him),
and to come and pay a visit to his son. In short, the old man was
perfectly happy, and gossiped about whatsoever first entered his head.

My lover’s birthday! Thenceforward, I could not rest by night or day.
Whatever might happen, it was my fixed intention to remind Pokrovski
of our friendship by giving him a present. But what sort of present?
Finally, I decided to give him books. I knew that he had long wanted to
possess a complete set of Pushkin’s works, in the latest edition; so,
I decided to buy Pushkin. My private fund consisted of thirty roubles,
earned by handiwork, and designed eventually to procure me a new dress,
but at once I dispatched our cook, old Matrena, to ascertain the price
of such an edition. Horrors! The price of the eleven volumes, added to
extra outlay upon the binding, would amount to at least SIXTY roubles!
Where was the money to come from? I thought and thought, yet could not
decide. I did not like to resort to my mother. Of course she would help
me, but in that case every one in the house would become aware of my
gift, and the gift itself would assume the guise of a recompense--of
payment for Pokrovski’s labours on my behalf during the past year;
whereas, I wished to present the gift ALONE, and without the knowledge
of anyone. For the trouble that he had taken with me I wished to be his
perpetual debtor--to make him no payment at all save my friendship. At
length, I thought of a way out of the difficulty.

I knew that of the hucksters in the Gostinni Dvor one could sometimes
buy a book--even one that had been little used and was almost entirely
new--for a half of its price, provided that one haggled sufficiently
over it; wherefore I determined to repair thither. It so happened that,
next day, both Anna Thedorovna and ourselves were in want of sundry
articles; and since my mother was unwell and Anna lazy, the execution of
the commissions devolved upon me, and I set forth with Matrena.

Luckily, I soon chanced upon a set of Pushkin, handsomely bound, and
set myself to bargain for it. At first more was demanded than would have
been asked of me in a shop; but afterwards--though not without a great
deal of trouble on my part, and several feints at departing--I induced
the dealer to lower his price, and to limit his demands to ten roubles
in silver. How I rejoiced that I had engaged in this bargaining! Poor
Matrena could not imagine what had come to me, nor why I so desired to
buy books. But, oh horror of horrors! As soon as ever the dealer caught
sight of my capital of thirty roubles in notes, he refused to let the
Pushkin go for less than the sum he had first named; and though, in
answer to my prayers and protestations, he eventually yielded a little,
he did so only to the tune of two-and-a-half roubles more than I
possessed, while swearing that he was making the concession for my sake
alone, since I was “a sweet young lady,” and that he would have done so
for no one else in the world. To think that only two-and-a-half roubles
should still be wanting! I could have wept with vexation. Suddenly an
unlooked-for circumstance occurred to help me in my distress.

Not far away, near another table that was heaped with books, I perceived
the elder Pokrovski, and a crowd of four or five hucksters plaguing him
nearly out of his senses. Each of these fellows was proffering the old
man his own particular wares; and while there was nothing that they did
not submit for his approval, there was nothing that he wished to buy.
The poor old fellow had the air of a man who is receiving a thrashing.
What to make of what he was being offered him he did not know.
Approaching him, I inquired what he happened to be doing there; whereat
the old man was delighted, since he liked me (it may be) no less than he
did Petinka.

“I am buying some books, Barbara Alexievna,” said he, “I am buying them
for my Petinka. It will be his birthday soon, and since he likes books I
thought I would get him some. ”

The old man always expressed himself in a very roundabout sort of
fashion, and on the present occasion he was doubly, terribly confused.
Of no matter what book he asked the price, it was sure to be one, two,
or three roubles. The larger books he could not afford at all; he could
only look at them wistfully, fumble their leaves with his finger, turn
over the volumes in his hands, and then replace them. “No, no, that
is too dear,” he would mutter under his breath. “I must go and try
somewhere else. ” Then again he would fall to examining copy-books,
collections of poems, and almanacs of the cheaper order.

“Why should you buy things like those? ” I asked him. “They are such
rubbish! ”

“No, no! ” he replied. “See what nice books they are! Yes, they ARE nice
books! ” Yet these last words he uttered so lingeringly that I could see
he was ready to weep with vexation at finding the better sorts of books
so expensive. Already a little tear was trickling down his pale cheeks
and red nose. I inquired whether he had much money on him; whereupon the
poor old fellow pulled out his entire stock, wrapped in a piece of
dirty newspaper, and consisting of a few small silver coins, with twenty
kopecks in copper. At once I seized the lot, and, dragging him off to my
huckster, said: “Look here. These eleven volumes of Pushkin are priced
at thirty-two-and-a-half roubles, and I have only thirty roubles. Let
us add to them these two-and-a-half roubles of yours, and buy the books
together, and make them our joint gift. ” The old man was overjoyed, and
pulled out his money en masse; whereupon the huckster loaded him with
our common library. Stuffing it into his pockets, as well as filling
both arms with it, he departed homewards with his prize, after giving me
his word to bring me the books privately on the morrow.

Next day the old man came to see his son, and sat with him, as usual,
for about an hour; after which he visited ourselves, wearing on his face
the most comical, the most mysterious expression conceivable. Smiling
broadly with satisfaction at the thought that he was the possessor of a
secret, he informed me that he had stealthily brought the books to our
rooms, and hidden them in a corner of the kitchen, under Matrena’s care.
Next, by a natural transition, the conversation passed to the coming
fete-day; whereupon, the old man proceeded to hold forth extensively
on the subject of gifts. The further he delved into his thesis, and the
more he expounded it, the clearer could I see that on his mind there was
something which he could not, dared not, divulge. So I waited and kept
silent. The mysterious exaltation, the repressed satisfaction which I
had hitherto discerned in his antics and grimaces and left-eyed winks
gradually disappeared, and he began to grow momentarily more anxious and
uneasy. At length he could contain himself no longer.

“Listen, Barbara Alexievna,” he said timidly. “Listen to what I have got
to say to you. When his birthday is come, do you take TEN of the books,
and give them to him yourself--that is, FOR yourself, as being YOUR
share of the gift. Then I will take the eleventh book, and give it to
him MYSELF, as being my gift. If we do that, you will have a present for
him and I shall have one--both of us alike. ”

“Why do you not want us to present our gifts together, Zachar
Petrovitch? ” I asked him.

“Oh, very well,” he replied. “Very well, Barbara Alexievna. Only--only,
I thought that--”

The old man broke off in confusion, while his face flushed with the
exertion of thus expressing himself. For a moment or two he sat glued to
his seat.

“You see,” he went on, “I play the fool too much. I am forever playing
the fool, and cannot help myself, though I know that it is wrong to do
so. At home it is often cold, and sometimes there are other troubles
as well, and it all makes me depressed. Well, whenever that happens, I
indulge a little, and occasionally drink too much. Now, Petinka does not
like that; he loses his temper about it, Barbara Alexievna, and scolds
me, and reads me lectures. So I want by my gift to show him that I am
mending my ways, and beginning to conduct myself better. For a long time
past, I have been saving up to buy him a book--yes, for a long time past
I have been saving up for it, since it is seldom that I have any
money, unless Petinka happens to give me some. He knows that, and,
consequently, as soon as ever he perceives the use to which I have put
his money, he will understand that it is for his sake alone that I have
acted. ”

My heart ached for the old man. Seeing him looking at me with such
anxiety, I made up my mind without delay.

“I tell you what,” I said. “Do you give him all the books. ”

“ALL? ” he ejaculated. “ALL the books? ”

“Yes, all of them. ”

“As my own gift? ” “Yes, as your own gift. ”

“As my gift alone? ”

“Yes, as your gift alone. ”

Surely I had spoken clearly enough, yet the old man seemed hardly to
understand me.

“Well,” said he after reflection, “that certainly would be
splendid--certainly it would be most splendid. But what about yourself,
Barbara Alexievna? ”

“Oh, I shall give your son nothing. ”

“What? ” he cried in dismay. “Are you going to give Petinka nothing--do
you WISH to give him nothing? ” So put about was the old fellow with what
I had said, that he seemed almost ready to renounce his own proposal
if only I would give his son something. What a kind heart he had! I
hastened to assure him that I should certainly have a gift of some sort
ready, since my one wish was to avoid spoiling his pleasure.

“Provided that your son is pleased,” I added, “and that you are pleased,
I shall be equally pleased, for in my secret heart I shall feel as
though I had presented the gift. ”

This fully reassured the old man. He stopped with us another couple of
hours, yet could not sit still for a moment, but kept jumping up from
his seat, laughing, cracking jokes with Sasha, bestowing stealthy kisses
upon myself, pinching my hands, and making silent grimaces at Anna
Thedorovna. At length, she turned him out of the house. In short, his
transports of joy exceeded anything that I had yet beheld.

On the festal day he arrived exactly at eleven o’clock, direct from
Mass. He was dressed in a carefully mended frockcoat, a new waistcoat,
and a pair of new shoes, while in his arms he carried our pile of
books. Next we all sat down to coffee (the day being Sunday) in Anna
Thedorovna’s parlour. The old man led off the meal by saying
that Pushkin was a magnificent poet. Thereafter, with a return to
shamefacedness and confusion, he passed suddenly to the statement that
a man ought to conduct himself properly; that, should he not do so, it
might be taken as a sign that he was in some way overindulging himself;
and that evil tendencies of this sort led to the man’s ruin and
degradation. Then the orator sketched for our benefit some terrible
instances of such incontinence, and concluded by informing us that for
some time past he had been mending his own ways, and conducting himself
in exemplary fashion, for the reason that he had perceived the justice
of his son’s precepts, and had laid them to heart so well that he, the
father, had really changed for the better: in proof whereof, he now
begged to present to the said son some books for which he had long been
setting aside his savings.

As I listened to the old man I could not help laughing and crying in
a breath. Certainly he knew how to lie when the occasion required! The
books were transferred to his son’s room, and arranged upon a shelf,
where Pokrovski at once guessed the truth about them. Then the old man
was invited to dinner and we all spent a merry day together at cards and
forfeits. Sasha was full of life, and I rivalled her, while Pokrovski
paid me numerous attentions, and kept seeking an occasion to speak to me
alone. But to allow this to happen I refused. Yes, taken all in all, it
was the happiest day that I had known for four years.

But now only grievous, painful memories come to my recollection, for I
must enter upon the story of my darker experiences. It may be that that
is why my pen begins to move more slowly, and seems as though it were
going altogether to refuse to write. The same reason may account for my
having undertaken so lovingly and enthusiastically a recounting of even
the smallest details of my younger, happier days. But alas! those days
did not last long, and were succeeded by a period of black sorrow which
will close only God knows when!

My misfortunes began with the illness and death of Pokrovski, who was
taken worse two months after what I have last recorded in these memoirs.
During those two months he worked hard to procure himself a livelihood
since hitherto he had had no assured position. Like all consumptives, he
never--not even up to his last moment--altogether abandoned the hope of
being able to enjoy a long life. A post as tutor fell in his way, but he
had never liked the profession; while for him to become a civil servant
was out of the question, owing to his weak state of health.
Moreover, in
the latter capacity he would have had to have waited a long time for his
first instalment of salary. Again, he always looked at the darker side
of things, for his character was gradually being warped, and his health
undermined by his illness, though he never noticed it. Then autumn came
on, and daily he went out to business--that is to say, to apply for and
to canvass for posts--clad only in a light jacket; with the result that,
after repeated soakings with rain, he had to take to his bed, and
never again left it. He died in mid-autumn at the close of the month of
October.

Throughout his illness I scarcely ever left his room, but waited on him
hand and foot. Often he could not sleep for several nights at a time.
Often, too, he was unconscious, or else in a delirium; and at such times
he would talk of all sorts of things--of his work, of his books, of his
father, of myself. At such times I learned much which I had not hitherto
known or divined about his affairs. During the early part of his illness
everyone in the house looked askance at me, and Anna Thedorovna would
nod her head in a meaning manner; but, I always looked them straight in
the face, and gradually they ceased to take any notice of my concern for
Pokrovski. At all events my mother ceased to trouble her head about it.

Sometimes Pokrovski would know who I was, but not often, for more
usually he was unconscious. Sometimes, too, he would talk all night with
some unknown person, in dim, mysterious language that caused his gasping
voice to echo hoarsely through the narrow room as through a sepulchre;
and at such times, I found the situation a strange one. During his last
night he was especially lightheaded, for then he was in terrible agony,
and kept rambling in his speech until my soul was torn with pity.
Everyone in the house was alarmed, and Anna Thedorovna fell to praying
that God might soon take him. When the doctor had been summoned, the
verdict was that the patient would die with the morning.

That night the elder Pokrovski spent in the corridor, at the door of his
son’s room. Though given a mattress to lie upon, he spent his time in
running in and out of the apartment. So broken with grief was he that
he presented a dreadful spectacle, and appeared to have lost both
perception and feeling. His head trembled with agony, and his body
quivered from head to foot as at times he murmured to himself something
which he appeared to be debating. Every moment I expected to see him go
out of his mind. Just before dawn he succumbed to the stress of mental
agony, and fell asleep on his mattress like a man who has been beaten;
but by eight o’clock the son was at the point of death, and I ran to
wake the father. The dying man was quite conscious, and bid us all
farewell. Somehow I could not weep, though my heart seemed to be
breaking.

The last moments were the most harassing and heartbreaking of all. For
some time past Pokrovski had been asking for something with his failing
tongue, but I had been unable to distinguish his words. Yet my heart had
been bursting with grief. Then for an hour he had lain quieter, except
that he had looked sadly in my direction, and striven to make some sign
with his death-cold hands. At last he again essayed his piteous request
in a hoarse, deep voice, but the words issued in so many inarticulate
sounds, and once more I failed to divine his meaning. By turns I brought
each member of the household to his bedside, and gave him something to
drink, but he only shook his head sorrowfully. Finally, I understood
what it was he wanted. He was asking me to draw aside the curtain from
the window, and to open the casements. Probably he wished to take his
last look at the daylight and the sun and all God’s world. I pulled back
the curtain, but the opening day was as dull and mournful--looking as
though it had been the fast-flickering life of the poor invalid. Of
sunshine there was none. Clouds overlaid the sky as with a shroud of
mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening under a fine
drizzle which was beating against the window-panes, and streaking their
dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold, dirty moisture. Only a scanty
modicum of daylight entered to war with the trembling rays of the ikon
lamp. The dying man threw me a wistful look, and nodded. The next moment
he had passed away.

The funeral was arranged for by Anna Thedorovna. A plain coffin was
bought, and a broken-down hearse hired; while, as security for
this outlay, she seized the dead man’s books and other articles.
Nevertheless, the old man disputed the books with her, and, raising an
uproar, carried off as many of them as he could--stuffing his pockets
full, and even filling his hat. Indeed, he spent the next three days
with them thus, and refused to let them leave his sight even when it was
time for him to go to church. Throughout he acted like a man bereft
of sense and memory. With quaint assiduity he busied himself about the
bier--now straightening the candlestick on the dead man’s breast, now
snuffing and lighting the other candles. Clearly his thoughts were
powerless to remain long fixed on any subject. Neither my mother nor
Anna Thedorovna were present at the requiem, for the former was ill
and the latter was at loggerheads with the old man. Only myself and
the father were there. During the service a sort of panic, a sort of
premonition of the future, came over me, and I could hardly hold myself
upright. At length the coffin had received its burden and was screwed
down; after which the bearers placed it upon a bier, and set out. I
accompanied the cortege only to the end of the street. Here the
driver broke into a trot, and the old man started to run behind the
hearse--sobbing loudly, but with the motion of his running ever and anon
causing the sobs to quaver and become broken off. Next he lost his hat,
the poor old fellow, yet would not stop to pick it up, even though the
rain was beating upon his head, and a wind was rising and the sleet kept
stinging and lashing his face. It seemed as though he were impervious
to the cruel elements as he ran from one side of the hearse to the
other--the skirts of his old greatcoat flapping about him like a pair
of wings. From every pocket of the garment protruded books, while in his
hand he carried a specially large volume, which he hugged closely to his
breast. The passers-by uncovered their heads and crossed themselves as
the cortege passed, and some of them, having done so, remained staring
in amazement at the poor old man. Every now and then a book would slip
from one of his pockets and fall into the mud; whereupon somebody,
stopping him, would direct his attention to his loss, and he would stop,
pick up the book, and again set off in pursuit of the hearse. At the
corner of the street he was joined by a ragged old woman; until at
length the hearse turned a corner, and became hidden from my eyes. Then
I went home, and threw myself, in a transport of grief, upon my mother’s
breast--clasping her in my arms, kissing her amid a storm of sobs and
tears, and clinging to her form as though in my embraces I were holding
my last friend on earth, that I might preserve her from death. Yet
already death was standing over her. . . .




June 11th

How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar
Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was
everything! And I had not seen anything green for such a long time!
During my illness I used to think that I should never get better, that
I was certainly going to die. Judge, then, how I felt yesterday! True,
I may have seemed to you a little sad, and you must not be angry with me
for that. Happy and light-hearted though I was, there were moments, even
at the height of my felicity, when, for some unknown reason, depression
came sweeping over my soul. I kept weeping about trifles, yet could not
say why I was grieved. The truth is that I am unwell--so much so, that
I look at everything from the gloomy point of view. The pale, clear sky,
the setting sun, the evening stillness--ah, somehow I felt disposed
to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart seemed to be
over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it. But why should
I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart to express itself;
still more difficult for it to forego self-expression. Yet possibly
you may understand me. Tears and laughter! . . . How good you are, Makar
Alexievitch! Yesterday you looked into my eyes as though you could
read in them all that I was feeling--as though you were rejoicing at my
happiness. Whether it were a group of shrubs or an alleyway or a vista
of water that we were passing, you would halt before me, and stand
gazing at my face as though you were showing me possessions of your own.
It told me how kind is your nature, and I love you for it. Today I am
again unwell, for yesterday I wetted my feet, and took a chill. Thedora
also is unwell; both of us are ailing. Do not forget me. Come and see me
as often as you can. --Your own,

BARBARA ALEXIEVNA.




June 12th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--I had supposed that you meant to describe
our doings of the other day in verse; yet from you there has arrived
only a single sheet of writing. Nevertheless, I must say that, little
though you have put into your letter, that little is not expressed with
rare beauty and grace. Nature, your descriptions of rural scenes, your
analysis of your own feelings--the whole is beautifully written. Alas,
I have no such talent! Though I may fill a score of pages, nothing comes
of it--I might as well never have put pen to paper. Yes, this I know
from experience.

You say, my darling, that I am kind and good, that I could not harm
my fellow-men, that I have power to comprehend the goodness of God
(as expressed in nature’s handiwork), and so on. It may all be so, my
dearest one--it may all be exactly as you say. Indeed, I think that you
are right. But if so, the reason is that when one reads such a letter
as you have just sent me, one’s heart involuntarily softens, and
affords entrance to thoughts of a graver and weightier order. Listen, my
darling; I have something to tell you, my beloved one.

I will begin from the time when I was seventeen years old and first
entered the service--though I shall soon have completed my thirtieth
year of official activity. I may say that at first I was much pleased
with my new uniform; and, as I grew older, I grew in mind, and fell
to studying my fellow-men. Likewise I may say that I lived an upright
life--so much so that at last I incurred persecution. This you may not
believe, but it is true. To think that men so cruel should exist! For
though, dearest one, I am dull and of no account, I have feelings like
everyone else. Consequently, would you believe it, Barbara, when I
tell you what these cruel fellows did to me? I feel ashamed to tell
it you--and all because I was of a quiet, peaceful, good-natured
disposition!

Things began with “this or that, Makar Alexievitch, is your fault. ”
Then it went on to “I need hardly say that the fault is wholly Makar
Alexievitch’s. ” Finally it became “OF COURSE Makar Alexievitch is to
blame. ” Do you see the sequence of things, my darling? Every mistake
was attributed to me, until “Makar Alexievitch” became a byword in our
department. Also, while making of me a proverb, these fellows could not
give me a smile or a civil word. They found fault with my boots, with
my uniform, with my hair, with my figure. None of these things were to
their taste: everything had to be changed. And so it has been from
that day to this. True, I have now grown used to it, for I can
grow accustomed to anything (being, as you know, a man of peaceable
disposition, like all men of small stature)--yet why should these things
be? Whom have I harmed? Whom have I ever supplanted? Whom have I ever
traduced to his superiors? No, the fault is that more than once I have
asked for an increase of salary. But have I ever CABALLED for it? No,
you would be wrong in thinking so, my dearest one. HOW could I ever
have done so? You yourself have had many opportunities of seeing how
incapable I am of deceit or chicanery.

Why then, should this have fallen to my lot? . . . However, since you think
me worthy of respect, my darling, I do not care, for you are far and
away the best person in the world. . . . What do you consider to be the
greatest social virtue? In private conversation Evstafi Ivanovitch once
told me that the greatest social virtue might be considered to be an
ability to get money to spend. Also, my comrades used jestingly (yes,
I know only jestingly) to propound the ethical maxim that a man ought
never to let himself become a burden upon anyone. Well, I am a burden
upon no one. It is my own crust of bread that I eat; and though that
crust is but a poor one, and sometimes actually a maggoty one, it has
at least been EARNED, and therefore, is being put to a right and lawful
use. What therefore, ought I to do? I know that I can earn but little by
my labours as a copyist; yet even of that little I am proud, for it has
entailed WORK, and has wrung sweat from my brow. What harm is there in
being a copyist? “He is only an amanuensis,” people say of me. But what
is there so disgraceful in that? My writing is at least legible, neat,
and pleasant to look upon--and his Excellency is satisfied with it.
Indeed, I transcribe many important documents. At the same time, I know
that my writing lacks STYLE, which is why I have never risen in the
service. Even to you, my dear one, I write simply and without tricks,
but just as a thought may happen to enter my head. Yes, I know all this;
but if everyone were to become a fine writer, who would there be left to
act as copyists? . . . Whatsoever questions I may put to you in my letters,
dearest, I pray you to answer them. I am sure that you need me, that I
can be of use to you; and, since that is so, I must not allow myself
to be distracted by any trifle. Even if I be likened to a rat, I do not
care, provided that that particular rat be wanted by you, and be of use
in the world, and be retained in its position, and receive its reward.
But what a rat it is!

Enough of this, dearest one. I ought not to have spoken of it, but I
lost my temper. Still, it is pleasant to speak the truth sometimes.
Goodbye, my own, my darling, my sweet little comforter! I will come to
you soon--yes, I will certainly come to you. Until I do so, do not fret
yourself. With me I shall be bringing a book. Once more goodbye. --Your
heartfelt well-wisher,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




June 20th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I am writing to you post-haste--I am
hurrying my utmost to get my work finished in time. What do you suppose
is the reason for this? It is because an opportunity has occurred for
you to make a splendid purchase. Thedora tells me that a retired civil
servant of her acquaintance has a uniform to sell--one cut to regulation
pattern and in good repair, as well as likely to go very cheap. Now, DO
not tell me that you have not got the money, for I know from your own
lips that you HAVE. Use that money, I pray you, and do not hoard it. See
what terrible garments you walk about in! They are shameful--they are
patched all over! In fact, you have nothing new whatever. That this is
so, I know for certain, and I care not WHAT you tell me about it. So
listen to me for once, and buy this uniform. Do it for MY sake. Do it to
show that you really love me.

You have sent me some linen as a gift. But listen to me, Makar
Alexievitch. You are simply ruining yourself. Is it a jest that you
should spend so much money, such a terrible amount of money, upon me?
How you love to play the spendthrift! I tell you that I do not need it,
that such expenditure is unnecessary. I know, I am CERTAIN, that you
love me--therefore, it is useless to remind me of the fact with gifts.
Nor do I like receiving them, since I know how much they must have cost
you. No--put your money to a better use. I beg, I beseech of you, to
do so. Also, you ask me to send you a continuation of my memoirs--to
conclude them. But I know not how I contrived even to write as much of
them as I did; and now I have not the strength to write further of my
past, nor the desire to give it a single thought. Such recollections are
terrible to me. Most difficult of all is it for me to speak of my poor
mother, who left her destitute daughter a prey to villains. My heart
runs blood whenever I think of it; it is so fresh in my memory that
I cannot dismiss it from my thoughts, nor rest for its insistence,
although a year has now elapsed since the events took place. But all
this you know.

Also, I have told you what Anna Thedorovna is now intending. She accuses
me of ingratitude, and denies the accusations made against herself with
regard to Monsieur Bwikov. Also, she keeps sending for me, and telling
me that I have taken to evil courses, but that if I will return to her,
she will smooth over matters with Bwikov, and force him to confess his
fault. Also, she says that he desires to give me a dowry. Away with them
all! I am quite happy here with you and good Thedora, whose devotion to
me reminds me of my old nurse, long since dead.