No More Learning

Even I can see that;
even I can realise that it is a picture cut from the very life around
me. In it I see our own Theresa (to go no further) and the poor
Tchinovnik--who is just such a man as this Samson Virin, except for
his surname of Gorshkov. The book describes just what might happen to
ourselves--to myself in particular. Even a count who lives in the Nevski
Prospect or in Naberezhnaia Street might have a similar experience,
though he might APPEAR to be different, owing to the fact that his life
is cast on a higher plane. Yes, just the same things might happen to
him--just the same things. . . . Here you are wishing to go away and leave
us; yet, be careful lest it would not be I who had to pay the penalty of
your doing so. For you might ruin both yourself and me. For the love of
God, put away these thoughts from you, my darling, and do not torture me
in vain. How could you, my poor little unfledged nestling, find yourself
food, and defend yourself from misfortune, and ward off the wiles of
evil men? Think better of it, Barbara, and pay no more heed to
foolish advice and calumny, but read your book again, and read it with
attention. It may do you much good.

I have spoken of Rataziaev’s “The Station Overseer”. However, the author
has told me that the work is old-fashioned, since, nowadays, books are
issued with illustrations and embellishments of different sorts (though
I could not make out all that he said). Pushkin he adjudges a splendid
poet, and one who has done honour to Holy Russia. Read your book again,
Barbara, and follow my advice, and make an old man happy. The Lord God
Himself will reward you. Yes, He will surely reward you. --Your faithful
friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.



MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Today Thedora came to me with fifteen
roubles in silver. How glad was the poor woman when I gave her three of
them! I am writing to you in great haste, for I am busy cutting out a
waistcoat to send to you--buff, with a pattern of flowers. Also I
am sending you a book of stories; some of which I have read myself,
particularly one called “The Cloak. ” . . . You invite me to go to the
theatre with you. But will it not cost too much? Of course we might sit
in the gallery. It is a long time (indeed I cannot remember when I last
did so) since I visited a theatre! Yet I cannot help fearing that such
an amusement is beyond our means. Thedora keeps nodding her head, and
saying that you have taken to living above your income. I myself divine
the same thing by the amount which you have spent upon me. Take care,
dear friend, that misfortune does not come of it, for Thedora has also
informed me of certain rumours concerning your inability to meet your
landlady’s bills. In fact, I am very anxious about you. Now, goodbye,
for I must hasten away to see about another matter--about the changing
of the ribands on my bonnet.

P. S. --Do you know, if we go to the theatre, I think that I shall wear my
new hat and black mantilla. Will that not look nice?





July 7th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--SO much for yesterday! Yes, dearest, we
have both been caught playing the fool, for I have become thoroughly
bitten with the actress of whom I spoke. Last night I listened to her
with all my ears, although, strangely enough, it was practically my
first sight of her, seeing that only once before had I been to the
theatre. In those days I lived cheek by jowl with a party of five young
men--a most noisy crew--and one night I accompanied them, willy-nilly,
to the theatre, though I held myself decently aloof from their doings,
and only assisted them for company’s sake. How those fellows talked to
me of this actress! Every night when the theatre was open, the entire
band of them (they always seemed to possess the requisite money) would
betake themselves to that place of entertainment, where they ascended
to the gallery, and clapped their hands, and repeatedly recalled the
actress in question. In fact, they went simply mad over her. Even after
we had returned home they would give me no rest, but would go on
talking about her all night, and calling her their Glasha, and declaring
themselves to be in love with “the canary-bird of their hearts. ” My
defenseless self, too, they would plague about the woman, for I was as
young as they. What a figure I must have cut with them on the fourth
tier of the gallery! Yet, I never got a sight of more than just a corner
of the curtain, but had to content myself with listening. She had a
fine, resounding, mellow voice like a nightingale’s, and we all of us
used to clap our hands loudly, and to shout at the top of our lungs. In
short, we came very near to being ejected. On the first occasion I went
home walking as in a mist, with a single rouble left in my pocket, and
an interval of ten clear days confronting me before next pay-day. Yet,
what think you, dearest? The very next day, before going to work, I
called at a French perfumer’s, and spent my whole remaining capital on
some eau-de-Cologne and scented soap! Why I did so I do not know. Nor
did I dine at home that day, but kept walking and walking past her
windows (she lived in a fourth-storey flat on the Nevski Prospect).
At length I returned to my own lodging, but only to rest a short hour
before again setting off to the Nevski Prospect and resuming my vigil
before her windows. For a month and a half I kept this up--dangling in
her train. Sometimes I would hire cabs, and discharge them in view of
her abode; until at length I had entirely ruined myself, and got into
debt. Then I fell out of love with her--I grew weary of the pursuit. . . .
You see, therefore, to what depths an actress can reduce a decent man.
In those days I was young. Yes, in those days I was VERY young.

M. D.




July 8th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--The book which I received from you on
the 6th of this month I now hasten to return, while at the same time
hastening also to explain matters to you in this accompanying letter.
What a misfortune, my beloved, that you should have brought me to such a
pass! Our lots in life are apportioned by the Almighty according to our
human deserts. To such a one He assigns a life in a general’s epaulets
or as a privy councillor--to such a one, I say, He assigns a life of
command; whereas to another one, He allots only a life of unmurmuring
toil and suffering. These things are calculated according to a man’s
CAPACITY. One man may be capable of one thing, and another of another,
and their several capacities are ordered by the Lord God himself. I
have now been thirty years in the public service, and have fulfilled my
duties irreproachably, remained abstemious, and never been detected
in any unbecoming behaviour. As a citizen, I may confess--I confess
it freely--I have been guilty of certain shortcomings; yet those
shortcomings have been combined with certain virtues. I am respected by
my superiors, and even his Excellency has had no fault to find with me;
and though I have never been shown any special marks of favour, I know
that every one finds me at least satisfactory. Also, my writing is
sufficiently legible and clear. Neither too rounded nor too fine, it
is a running hand, yet always suitable. Of our staff only Ivan
Prokofievitch writes a similar hand. Thus have I lived till the grey
hairs of my old age; yet I can think of no serious fault committed. Of
course, no one is free from MINOR faults. Everyone has some of them, and
you among the rest, my beloved. But in grave or in audacious offences
never have I been detected, nor in infringements of regulations, nor in
breaches of the public peace. No, never! This you surely know, even as
the author of your book must have known it. Yes, he also must have
known it when he sat down to write. I had not expected this of you, my
Barbara. I should never have expected it.

What? In future I am not to go on living peacefully in my little corner,
poor though that corner be I am not to go on living, as the proverb has
it, without muddying the water, or hurting any one, or forgetting the
fear of the Lord God and of oneself? I am not to see, forsooth, that
no man does me an injury, or breaks into my home--I am not to take care
that all shall go well with me, or that I have clothes to wear, or that
my shoes do not require mending, or that I be given work to do, or
that I possess sufficient meat and drink? Is it nothing that, where
the pavement is rotten, I have to walk on tiptoe to save my boots? If I
write to you overmuch concerning myself, is it concerning ANOTHER man,
rather, that I ought to write--concerning HIS wants, concerning HIS
lack of tea to drink (and all the world needs tea)? Has it ever been
my custom to pry into other men’s mouths, to see what is being put into
them? Have I ever been known to offend any one in that respect? No, no,
beloved! Why should I desire to insult other folks when they are not
molesting ME? Let me give you an example of what I mean. A man may go on
slaving and slaving in the public service, and earn the respect of his
superiors (for what it is worth), and then, for no visible reason at
all, find himself made a fool of. Of course he may break out now and
then (I am not now referring only to drunkenness), and (for example)
buy himself a new pair of shoes, and take pleasure in seeing his feet
looking well and smartly shod. Yes, I myself have known what it is
to feel like that (I write this in good faith). Yet I am nonetheless
astonished that Thedor Thedorovitch should neglect what is being said
about him, and take no steps to defend himself. True, he is only a
subordinate official, and sometimes loves to rate and scold; yet why
should he not do so--why should he not indulge in a little vituperation
when he feels like it? Suppose it to be NECESSARY, for FORM’S sake,
to scold, and to set everyone right, and to shower around abuse (for,
between ourselves, Barbara, our friend cannot get on WITHOUT abuse--so
much so that every one humours him, and does things behind his back)?
Well, since officials differ in rank, and every official demands that
he shall be allowed to abuse his fellow officials in proportion to his
rank, it follows that the TONE also of official abuse should become
divided into ranks, and thus accord with the natural order of things.
All the world is built upon the system that each one of us shall have to
yield precedence to some other one, as well as to enjoy a certain power
of abusing his fellows. Without such a provision the world could not
get on at all, and simple chaos would ensue. Yet I am surprised that our
Thedor should continue to overlook insults of the kind that he endures.

Why do I do my official work at all? Why is that necessary? Will my
doing of it lead anyone who reads it to give me a greatcoat, or to buy
me a new pair of shoes? No, Barbara. Men only read the documents, and
then require me to write more. Sometimes a man will hide himself away,
and not show his face abroad, for the mere reason that, though he has
done nothing to be ashamed of, he dreads the gossip and slandering which
are everywhere to be encountered. If his civic and family life have to
do with literature, everything will be printed and read and laughed
over and discussed; until at length, he hardly dare show his face in
the street at all, seeing that he will have been described by report as
recognisable through his gait alone! Then, when he has amended his ways,
and grown gentler (even though he still continues to be loaded with
official work), he will come to be accounted a virtuous, decent citizen
who has deserved well of his comrades, rendered obedience to his
superiors, wished noone any evil, preserved the fear of God in his
heart, and died lamented. Yet would it not be better, instead of letting
the poor fellow die, to give him a cloak while yet he is ALIVE--to give
it to this same Thedor Thedorovitch (that is to say, to myself)? Yes,
‘twere far better if, on hearing the tale of his subordinate’s virtues,
the chief of the department were to call the deserving man into his
office, and then and there to promote him, and to grant him an increase
of salary. Thus vice would be punished, virtue would prevail, and the
staff of that department would live in peace together. Here we have an
example from everyday, commonplace life. How, therefore, could you bring
yourself to send me that book, my beloved? It is a badly conceived
work, Barbara, and also unreal, for the reason that in creation such
a Tchinovnik does not exist. No, again I protest against it, little
Barbara; again I protest. --Your most humble, devoted servant,

M. D.




July 27th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Your latest conduct and letters had
frightened me, and left me thunderstruck and plunged in doubt, until
what you have said about Thedor explained the situation. Why despair
and go into such frenzies, Makar Alexievitch? Your explanations only
partially satisfy me. Perhaps I did wrong to insist upon accepting
a good situation when it was offered me, seeing that from my last
experience in that way I derived a shock which was anything but a matter
for jesting. You say also that your love for me has compelled you
to hide yourself in retirement. Now, how much I am indebted to you I
realised when you told me that you were spending for my benefit the sum
which you are always reported to have laid by at your bankers; but, now
that I have learned that you never possessed such a fund, but that, on
hearing of my destitute plight, and being moved by it, you decided to
spend upon me the whole of your salary--even to forestall it--and when I
had fallen ill, actually to sell your clothes--when I learned all this
I found myself placed in the harassing position of not knowing how to
accept it all, nor what to think of it. Ah, Makar Alexievitch! You ought
to have stopped at your first acts of charity--acts inspired by sympathy
and the love of kinsfolk, rather than have continued to squander your
means upon what was unnecessary. Yes, you have betrayed our friendship,
Makar Alexievitch, in that you have not been open with me; and, now that
I see that your last coin has been spent upon dresses and bon-bons and
excursions and books and visits to the theatre for me, I weep bitter
tears for my unpardonable improvidence in having accepted these things
without giving so much as a thought to your welfare. Yes, all that you
have done to give me pleasure has become converted into a source of
grief, and left behind it only useless regret. Of late I have remarked
that you were looking depressed; and though I felt fearful that
something unfortunate was impending, what has happened would otherwise
never have entered my head. To think that your better sense should so
play you false, Makar Alexievitch! What will people think of you, and
say of you? Who will want to know you? You whom, like everyone else, I
have valued for your goodness of heart and modesty and good sense--YOU,
I say, have now given way to an unpleasant vice of which you seem never
before to have been guilty. What were my feelings when Thedora informed
me that you had been discovered drunk in the street, and taken home by
the police? Why, I felt petrified with astonishment--although, in view
of the fact that you had failed me for four days, I had been expecting
some such extraordinary occurrence. Also, have you thought what your
superiors will say of you when they come to learn the true reason of
your absence? You say that everyone is laughing at you, that every
one has learnED of the bond which exists between us, and that your
neighbours habitually refer to me with a sneer. Pay no attention to
this, Makar Alexievitch; for the love of God, be comforted. Also, the
incident between you and the officers has much alarmed me, although
I had heard certain rumours concerning it. Pray explain to me what it
means. You write, too, that you have been afraid to be open with me, for
the reason that your confessions might lose you my friendship. Also, you
say that you are in despair at the thought of being unable to help me in
my illness, owing to the fact that you have sold everything which might
have maintained me, and preserved me in sickness, as well as that you
have borrowed as much as it is possible for you to borrow, and are daily
experiencing unpleasantness with your landlady. Well, in failing to
reveal all this to me you chose the worse course. Now, however, I know
all. You have forced me to recognise that I have been the cause of your
unhappy plight, as well as that my own conduct has brought upon myself
a twofold measure of sorrow. The fact leaves me thunderstruck, Makar
Alexievitch. Ah, friend, an infectious disease is indeed a misfortune,
for now we poor and miserable folk must perforce keep apart from one
another, lest the infection be increased. Yes, I have brought upon you
calamities which never before in your humble, solitary life you had
experienced. This tortures and exhausts me more than I can tell to think
of.

Write to me quite frankly. Tell me how you came to embark upon such
a course of conduct. Comfort, oh, comfort me if you can. It is not
self-love that prompts me to speak of my own comforting, but my
friendship and love for you, which will never fade from my heart.
Goodbye. I await your answer with impatience. You have thought but
poorly of me, Makar Alexievitch. --Your friend and lover,

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.




July 28th.

MY PRICELESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--What am I to say to you, now that all
is over, and we are gradually returning to our old position? You say
that you are anxious as to what will be thought of me. Let me tell you
that the dearest thing in life to me is my self-respect; wherefore, in
informing you of my misfortunes and misconduct, I would add that none
of my superiors know of my doings, nor ever will know of them, and that
therefore, I still enjoy a measure of respect in that quarter. Only one
thing do I fear--I fear gossip. Garrulous though my landlady be, she
said but little when, with the aid of your ten roubles, I today paid her
part of her account; and as for the rest of my companions, they do not
matter at all. So long as I have not borrowed money from them, I need
pay them no attention. To conclude my explanations, let me tell you
that I value your respect for me above everything in the world, and have
found it my greatest comfort during this temporary distress of mine.
Thank God, the first shock of things has abated, now that you have
agreed not to look upon me as faithless and an egotist simply because I
have deceived you. I wish to hold you to myself, for the reason that I
cannot bear to part with you, and love you as my guardian angel. . . .
I have now returned to work, and am applying myself diligently to my
duties. Also, yesterday Evstafi Ivanovitch exchanged a word or two with
me. Yet I will not conceal from you the fact that my debts are crushing
me down, and that my wardrobe is in a sorry state. At the same time,
these things do not REALLY matter and I would bid you not despair about
them. Send me, however, another half-rouble if you can (though that
half-rouble will stab me to the heart--stab me with the thought that it
is not I who am helping you, but YOU who are helping ME). Thedora has
done well to get those fifteen roubles for you. At the moment, fool of
an old man that I am, I have no hope of acquiring any more money; but as
soon as ever I do so, I will write to you and let you know all about it.
What chiefly worries me is the fear of gossip. Goodbye, little angel. I
kiss your hands, and beseech you to regain your health. If this is not
a detailed letter, the reason is that I must soon be starting for the
office, in order that, by strict application to duty, I may make amends
for the past. Further information concerning my doings (as well as
concerning that affair with the officers) must be deferred until
tonight. --Your affectionate and respectful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




July 28th.

DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,--It is YOU who have committed a fault--and one
which must weigh heavily upon your conscience.
Indeed, your last letter
has amazed and confounded me,--so much so that, on once more looking
into the recesses of my heart, I perceive that I was perfectly right
in what I did. Of course I am not now referring to my debauch (no,
indeed! ), but to the fact that I love you, and to the fact that it is
unwise of me to love you--very unwise. You know not how matters stand,
my darling. You know not why I am BOUND to love you. Otherwise you would
not say all that you do. Yet I am persuaded that it is your head rather
than your heart that is speaking. I am certain that your heart thinks
very differently.

What occurred that night between myself and those officers I scarcely
know, I scarcely remember. You must bear in mind that for some time past
I have been in terrible distress--that for a whole month I have been, so
to speak, hanging by a single thread. Indeed, my position has been most
pitiable. Though I hid myself from you, my landlady was forever shouting
and railing at me. This would not have mattered a jot--the horrible old
woman might have shouted as much as she pleased--had it not been that,
in the first place, there was the disgrace of it, and, in the second
place, she had somehow learned of our connection, and kept proclaiming
it to the household until I felt perfectly deafened, and had to stop my
ears. The point, however, is that other people did not stop their ears,
but, on the contrary, pricked them. Indeed, I am at a loss what to do.

Really this wretched rabble has driven me to extremities. It all began
with my hearing a strange rumour from Thedora--namely, that an unworthy
suitor had been to visit you, and had insulted you with an improper
proposal. That he had insulted you deeply I knew from my own feelings,
for I felt insulted in an equal degree. Upon that, my angel, I went to
pieces, and, losing all self-control, plunged headlong. Bursting into an
unspeakable frenzy, I was at once going to call upon this villain of a
seducer--though what to do next I knew not, seeing that I was fearful of
giving you offence. Ah, what a night of sorrow it was, and what a time
of gloom, rain, and sleet! Next, I was returning home, but found myself
unable to stand upon my feet. Then Emelia Ilyitch happened to come
by. He also is a tchinovnik--or rather, was a tchinovnik, since he was
turned out of the service some time ago. What he was doing there at that
moment I do not know; I only know that I went with him. . . . Surely it
cannot give you pleasure to read of the misfortunes of your friend--of
his sorrows, and of the temptations which he experienced? . . . On the
evening of the third day Emelia urged me to go and see the officer of
whom I have spoken, and whose address I had learned from our dvornik.
More strictly speaking, I had noticed him when, on a previous occasion,
he had come to play cards here, and I had followed him home. Of course
I now see that I did wrong, but I felt beside myself when I heard
them telling him stories about me. Exactly what happened next I cannot
remember. I only remember that several other officers were present as
well as he. Or it may be that I saw everything double--God alone knows.
Also, I cannot exactly remember what I said. I only remember that in my
fury I said a great deal. Then they turned me out of the room, and threw
me down the staircase--pushed me down it, that is to say. How I got home
you know. That is all. Of course, later I blamed myself, and my pride
underwent a fall; but no extraneous person except yourself knows of the
affair, and in any case it does not matter. Perhaps the affair is as you
imagine it to have been, Barbara? One thing I know for certain, and that
is that last year one of our lodgers, Aksenti Osipovitch, took a similar
liberty with Peter Petrovitch, yet kept the fact secret, an absolute
secret. He called him into his room (I happened to be looking through a
crack in the partition-wall), and had an explanation with him in the
way that a gentleman should--noone except myself being a witness of the
scene; whereas, in my own case, I had no explanation at all. After the
scene was over, nothing further transpired between Aksenti Osipovitch
and Peter Petrovitch, for the reason that the latter was so desirous of
getting on in life that he held his tongue. As a result, they bow and
shake hands whenever they meet. . . . I will not dispute the fact that I
have erred most grievously--that I should never dare to dispute, or that
I have fallen greatly in my own estimation; but, I think I was fated
from birth so to do--and one cannot escape fate, my beloved. Here,
therefore, is a detailed explanation of my misfortunes and sorrows,
written for you to read whenever you may find it convenient. I am far
from well, beloved, and have lost all my gaiety of disposition, but I
send you this letter as a token of my love, devotion, and respect, Oh
dear lady of my affections. --Your humble servant,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




July 29th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I have read your two letters, and they
make my heart ache. See here, dear friend of mine. You pass over certain
things in silence, and write about a PORTION only of your misfortunes.
Can it be that the letters are the outcome of a mental disorder? . . . Come
and see me, for God’s sake. Come today, direct from the office, and dine
with us as you have done before. As to how you are living now, or as to
what settlement you have made with your landlady, I know not, for you
write nothing concerning those two points, and seem purposely to have
left them unmentioned. Au revoir, my friend. Come to me today without
fail. You would do better ALWAYS to dine here. Thedora is an excellent
cook. Goodbye--Your own,

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.




August 1st.

MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Thank God that He has sent you a chance
of repaying my good with good. I believe in so doing, as well as in the
sweetness of your angelic heart. Therefore, I will not reproach you.
Only I pray you, do not again blame me because in the decline of my life
I have played the spendthrift. It was such a sin, was it not? --such a
thing to do? And even if you would still have it that the sin was there,
remember, little friend, what it costs me to hear such words fall from
your lips. Do not be vexed with me for saying this, for my heart is
fainting. Poor people are subject to fancies--this is a provision of
nature. I myself have had reason to know this. The poor man is exacting.
He cannot see God’s world as it is, but eyes each passer-by askance, and
looks around him uneasily in order that he may listen to every word that
is being uttered. May not people be talking of him? How is it that he
is so unsightly? What is he feeling at all? What sort of figure is
he cutting on the one side or on the other? It is matter of common
knowledge, my Barbara, that the poor man ranks lower than a rag, and
will never earn the respect of any one. Yes, write about him as you
like--let scribblers say what they choose about him--he will ever remain
as he was. And why is this? It is because, from his very nature, the
poor man has to wear his feelings on his sleeve, so that nothing about
him is sacred, and as for his self-respect--! Well, Emelia told me the
other day that once, when he had to collect subscriptions, official
sanction was demanded for every single coin, since people thought that
it would be no use paying their money to a poor man. Nowadays charity
is strangely administered. Perhaps it has always been so. Either folk do
not know how to administer it, or they are adept in the art--one of the
two. Perhaps you did not know this, so I beg to tell it you. And how
comes it that the poor man knows, is so conscious of it all? The answer
is--by experience. He knows because any day he may see a gentleman enter
a restaurant and ask himself, “What shall I have to eat today? I will
have such and such a dish,” while all the time the poor man will
have nothing to eat that day but gruel. There are men, too--wretched
busybodies--who walk about merely to see if they can find some wretched
tchinovnik or broken-down official who has got toes projecting from his
boots or his hair uncut! And when they have found such a one they make
a report of the circumstance, and their rubbish gets entered on the
file. . . . But what does it matter to you if my hair lacks the shears? If
you will forgive me what may seem to you a piece of rudeness, I declare
that the poor man is ashamed of such things with the sensitiveness of a
young girl. YOU, for instance, would not care (pray pardon my bluntness)
to unrobe yourself before the public eye; and in the same way, the poor
man does not like to be pried at or questioned concerning his family
relations, and so forth. A man of honour and self-respect such as I
am finds it painful and grievous to have to consort with men who would
deprive him of both.

Today I sat before my colleagues like a bear’s cub or a plucked sparrow,
so that I fairly burned with shame. Yes, it hurt me terribly, Barbara.
Naturally one blushes when one can see one’s naked toes projecting
through one’s boots, and one’s buttons hanging by a single thread!
As though on purpose, I seemed, on this occasion, to be peculiarly
dishevelled. No wonder that my spirits fell. When I was talking on
business matters to Stepan Karlovitch, he suddenly exclaimed, for no
apparent reason, “Ah, poor old Makar Alexievitch! ” and then left the
rest unfinished. But I knew what he had in his mind, and blushed so
hotly that even the bald patch on my head grew red. Of course the whole
thing is nothing, but it worries me, and leads to anxious thoughts. What
can these fellows know about me? God send that they know nothing! But
I confess that I suspect, I strongly suspect, one of my colleagues. Let
them only betray me! They would betray one’s private life for a groat,
for they hold nothing sacred.

I have an idea who is at the bottom of it all. It is Rataziaev. Probably
he knows someone in our department to whom he has recounted the
story with additions. Or perhaps he has spread it abroad in his own
department, and thence, it has crept and crawled into ours. Everyone
here knows it, down to the last detail, for I have seen them point at
you with their fingers through the window. Oh yes, I have seen them do
it. Yesterday, when I stepped across to dine with you, the whole crew
were hanging out of the window to watch me, and the landlady exclaimed
that the devil was in young people, and called you certain unbecoming
names. But this is as nothing compared with Rataziaev’s foul intention
to place us in his books, and to describe us in a satire. He himself has
declared that he is going to do so, and other people say the same.
In fact, I know not what to think, nor what to decide. It is no use
concealing the fact that you and I have sinned against the Lord God. . . .
You were going to send me a book of some sort, to divert my mind--were
you not, dearest? What book, though, could now divert me? Only such
books as have never existed on earth. Novels are rubbish, and written
for fools and for the idle. Believe me, dearest, I know it through long
experience. Even should they vaunt Shakespeare to you, I tell you that
Shakespeare is rubbish, and proper only for lampoons--Your own,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




August 2nd.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Do not disquiet yourself. God will grant
that all shall turn out well. Thedora has obtained a quantity of work,
both for me and herself, and we are setting about it with a will.
Perhaps it will put us straight again. Thedora suspects my late
misfortunes to be connected with Anna Thedorovna; but I do not care--I
feel extraordinarily cheerful today. So you are thinking of borrowing
more money? If so, may God preserve you, for you will assuredly be
ruined when the time comes for repayment! You had far better come and
live with us here for a little while. Yes, come and take up your abode
here, and pay no attention whatever to what your landlady says. As for
the rest of your enemies and ill-wishers, I am certain that it is with
vain imaginings that you are vexing yourself. . . . In passing, let me tell
you that your style differs greatly from letter to letter. Goodbye until
we meet again. I await your coming with impatience--Your own,

B. D.




August 3rd.

MY ANGEL, BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to inform you, Oh light of my
life, that my hopes are rising again. But, little daughter of mine--do
you really mean it when you say that I am to indulge in no more
borrowings? Why, I could not do without them. Things would go badly with
us both if I did so. You are ailing. Consequently, I tell you roundly
that I MUST borrow, and that I must continue to do so.

Also, I may tell you that my seat in the office is now next to that of a
certain Emelia Ivanovitch. He is not the Emelia whom you know, but a
man who, like myself, is a privy councillor, as well as represents, with
myself, the senior and oldest official in our department. Likewise he is
a good, disinterested soul, and one that is not over-talkative, though
a true bear in appearance and demeanour. Industrious, and possessed of
a handwriting purely English, his caligraphy is, it must be confessed,
even worse than my own. Yes, he is a good soul. At the same time, we
have never been intimate with one another. We have done no more than
exchange greetings on meeting or parting, borrow one another’s penknife
if we needed one, and, in short, observe such bare civilities as
convention demands. Well, today he said to me, “Makar Alexievitch,
what makes you look so thoughtful? ” and inasmuch as I could see that
he wished me well, I told him all--or, rather, I did not tell him
EVERYTHING, for that I do to no man (I have not the heart to do it); I
told him just a few scattered details concerning my financial straits.
“Then you ought to borrow,” said he. “You ought to obtain a loan of
Peter Petrovitch, who does a little in that way. I myself once borrowed
some money of him, and he charged me fair and light interest. ” Well,
Barbara, my heart leapt within me at these words. I kept thinking and
thinking,--if only God would put it into the mind of Peter Petrovitch
to be my benefactor by advancing me a loan! I calculated that with its
aid I might both repay my landlady and assist yourself and get rid of my
surroundings (where I can hardly sit down to table without the rascals
making jokes about me). Sometimes his Excellency passes our desk in
the office. He glances at me, and cannot but perceive how poorly I am
dressed. Now, neatness and cleanliness are two of his strongest points.
Even though he says nothing, I feel ready to die with shame when he
approaches. Well, hardening my heart, and putting my diffidence into my
ragged pocket, I approached Peter Petrovitch, and halted before him more
dead than alive. Yet I was hopeful, and though, as it turned out, he
was busily engaged in talking to Thedosei Ivanovitch, I walked up to him
from behind, and plucked at his sleeve. He looked away from me, but I
recited my speech about thirty roubles, et cetera, et cetera, of which,
at first, he failed to catch the meaning. Even when I had explained
matters to him more fully, he only burst out laughing, and said nothing.
Again I addressed to him my request; whereupon, asking me what security
I could give, he again buried himself in his papers, and went on writing
without deigning me even a second glance. Dismay seized me. “Peter
Petrovitch,” I said, “I can offer you no security,” but to this I added
an explanation that some salary would, in time, be due to me, which
I would make over to him, and account the loan my first debt. At
that moment someone called him away, and I had to wait a little. On
returning, he began to mend his pen as though he had not even noticed
that I was there. But I was for myself this time. “Peter Petrovitch,” I
continued, “can you not do ANYTHING? ” Still he maintained silence, and
seemed not to have heard me.