No More Learning

. . . Yes, sure am I that, sinner though I be
before the Almighty, my prayers for the happiness and prosperity of his
Excellency will yet ascend to the Heavenly Throne! . . .

But, my darling, for the moment I am terribly agitated and distraught.
My heart is beating as though it would burst my breast, and all my body
seems weak. . . . I send you forty-five roubles in notes. Another twenty
I shall give to my landlady, and the remaining thirty-five I shall
keep--twenty for new clothes and fifteen for actual living expenses. But
these experiences of the morning have shaken me to the core, and I
must rest awhile. It is quiet, very quiet, here. My breath is coming in
jerks--deep down in my breast I can hear it sobbing and trembling. . . .
I will come and see you soon, but at the moment my head is aching with
these various sensations. God sees all things, my darling, my priceless
treasure! --Your steadfast friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 10th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I am unspeakably rejoiced at your good
fortune, and fully appreciate the kindness of your superior. Now, take
a rest from your cares. Only do not AGAIN spend money to no advantage.
Live as quietly and as frugally as possible, and from today begin always
to set aside something, lest misfortune again overtake you. Do not, for
God’s sake, worry yourself--Thedora and I will get on somehow. Why have
you sent me so much money? I really do not need it--what I had already
would have been quite sufficient. True, I shall soon be needing further
funds if I am to leave these lodgings, but Thedora is hoping before long
to receive repayment of an old debt. Of course, at least TWENTY roubles
will have to be set aside for indispensable requirements, but the
remainder shall be returned to you. Pray take care of it, Makar
Alexievitch. Now, goodbye. May your life continue peacefully, and may
you preserve your health and spirits. I would have written to you at
greater length had I not felt so terribly weary. Yesterday I never left
my bed. I am glad that you have promised to come and see me. Yes, you
MUST pay me a visit.

B. D.




September 11th.

MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I implore you not to leave me now that
I am once more happy and contented. Disregard what Thedora says, and I
will do anything in the world for you. I will behave myself better, even
if only out of respect for his Excellency, and guard my every action.
Once more we will exchange cheerful letters with one another, and make
mutual confidence of our thoughts and joys and sorrows (if so be that
we shall know any more sorrows? ). Yes, we will live twice as happily
and comfortably as of old. Also, we will exchange books. . . . Angel of my
heart, a great change has taken place in my fortunes--a change very much
for the better. My landlady has become more accommodating; Theresa has
recovered her senses; even Phaldoni springs to do my bidding. Likewise,
I have made my peace with Rataziaev. He came to see me of his own
accord, the moment that he heard the glad tidings. There can be no doubt
that he is a good fellow, that there is no truth in the slanders that
one hears of him. For one thing, I have discovered that he never had
any intention of putting me and yourself into a book. This he told me
himself, and then read to me his latest work. As for his calling me
“Lovelace,” he had intended no rudeness or indecency thereby. The term
is merely one of foreign derivation, meaning a clever fellow, or, in
more literary and elegant language, a gentleman with whom one must
reckon. That is all; it was a mere harmless jest, my beloved. Only
ignorance made me lose my temper, and I have expressed to him my
regret. . . . How beautiful is the weather today, my little Barbara! True,
there was a slight frost in the early morning, as though scattered
through a sieve, but it was nothing, and the breeze soon freshened the
air. I went out to buy some shoes, and obtained a splendid pair. Then,
after a stroll along the Nevski Prospect, I read “The Daily Bee”. This
reminds me that I have forgotten to tell you the most important thing of
all. It happened like this:

This morning I had a talk with Emelia Ivanovitch and Aksenti
Michaelovitch concerning his Excellency. Apparently, I am not the only
person to whom he has acted kindly and been charitable, for he is known
to the whole world for his goodness of heart. In many quarters his
praises are to be heard; in many quarters he has called forth tears
of gratitude. Among other things, he undertook the care of an orphaned
girl, and married her to an official, the son of a poor widow, and found
this man place in a certain chancellory, and in other ways benefited
him. Well, dearest, I considered it to be my duty to add my mite by
publishing abroad the story of his Excellency’s gracious treatment of
myself. Accordingly, I related the whole occurrence to my interlocutors,
and concealed not a single detail. In fact, I put my pride into my
pocket--though why should I feel ashamed of having been elated by such
an occurrence? “Let it only be noised afield,” said I to myself, and it
will resound greatly to his Excellency’s credit. --So I expressed myself
enthusiastically on the subject and never faltered. On the contrary,
I felt proud to have such a story to tell. I referred to every one
concerned (except to yourself, of course, dearest)--to my landlady, to
Phaldoni, to Rataziaev, to Markov. I even mentioned the matter of my
shoes! Some of those standing by laughed--in fact every one present did
so, but probably it was my own figure or the incident of my shoes--more
particularly the latter--that excited merriment, for I am sure it was
not meant ill-naturedly. My hearers may have been young men, or well
off; certainly they cannot have been laughing with evil intent at what
I had said. Anything against his Excellency CANNOT have been in their
thoughts. Eh, Barbara?

Even now I cannot wholly collect my faculties, so upset am I by recent
events. . . . Have you any fuel to go on with, Barbara? You must not expose
yourself to cold. Also, you have depressed my spirits with your fears
for the future. Daily I pray to God on your behalf. Ah, HOW I pray
to Him! . . . Likewise, have you any woollen stockings to wear, and warm
clothes generally? Mind you, if there is anything you need, you must
not hurt an old man’s feelings by failing to apply to him for what you
require. The bad times are gone now, and the future is looking bright
and fair.

But what bad times they were, Barbara, even though they be gone, and
can no longer matter! As the years pass on we shall gradually recover
ourselves. How clearly I remember my youth! In those days I never had
a kopeck to spare. Yet, cold and hungry though I was, I was always
light-hearted. In the morning I would walk the Nevski Prospect, and meet
nice-looking people, and be happy all day. Yes, it was a glorious, a
glorious time! It was good to be alive, especially in St. Petersburg.
Yet it is but yesterday that I was beseeching God with tears to pardon
me my sins during the late sorrowful period--to pardon me my murmurings
and evil thoughts and gambling and drunkenness. And you I remembered in
my prayers, for you alone have encouraged and comforted me, you alone
have given me advice and instruction. I shall never forget that,
dearest. Today I gave each one of your letters a kiss. . . . Goodbye,
beloved. I have been told that there is going to be a sale of clothing
somewhere in this neighbourhood. Once more goodbye, goodbye, my
angel--Yours in heart and soul,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 15th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I am in terrible distress. I feel sure
that something is about to happen. The matter, my beloved friend, is
that Monsieur Bwikov is again in St. Petersburg, for Thedora has met
him. He was driving along in a drozhki, but, on meeting Thedora, he
ordered the coachman to stop, sprang out, and inquired of her where she
was living; but this she would not tell him. Next, he said with a
smile that he knew quite well who was living with her (evidently Anna
Thedorovna had told him); whereupon Thedora could hold out no longer,
but then and there, in the street, railed at and abused him--telling him
that he was an immoral man, and the cause of all my misfortunes. To
this he replied that a person who did not possess a groat must surely be
rather badly off; to which Thedora retorted that I could always either
live by the labour of my hands or marry--that it was not so much a
question of my losing posts as of my losing my happiness, the ruin of
which had led almost to my death. In reply he observed that, though
I was still quite young, I seemed to have lost my wits, and that my
“virtue appeared to be under a cloud” (I quote his exact words). Both
I and Thedora had thought that he does not know where I live; but,
last night, just as I had left the house to make a few purchases in the
Gostinni Dvor, he appeared at our rooms (evidently he had not wanted to
find me at home), and put many questions to Thedora concerning our way
of living. Then, after inspecting my work, he wound up with: “Who is
this tchinovnik friend of yours? ” At the moment you happened to be
passing through the courtyard, so Thedora pointed you out, and the man
peered at you, and laughed. Thedora next asked him to depart--telling
him that I was still ill from grief, and that it would give me great
pain to see him there; to which, after a pause, he replied that he had
come because he had had nothing better to do. Also, he was for giving
Thedora twenty-five roubles, but, of course, she declined them. What
does it all mean? Why has he paid this visit? I cannot understand his
getting to know about me. I am lost in conjecture. Thedora, however,
says that Aksinia, her sister-in-law (who sometimes comes to see her),
is acquainted with a laundress named Nastasia, and that this woman has
a cousin in the position of watchman to a department of which a certain
friend of Anna Thedorovna’s nephew forms one of the staff. Can it be,
therefore, that an intrigue has been hatched through THIS channel? But
Thedora may be entirely mistaken. We hardly know what to think. What if
he should come again? The very thought terrifies me. When Thedora told
me of this last night such terror seized upon me that I almost swooned
away. What can the man be wanting? At all events, I refuse to know such
people. What have they to do with my wretched self? Ah, how I am haunted
with anxiety, for every moment I keep thinking that Bwikov is at hand!
WHAT will become of me? WHAT MORE has fate in store for me? For Christ’s
sake come and see me, Makar Alexievitch! For Christ’s sake come and see
me soon!




September 18th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Today there took place in this house
a most lamentable, a most mysterious, a most unlooked-for occurrence.
First of all, let me tell you that poor Gorshkov has been entirely
absolved of guilt. The decision has been long in coming, but this
morning he went to hear the final resolution read. It was entirely in
his favour. Any culpability which had been imputed to him for negligence
and irregularity was removed by the resolution. Likewise, he was
authorised to recover of the merchant a large sum of money. Thus, he
stands entirely justified, and has had his character cleansed from
all stain. In short, he could not have wished for a more complete
vindication. When he arrived home at three o’clock he was looking as
white as a sheet, and his lips were quivering. Yet there was a smile on
his face as he embraced his wife and children. In a body the rest of us
ran to congratulate him, and he was greatly moved by the act. Bowing to
us, he pressed our hands in turn. As he did so I thought, somehow, that
he seemed to have grown taller and straighter, and that the pus-drops
seemed to have disappeared from his eyelashes. Yet how agitated he was,
poor fellow! He could not rest quietly for two minutes together, but
kept picking up and then dropping whatsoever came to his hand, and
bowing and smiling without intermission, and sitting down and getting
up, and again sitting down, and chattering God only knows what about his
honour and his good name and his little ones. How he did talk--yes, and
weep too! Indeed, few of ourselves could refrain from tears; although
Rataziaev remarked (probably to encourage Gorshkov) that honour mattered
nothing when one had nothing to eat, and that money was the chief thing
in the world, and that for it alone ought God to be thanked. Then he
slapped Gorshkov on the shoulder, but I thought that Gorshkov somehow
seemed hurt at this. He did not express any open displeasure, but threw
Rataziaev a curious look, and removed his hand from his shoulder. ONCE
upon a time he would not have acted thus; but characters differ. For
example, I myself should have hesitated, at such a season of rejoicing,
to seem proud, even though excessive deference and civility at such a
moment might have been construed as a lapse both of moral courage and of
mental vigour. However, this is none of my business. All that Gorshkov
said was: “Yes, money IS a good thing, glory be to God! ” In fact, the
whole time that we remained in his room he kept repeating to himself:
“Glory be to God, glory be to God! ” His wife ordered a richer and more
delicate meal than usual, and the landlady herself cooked it, for at
heart she is not a bad woman. But until the meal was served Gorshkov
could not remain still. He kept entering everyone’s room in turn
(whether invited thither or not), and, seating himself smilingly upon
a chair, would sometimes say something, and sometimes not utter a word,
but get up and go out again. In the naval officer’s room he even took a
pack of playing-cards into his hand, and was thereupon invited to make
a fourth in a game; but after losing a few times, as well as making
several blunders in his play, he abandoned the pursuit. “No,” said he,
“that is the sort of man that I am--that is all that I am good for,” and
departed. Next, encountering myself in the corridor, he took my hands in
his, and gazed into my face with a rather curious air. Then he pressed
my hands again, and moved away still smiling, smiling, but in an odd,
weary sort of manner, much as a corpse might smile. Meanwhile his wife
was weeping for joy, and everything in their room was decked in holiday
guise. Presently dinner was served, and after they had dined Gorshkov
said to his wife: “See now, dearest, I am going to rest a little while;”
and with that went to bed. Presently he called his little daughter to
his side, and, laying his hand upon the child’s head, lay a long while
looking at her. Then he turned to his wife again, and asked her: “What
of Petinka? Where is our Petinka? ” whereupon his wife crossed herself,
and replied: “Why, our Petinka is dead! ” “Yes, yes, I know--of course,”
said her husband. “Petinka is now in the Kingdom of Heaven. ” This showed
his wife that her husband was not quite in his right senses--that the
recent occurrence had upset him; so she said: “My dearest, you must
sleep awhile. ” “I will do so,” he replied, “--at once--I am rather--”
And he turned over, and lay silent for a time. Then again he turned
round and tried to say something, but his wife could not hear what it
was. “What do you say? ” she inquired, but he made no reply.
Then again
she waited a few moments until she thought to herself, “He has gone to
sleep,” and departed to spend an hour with the landlady. At the end
of that hour she returned--only to find that her husband had not yet
awoken, but was still lying motionless. “He is sleeping very soundly,”
she reflected as she sat down and began to work at something or other.
Since then she has told us that when half an hour or so had elapsed she
fell into a reverie. What she was thinking of she cannot remember, save
that she had forgotten altogether about her husband. Then she awoke with
a curious sort of sensation at her heart. The first thing that struck
her was the deathlike stillness of the room. Glancing at the bed,
she perceived her husband to be lying in the same position as before.
Thereupon she approached him, turned the coverlet back, and saw that he
was stiff and cold--that he had died suddenly, as though smitten with a
stroke. But of what precisely he died God only knows. The affair has so
terribly impressed me that even now I cannot fully collect my
thoughts. It would scarcely be believed that a human being could die so
simply--and he such a poor, needy wretch, this Gorshkov! What a
fate, what a fate, to be sure! His wife is plunged in tears and
panic-stricken, while his little daughter has run away somewhere to hide
herself. In their room, however, all is bustle and confusion, for the
doctors are about to make an autopsy on the corpse. But I cannot
tell you things for certain; I only know that I am most grieved, most
grieved. How sad to think that one never knows what even a day,
what even an hour, may bring forth! One seems to die to so little
purpose! --Your own

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 19th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to let you know that Rataziaev
has found me some work to do for a certain writer--the latter having
submitted to him a large manuscript. Glory be to God, for this means a
large amount of work to do. Yet, though the copy is wanted in haste, the
original is so carelessly written that I hardly know how to set about my
task. Indeed, certain parts of the manuscript are almost undecipherable.
I have agreed to do the work for forty kopecks a sheet. You see
therefore (and this is my true reason for writing to you), that we shall
soon be receiving money from an extraneous source. Goodbye now, as I
must begin upon my labours. --Your sincere friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 23rd.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I have not written to you these three
days past for the reason that I have been so worried and alarmed.

Three days ago Bwikov came again to see me. At the time I was alone, for
Thedora had gone out somewhere. As soon as I opened the door the sight
of him so terrified me that I stood rooted to the spot, and could feel
myself turning pale. Entering with his usual loud laugh, he took a
chair, and sat down. For a long while I could not collect my thoughts;
I just sat where I was, and went on with my work. Soon his smile faded,
for my appearance seemed somehow to have struck him. You see, of late I
have grown thin, and my eyes and cheeks have fallen in, and my face has
become as white as a sheet; so that anyone who knew me a year ago would
scarcely recognise me now. After a prolonged inspection, Bwikov seemed
to recover his spirits, for he said something to which I duly replied.
Then again he laughed. Thus he sat for a whole hour--talking to me the
while, and asking me questions about one thing and another. At length,
just before he rose to depart, he took me by the hand, and said (to
quote his exact words): “Between ourselves, Barbara Alexievna, that
kinswoman of yours and my good friend and acquaintance--I refer to
Anna Thedorovna--is a very bad woman,” (he also added a grosser term
of opprobrium). “First of all she led your cousin astray, and then she
ruined yourself. I also have behaved like a villain, but such is the way
of the world. ” Again he laughed. Next, having remarked that, though
not a master of eloquence, he had always considered that obligations of
gentility obliged him to have with me a clear and outspoken explanation,
he went on to say that he sought my hand in marriage; that he looked
upon it as a duty to restore to me my honour; that he could offer me
riches; that, after marriage, he would take me to his country seat in
the Steppes, where we would hunt hares; that he intended never to visit
St. Petersburg again, since everything there was horrible, and he had to
entertain a worthless nephew whom he had sworn to disinherit in favour
of a legal heir; and, finally, that it was to obtain such a legal heir
that he was seeking my hand in marriage. Lastly, he remarked that
I seemed to be living in very poor circumstances (which was not
surprising, said he, in view of the kennel that I inhabited); that I
should die if I remained a month longer in that den; that all lodgings
in St. Petersburg were detestable; and that he would be glad to know if
I was in want of anything.

So thunderstruck was I with the proposal that I could only burst into
tears. These tears he interpreted as a sign of gratitude, for he told
me that he had always felt assured of my good sense, cleverness, and
sensibility, but that hitherto he had hesitated to take this step until
he should have learned precisely how I was getting on. Next he asked me
some questions about YOU; saying that he had heard of you as a man of
good principle, and that since he was unwilling to remain your debtor,
would a sum of five hundred roubles repay you for all you had done for
me? To this I replied that your services to myself had been such as
could never be requited with money; whereupon, he exclaimed that I was
talking rubbish and nonsense; that evidently I was still young enough to
read poetry; that romances of this kind were the undoing of young girls,
that books only corrupted morality, and that, for his part, he could not
abide them. “You ought to live as long as I have done,” he added, “and
THEN you will see what men can be. ”

With that he requested me to give his proposal my favourable
consideration--saying that he would not like me to take such an
important step unguardedly, since want of thought and impetuosity often
spelt ruin to youthful inexperience, but that he hoped to receive an
answer in the affirmative. “Otherwise,” said he, “I shall have no choice
but to marry a certain merchant’s daughter in Moscow, in order that
I may keep my vow to deprive my nephew of the inheritance. ”--Then he
pressed five hundred roubles into my hand--to buy myself some bonbons,
as he phrased it--and wound up by saying that in the country I should
grow as fat as a doughnut or a cheese rolled in butter; that at the
present moment he was extremely busy; and that, deeply engaged in
business though he had been all day, he had snatched the present
opportunity of paying me a visit. At length he departed.

For a long time I sat plunged in reflection. Great though my distress
of mind was, I soon arrived at a decision. . . . My friend, I am going to
marry this man; I have no choice but to accept his proposal. If anyone
could save me from this squalor, and restore to me my good name, and
avert from me future poverty and want and misfortune, he is the man to
do it. What else have I to look for from the future? What more am I to
ask of fate? Thedora declares that one need NEVER lose one’s happiness;
but what, I ask HER, can be called happiness under such circumstances as
mine? At all events I see no other road open, dear friend. I see nothing
else to be done. I have worked until I have ruined my health. I cannot
go on working forever. Shall I go out into the world? Nay; I am worn to
a shadow with grief, and become good for nothing. Sickly by nature, I
should merely be a burden upon other folks. Of course this marriage will
not bring me paradise, but what else does there remain, my friend--what
else does there remain? What other choice is left?

I had not asked your advice earlier for the reason that I wanted to
think the matter over alone. However, the decision which you have just
read is unalterable, and I am about to announce it to Bwikov himself,
who in any case has pressed me for a speedy reply, owing to the fact (so
he says) that his business will not wait nor allow him to remain here
longer, and that therefore, no trifle must be allowed to stand in its
way. God alone knows whether I shall be happy, but my fate is in His
holy, His inscrutable hand, and I have so decided. Bwikov is said to be
kind-hearted. He will at least respect me, and perhaps I shall be
able to return that respect. What more could be looked for from such a
marriage?

I have now told you all, Makar Alexievitch, and feel sure that you will
understand my despondency. Do not, however, try to divert me from my
intention, for all your efforts will be in vain. Think for a moment;
weigh in your heart for a moment all that has led me to take this step.
At first my anguish was extreme, but now I am quieter. What awaits me I
know not. What must be must be, and as God may send. . . .

Bwikov has just arrived, so I am leaving this letter unfinished.
Otherwise I had much else to say to you. Bwikov is even now at the
door! . . .




September 23rd.

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to reply to you--I hasten to
express to you my extreme astonishment. . . . In passing, I may mention
that yesterday we buried poor Gorshkov. . . .

Yes, Bwikov has acted nobly, and you have no choice but to accept him.
All things are in God’s hands. This is so, and must always be so; and
the purposes of the Divine Creator are at once good and inscrutable, as
also is Fate, which is one with Him. . . .

Thedora will share your happiness--for, of course, you will be happy,
and free from want, darling, dearest, sweetest of angels! But why should
the matter be so hurried? Oh, of course--Monsieur Bwikov’s business
affairs. Only a man who has no affairs to see to can afford to disregard
such things. I got a glimpse of Monsieur Bwikov as he was leaving your
door. He is a fine-looking man--a very fine-looking man; though that is
not the point that I should most have noticed had I been quite myself at
the time. . . .

In the future shall we be able to write letters to one another? I keep
wondering and wondering what has led you to say all that you have said.
To think that just when twenty pages of my copying are completed THIS
has happened! . . . I suppose you will be able to make many purchases
now--to buy shoes and dresses and all sorts of things? Do you remember
the shops in Gorokhovaia Street of which I used to speak? . . .

But no. You ought not to go out at present--you simply ought not to, and
shall not. Presently, you will he able to buy many, many things, and to,
keep a carriage. Also, at present the weather is bad. Rain is descending
in pailfuls, and it is such a soaking kind of rain that--that you might
catch cold from it, my darling, and the chill might go to your heart.
Why should your fear of this man lead you to take such risks when
all the time I am here to do your bidding? So Thedora declares great
happiness to be awaiting you, does she? She is a gossiping old woman,
and evidently desires to ruin you.

Shall you be at the all-night Mass this evening, dearest? I should like
to come and see you there. Yes, Bwikov spoke but the truth when he said
that you are a woman of virtue, wit, and good feeling. Yet I think he
would do far better to marry the merchant’s daughter. What think YOU
about it? Yes, ‘twould be far better for him. As soon as it grows dark
tonight I mean to come and sit with you for an hour. Tonight twilight
will close in early, so I shall soon be with you. Yes, come what may,
I mean to see you for an hour. At present, I suppose, you are expecting
Bwikov, but I will come as soon as he has gone. So stay at home until I
have arrived, dearest.

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 27th.

DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Bwikov has just informed me that I must have
at least three dozen linen blouses; so I must go at once and look for
sempstresses to make two out of the three dozen, since time presses.
Indeed, Monsieur Bwikov is quite angry about the fuss which these
fripperies are entailing, seeing that there remain but five days before
the wedding, and we are to depart on the following day. He keeps rushing
about and declaring that no time ought to be wasted on trifles. I am
terribly worried, and scarcely able to stand on my feet. There is
so much to do, and, perhaps, so much that were better left undone!
Moreover, I have no blond or other lace; so THERE is another item to be
purchased, since Bwikov declares that he cannot have his bride look
like a cook, but, on the contrary, she must “put the noses of the great
ladies out of joint. ” That is his expression. I wish, therefore, that
you would go to Madame Chiffon’s, in Gorokhovaia Street, and ask her, in
the first place, to send me some sempstresses, and, in the second place,
to give herself the trouble of coming in person, as I am too ill to
go out. Our new flat is very cold, and still in great disorder. Also,
Bwikov has an aunt who is at her last gasp through old age, and may die
before our departure. He himself, however, declares this to be nothing,
and says that she will soon recover. He is not yet living with me, and
I have to go running hither and thither to find him. Only Thedora
is acting as my servant, together with Bwikov’s valet, who oversees
everything, but has been absent for the past three days.

Each morning Bwikov goes to business, and loses his temper. Yesterday
he even had some trouble with the police because of his thrashing the
steward of these buildings. . . I have no one to send with this letter so
I am going to post it. . . Ah! I had almost forgotten the most important
point--which is that I should like you to go and tell Madame Chiffon
that I wish the blond lace to be changed in conformity with yesterday’s
patterns, if she will be good enough to bring with her a new assortment.
Also say that I have altered my mind about the satin, which I wish to
be tamboured with crochet-work; also, that tambour is to be used with
monograms on the various garments. Do you hear? Tambour, not smooth
work. Do not forget that it is to be tambour. Another thing I had almost
forgotten, which is that the lappets of the fur cloak must be raised,
and the collar bound with lace. Please tell her these things, Makar
Alexievitch. --Your friend,

B. D.

P. S. --I am so ashamed to trouble you with my commissions! This is the
third morning that you will have spent in running about for my sake. But
what else am I to do? The whole place is in disorder, and I myself
am ill. Do not be vexed with me, Makar Alexievitch. I am feeling so
depressed! What is going to become of me, dear friend, dear, kind, old
Makar Alexievitch? I dread to look forward into the future. Somehow I
feel apprehensive; I am living, as it were, in a mist. Yet, for God’s
sake, forget none of my commissions. I am so afraid lest you should make
a mistake! Remember that everything is to be tambour work, not smooth.




September 27th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I have carefully fulfilled your
commissions. Madame Chiffon informs me that she herself had thought of
using tambour work as being more suitable (though I did not quite take
in all she said). Also, she has informed me that, since you have given
certain directions in writing, she has followed them (though again I do
not clearly remember all that she said--I only remember that she said
a very great deal, for she is a most tiresome old woman).