This is a modern-English version of Poor Folk, originally written by Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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      POOR FOLK
    



      By Fyodor Dostoyevsky
    










      Translated by C. J. Hogarth
    




 



 






 



 






 



 






 
 
 


 
 
 












      April 8th
    



      MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—How happy I was last night—how
      immeasurably, how impossibly happy! That was because for once in your life
      you had relented so far as to obey my wishes. At about eight o’clock I
      awoke from sleep (you know, my beloved one, that I always like to sleep
      for a short hour after my work is done)—I awoke, I say, and,
      lighting a candle, prepared my paper to write, and trimmed my pen. Then
      suddenly, for some reason or another, I raised my eyes—and felt my
      very heart leap within me! For you had understood what I wanted, you had
      understood what my heart was craving for. Yes, I perceived that a corner
      of the curtain in your window had been looped up and fastened to the
      cornice as I had suggested should be done; and it seemed to me that your
      dear face was glimmering at the window, and that you were looking at me
      from out of the darkness of your room, and that you were thinking of me.
      Yet how vexed I felt that I could not distinguish your sweet face clearly!
      For there was a time when you and I could see one another without any
      difficulty at all. Ah me, but old age is not always a blessing, my beloved
      one! At this very moment everything is standing awry to my eyes, for a man
      needs only to work late overnight in his writing of something or other
      for, in the morning, his eyes to be red, and the tears to be gushing from
      them in a way that makes him ashamed to be seen before strangers. However,
      I was able to picture to myself your beaming smile, my angel—your
      kind, bright smile; and in my heart there lurked just such a feeling as on
      the occasion when I first kissed you, my little Barbara. Do you remember
      that, my darling? Yet somehow you seemed to be threatening me with your
      tiny finger. Was it so, little wanton? You must write and tell me about it
      in your next letter.
    
MY DEAR BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Last night was such a joyful moment for me—so incredibly, immensely happy! It was because, for once in your life, you actually listened to my wishes. Around eight o'clock, I woke up from my sleep (you know I like to take a short nap after my work is done)—I woke up, and lighting a candle, I got my paper ready to write and sharpened my pen. Then, suddenly, for some reason, I looked up—and my heart leaped! You understood what I wanted, you understood the desire in my heart. Yes, I saw that a corner of the curtain in your window had been looped up and fastened to the cornice as I suggested; it seemed like I could see your beautiful face glowing at the window, looking at me from the dark of your room, and thinking of me. But I felt so frustrated that I couldn't see your lovely face clearly! There was a time when we could see each other with no trouble at all. Oh, but age is not always kind, my love! Right now, everything seems off to me, because when a man works late into the night on something, by morning his eyes are red, and he has tears streaming down them, making him embarrassed to be seen by others. Still, I could picture your radiant smile, my angel—your sweet, bright smile; and in my heart, I felt just like I did the first time I kissed you, my little Barbara. Do you remember that, my darling? Yet somehow, it felt like you were playfully threatening me with your little finger. Was that so, you little tease? You have to write and tell me about it in your next letter.



      But what think you of the plan of the curtain, Barbara? It is a charming
      one, is it not? No matter whether I be at work, or about to retire to
      rest, or just awaking from sleep, it enables me to know that you are
      thinking of me, and remembering me—that you are both well and happy.
      Then when you lower the curtain, it means that it is time that I, Makar
      Alexievitch, should go to bed; and when again you raise the curtain, it
      means that you are saying to me, “Good morning,” and asking me how I am,
      and whether I have slept well. “As for myself,” adds the curtain, “I am
      altogether in good health and spirits, glory be to God!” Yes, my heart’s
      delight, you see how easy a plan it was to devise, and how much writing it
      will save us! It is a clever plan, is it not? And it was my own invention,
      too! Am I not cunning in such matters, Barbara Alexievna?
    
But what do you think of the curtain plan, Barbara? It's a lovely idea, right? No matter if I’m working, about to go to sleep, or just waking up, it lets me know that you’re thinking of me and remembering me—that you’re both well and happy. Then when you lower the curtain, it means it’s time for me, Makar Alexievitch, to go to bed; and when you raise the curtain again, it means you’re saying “Good morning” and asking how I’m doing and if I slept well. “As for me,” the curtain adds, “I’m feeling great and in good spirits, thank God!” Yes, my heart’s delight, you can see how simple this plan is to come up with, and how much writing it will save us! It’s a smart plan, isn’t it? And I thought of it myself, too! Am I not clever in such things, Barbara Alexievna?



      Well, next let me tell you, dearest, that last night I slept better and
      more soundly than I had ever hoped to do, and that I am the more delighted
      at the fact in that, as you know, I had just settled into a new lodging—a
      circumstance only too apt to keep one from sleeping! This morning, too, I
      arose (joyous and full of love) at cockcrow. How good seemed everything at
      that hour, my darling! When I opened my window I could see the sun
      shining, and hear the birds singing, and smell the air laden with scents
      of spring. In short, all nature was awaking to life again. Everything was
      in consonance with my mood; everything seemed fair and spring-like.
      Moreover, I had a fancy that I should fare well today. But my whole
      thoughts were bent upon you. “Surely,” thought I, “we mortals who dwell in
      pain and sorrow might with reason envy the birds of heaven which know not
      either!” And my other thoughts were similar to these. In short, I gave
      myself up to fantastic comparisons. A little book which I have says the
      same kind of thing in a variety of ways. For instance, it says that one
      may have many, many fancies, my Barbara—that as soon as the spring
      comes on, one’s thoughts become uniformly pleasant and sportive and witty,
      for the reason that, at that season, the mind inclines readily to
      tenderness, and the world takes on a more roseate hue. From that little
      book of mine I have culled the following passage, and written it down for
      you to see. In particular does the author express a longing similar to my
      own, where he writes:
    
Well, let me tell you, my dear, that last night I slept better and more peacefully than I ever hoped, and I'm even more thrilled about it since, as you know, I just moved into a new place—a situation that usually makes it hard to sleep! This morning, I woke up (joyful and filled with love) right at dawn. Everything seemed so wonderful at that moment, my darling! When I opened my window, I could see the sun shining, hear the birds singing, and smell the fresh spring air. In short, all of nature was coming back to life. Everything matched my mood; everything felt beautiful and spring-like. Plus, I had a feeling that today would be a good day. But my thoughts were completely focused on you. "Surely," I thought, "we humans who live in pain and sadness might justifiably envy the birds in the sky that know nothing of either!" And my other thoughts were along the same lines. In short, I let myself indulge in wild comparisons. A little book I have expresses similar ideas in various ways. For example, it says that many fancies can arise, my Barbara—that as soon as spring arrives, our thoughts become pleasantly lighthearted and witty, because, during that season, our minds naturally lean towards tenderness, and the world seems to take on a rosy glow. From that little book of mine, I've noted down the following passage for you to see, particularly where the author shares a longing similar to my own, when he writes:



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



      And he has written much else, God bless him!
    
And he has written a lot of other stuff, bless him!



      But tell me, my love—where did you go for your walk this morning?
      Even before I had started for the office you had taken flight from your
      room, and passed through the courtyard—yes, looking as vernal-like
      as a bird in spring. What rapture it gave me to see you! Ah, little
      Barbara, little Barbara, you must never give way to grief, for tears are
      of no avail, nor sorrow. I know this well—I know it of my own
      experience. So do you rest quietly until you have regained your health a
      little. But how is our good Thedora? What a kind heart she has! You write
      that she is now living with you, and that you are satisfied with what she
      does. True, you say that she is inclined to grumble, but do not mind that,
      Barbara. God bless her, for she is an excellent soul!
    
But tell me, my love—where did you go for your walk this morning?  
Even before I headed to the office, you had already left your room and walked through the courtyard—yes, looking as fresh as a bird in spring. It brought me so much joy to see you! Ah, little Barbara, little Barbara, you must never give in to sadness, because tears are pointless, and sorrow doesn't help. I know this well—I’ve learned it from my own experiences. So take it easy until you feel a bit better. But how is our good Thedora? What a kind heart she has! You mentioned that she’s now living with you and that you’re pleased with what she does. True, you say she tends to complain, but don’t let that bother you, Barbara. God bless her, for she is a wonderful person!



      But what sort of an abode have I lighted upon, Barbara Alexievna? What
      sort of a tenement, do you think, is this? Formerly, as you know, I used
      to live in absolute stillness—so much so that if a fly took wing it
      could plainly be heard buzzing. Here, however, all is turmoil and shouting
      and clatter. The PLAN of the tenement you know already. Imagine a long
      corridor, quite dark, and by no means clean. To the right a dead wall, and
      to the left a row of doors stretching as far as the line of rooms extends.
      These rooms are tenanted by different people—by one, by two, or by
      three lodgers as the case may be, but in this arrangement there is no sort
      of system, and the place is a perfect Noah’s Ark. Most of the lodgers are
      respectable, educated, and even bookish people. In particular they include
      a tchinovnik (one of the literary staff in some government department),
      who is so well-read that he can expound Homer or any other author—in
      fact, ANYTHING, such a man of talent is he! Also, there are a couple of
      officers (for ever playing cards), a midshipman, and an English tutor.
      But, to amuse you, dearest, let me describe these people more
      categorically in my next letter, and tell you in detail about their lives.
      As for our landlady, she is a dirty little old woman who always walks
      about in a dressing-gown and slippers, and never ceases to shout at
      Theresa. I myself live in the kitchen—or, rather, in a small room
      which forms part of the kitchen. The latter is a very large, bright,
      clean, cheerful apartment with three windows in it, and a partition-wall
      which, running outwards from the front wall, makes a sort of little den, a
      sort of extra room, for myself. Everything in this den is comfortable and
      convenient, and I have, as I say, a window to myself. So much for a
      description of my dwelling-place. Do not think, dearest, that in all this
      there is any hidden intention. The fact that I live in the kitchen merely
      means that I live behind the partition wall in that apartment—that I
      live quite alone, and spend my time in a quiet fashion compounded of
      trifles. For furniture I have provided myself with a bed, a table, a chest
      of drawers, and two small chairs. Also, I have suspended an ikon. True,
      better rooms MAY exist in the world than this—much better rooms; yet
      COMFORT is the chief thing. In fact, I have made all my arrangements for
      comfort’s sake alone; so do not for a moment imagine that I had any other
      end in view. And since your window happens to be just opposite to mine,
      and since the courtyard between us is narrow and I can see you as you
      pass,—why, the result is that this miserable wretch will be able to
      live at once more happily and with less outlay. The dearest room in this
      house costs, with board, thirty-five roubles—more than my purse
      could well afford; whereas MY room costs only twenty-four, though formerly
      I used to pay thirty, and so had to deny myself many things (I could drink
      tea but seldom, and never could indulge in tea and sugar as I do now).
      But, somehow, I do not like having to go without tea, for everyone else
      here is respectable, and the fact makes me ashamed. After all, one drinks
      tea largely to please one’s fellow men, Barbara, and to give oneself tone
      and an air of gentility (though, of myself, I care little about such
      things, for I am not a man of the finicking sort). Yet think you that,
      when all things needful—boots and the rest—have been paid for,
      much will remain? Yet I ought not to grumble at my salary,—I am
      quite satisfied with it; it is sufficient. It has sufficed me now for some
      years, and, in addition, I receive certain gratuities.
    
But what kind of place have I stumbled upon, Barbara Alexievna? What do you think of this apartment? Before, as you know, I used to live in complete silence—so much so that I could clearly hear a fly buzzing if it took off. Here, though, everything is chaos and noise. You already know the layout of the apartment building. Imagine a long, dark corridor that’s definitely not clean. On the right is a bare wall, and on the left, a row of doors stretching as far as the number of rooms goes. These rooms are occupied by various people—one, two, or three lodgers depending on the room—but there’s no real system to it, and the place resembles a perfect Noah’s Ark. Most of the lodgers are decent, educated, and even bookish. In particular, there’s a government clerk from some department who is so knowledgeable that he can discuss Homer or any other author—really, he can talk about anything; he’s quite talented! There are also a couple of officers who are always playing cards, a midshipman, and an English tutor. But to entertain you, my dear, I’ll describe these people in detail in my next letter and share more about their lives. As for our landlady, she’s a dirty little old woman who constantly walks around in a bathrobe and slippers and never stops yelling at Theresa. I live in the kitchen—or rather, in a small room that’s part of the kitchen. The kitchen is a very large, bright, clean, cheerful space with three windows and a wall that juts out from the front, creating a sort of little nook, an extra room just for me. Everything in this nook is cozy and convenient, and I have my own window. That’s my living situation. Don’t think, dear, that there’s any hidden agenda here. The fact that I’m in the kitchen simply means I’m behind the partition wall in the apartment—that I live alone and spend my time quietly on little things. For furniture, I’ve got a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, and two small chairs. I’ve even hung up an icon. True, there may be better rooms out there—much nicer ones—but comfort is what matters most. I’ve set everything up just for comfort; so don’t imagine for a second that I have any other motives. And since your window happens to be right across from mine, and the courtyard between us is narrow enough for me to see you as you pass by—that means this miserable wretch will be able to live a little more happily and at a lower cost. The most desirable room in this house, with board, costs thirty-five roubles—more than I can afford; while MY room only costs twenty-four, although I used to pay thirty and had to go without many things (I could seldom have tea, and I never could enjoy tea and sugar like I do now). But honestly, I don’t like having to go without tea because everyone else here is respectable, and it makes me feel a bit ashamed. After all, people drink tea partly to please others, Barbara, and to create a sense of elegance (though I personally don’t care much about such things, as I’m not someone who fusses over appearances). Yet do you think that, after paying for all the essentials—boots and everything else—much will be left? Still, I shouldn’t complain about my salary—I'm quite satisfied with it; it’s enough. It has sustained me for several years now, and on top of that, I receive some tips here and there.



      Well good-bye, my darling. I have bought you two little pots of geraniums—quite
      cheap little pots, too—as a present. Perhaps you would also like
      some mignonette? Mignonette it shall be if only you will write to inform
      me of everything in detail. Also, do not misunderstand the fact that I
      have taken this room, my dearest. Convenience and nothing else, has made
      me do so. The snugness of the place has caught my fancy. Also, I shall be
      able to save money here, and to hoard it against the future. Already I
      have saved a little money as a beginning. Nor must you despise me because
      I am such an insignificant old fellow that a fly could break me with its
      wing. True, I am not a swashbuckler; but perhaps there may also abide in
      me the spirit which should pertain to every man who is at once resigned
      and sure of himself. Good-bye, then, again, my angel. I have now covered
      close upon a whole two sheets of notepaper, though I ought long ago to
      have been starting for the office. I kiss your hands, and remain ever your
      devoted slave, your faithful friend,
    
Well, goodbye, my dear. I’ve gotten you two little pots of geraniums—pretty cheap ones, too—as a gift. Would you also like some mignonette? I’ll get that for you if you just write and let me know all the details. And please don’t take it the wrong way that I’ve rented this room, sweetheart. It’s purely for convenience, nothing more. I just really like how cozy it is. Plus, I can save some money here for the future. I've already managed to set aside a little as a start. And don’t look down on me because I’m such an unremarkable old guy that a fly could knock me over. True, I’m not a bold hero; but maybe I have a bit of the spirit that every man should have—one who is both resigned and self-assured. So, goodbye again, my angel. I’ve nearly filled two whole pages of notepaper, even though I should have left for the office a while ago. I kiss your hands and remain your devoted servant, your loyal friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
    
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.



      P.S.—One thing I beg of you above all things—and that is, that
      you will answer this letter as FULLY as possible. With the letter I send
      you a packet of bonbons. Eat them for your health’s sake, nor, for the
      love of God, feel any uneasiness about me. Once more, dearest one,
      good-bye.
    
P.S.—One thing I ask of you above all else—and that is, that you will answer this letter as FULLY as you can. Along with this letter, I’m sending you a box of candies. Enjoy them for your health, and please, for the love of God, don’t worry about me. Once again, my dearest, goodbye.




 


 












      April 8th
    



      MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Do you know, I must quarrel with you.
      Yes, good Makar Alexievitch, I really cannot accept your presents, for I
      know what they must have cost you—I know to what privations and
      self-denial they must have led. How many times have I not told you that I
      stand in need of NOTHING, of absolutely NOTHING, as well as that I shall
      never be in a position to recompense you for all the kindly acts with
      which you have loaded me? Why, for instance, have you sent me geraniums? A
      little sprig of balsam would not have mattered so much—but
      geraniums! Only have I to let fall an unguarded word—for example,
      about geraniums—and at once you buy me some! How much they must have
      cost you! Yet what a charm there is in them, with their flaming petals!
      Wherever did you get these beautiful plants? I have set them in my window
      as the most conspicuous place possible, while on the floor I have placed a
      bench for my other flowers to stand on (since you are good enough to
      enrich me with such presents). Unfortunately, Thedora, who, with her
      sweeping and polishing, makes a perfect sanctuary of my room, is not
      over-pleased at the arrangement. But why have you sent me also bonbons?
      Your letter tells me that something special is afoot with you, for I find
      in it so much about paradise and spring and sweet odours and the songs of
      birds. Surely, thought I to myself when I received it, this is as good as
      poetry! Indeed, verses are the only thing that your letter lacks, Makar
      Alexievitch. And what tender feelings I can read in it—what
      roseate-coloured fancies! To the curtain, however, I had never given a
      thought. The fact is that when I moved the flower-pots, it LOOPED ITSELF
      up. There now!
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Do you know, I have to argue with you.  
      Yes, dear Makar Alexievitch, I really can’t accept your gifts, because I  
      know how much they must have cost you—I know what sacrifices and  
      self-denial they must have led to. How many times have I told you that I  
      need NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING, and that I will never be able to repay  
      you for all the kindness you’ve shown me? Why, for instance, did you send  
      me geraniums? A little sprig of balsam wouldn’t have mattered as much—but  
      geraniums! The moment I let slip an unguarded word—like about  
      geraniums—you rush out and buy me some! I can only imagine how much  
      they cost you! Yet there’s something so lovely about them, with their  
      bright petals! Where did you get these beautiful plants? I’ve put them in  
      my window in the most prominent spot, while on the floor I’ve placed a  
      bench for my other flowers (since you’re kind enough to bless me with such  
      gifts). Unfortunately, Thedora, who makes my room a perfect sanctuary  
      with her cleaning and polishing, isn’t too happy about the arrangement.  
      But why did you also send me candy? Your letter suggests that something  
      special is going on with you, as it’s filled with talk of paradise, spring,  
      sweet scents, and the songs of birds. I thought to myself, this is almost  
      poetry! Indeed, the only thing missing from your letter is some verses,  
      Makar Alexievitch. And what tender feelings I can read in it—what  
      rosy fantasies! However, I never thought about the curtain. The truth is,  
      when I moved the flower pots, it LOOPED ITSELF up. There you go!



      Ah, Makar Alexievitch, you neither speak of nor give any account of what
      you have spent upon me. You hope thereby to deceive me, to make it seem as
      though the cost always falls upon you alone, and that there is nothing to
      conceal. Yet I KNOW that for my sake you deny yourself necessaries. For
      instance, what has made you go and take the room which you have done,
      where you will be worried and disturbed, and where you have neither
      elbow-space nor comfort—you who love solitude, and never like to
      have any one near you? To judge from your salary, I should think that you
      might well live in greater ease than that. Also, Thedora tells me that
      your circumstances used to be much more affluent than they are at present.
      Do you wish, then, to persuade me that your whole existence has been
      passed in loneliness and want and gloom, with never a cheering word to
      help you, nor a seat in a friend’s chimney-corner? Ah, kind comrade, how
      my heart aches for you! But do not overtask your health, Makar
      Alexievitch. For instance, you say that your eyes are over-weak for you to
      go on writing in your office by candle-light. Then why do so? I am sure
      that your official superiors do not need to be convinced of your
      diligence!
    
Ah, Makar Alexievitch, you neither talk about nor account for what you’ve spent on me. You think you can trick me into believing the burden falls solely on you, and that there’s nothing to hide. Yet I KNOW that you go without essentials for my sake. For example, why did you choose that cramped room where you’ll be stressed and uncomfortable, especially when you love solitude and hate having anyone around? Based on your salary, you could easily live more comfortably than that. Also, Thedora tells me that your situation was much better before. Do you really want to make me believe that your whole life has been filled with loneliness, need, and despair, without a kind word or a spot by a friend’s fire? Oh, dear friend, my heart hurts for you! But please, don’t push yourself too hard, Makar Alexievitch. You mentioned that your eyes are too weak to keep writing by candlelight. So why do it? I’m sure your bosses know how hard you work without needing proof!



      Once more I implore you not to waste so much money upon me. I know how
      much you love me, but I also know that you are not rich.... This morning I
      too rose in good spirits. Thedora had long been at work; and it was time
      that I too should bestir myself. Indeed I was yearning to do so, so I went
      out for some silk, and then sat down to my labours. All the morning I felt
      light-hearted and cheerful. Yet now my thoughts are once more dark and sad—once
      more my heart is ready to sink.
    
Once again, I urge you not to spend so much money on me. I know how much you care about me, but I also realize that you’re not wealthy. This morning, I woke up in a good mood. Thedora had been working for a long time, and it was time for me to get moving too. I really wanted to, so I went out to get some silk, and then I settled down to work. All morning, I felt cheerful and light-hearted. Yet now my thoughts are dark and gloomy again—once more, my heart is about to sink.



      Ah, what is going to become of me? What will be my fate? To have to be so
      uncertain as to the future, to have to be unable to foretell what is going
      to happen, distresses me deeply. Even to look back at the past is
      horrible, for it contains sorrow that breaks my very heart at the thought
      of it. Yes, a whole century in tears could I spend because of the wicked
      people who have wrecked my life!
    
Ah, what’s going to happen to me? What will my future be? The uncertainty about what lies ahead really upsets me. Even looking back at the past is terrible because it holds so much sorrow that it breaks my heart just thinking about it. Yes, I could spend a whole century in tears because of the cruel people who have ruined my life!



      But dusk is coming on, and I must set to work again. Much else should I
      have liked to write to you, but time is lacking, and I must hasten. Of
      course, to write this letter is a pleasure enough, and could never be
      wearisome; but why do you not come to see me in person? Why do you not,
      Makar Alexievitch? You live so close to me, and at least SOME of your time
      is your own. I pray you, come. I have just seen Theresa. She was looking
      so ill, and I felt so sorry for her, that I gave her twenty kopecks. I am
      almost falling asleep. Write to me in fullest detail, both concerning your
      mode of life, and concerning the people who live with you, and concerning
      how you fare with them. I should so like to know! Yes, you must write
      again. Tonight I have purposely looped the curtain up. Go to bed early,
      for, last night, I saw your candle burning until nearly midnight. Goodbye!
      I am now feeling sad and weary. Ah that I should have to spend such days
      as this one has been. Again good-bye.—Your friend,
    
But it's getting late, and I need to get back to work. There's so much more I want to say to you, but I’m running out of time, so I have to hurry. Writing this letter is a pleasure and never tires me; but why don’t you come visit me in person? Why not, Makar Alexievitch? You live so close, and you must have some free time. Please come by. I just saw Theresa. She looked really unwell, and I felt bad for her, so I gave her twenty kopecks. I’m almost falling asleep. Please write to me in detail about your life, the people you live with, and how you’re getting along with them. I’m really curious! Yes, you have to write again. Tonight, I’ve purposely left the curtain open. Get to bed early because I noticed your candle was still burning past midnight last night. Goodbye! I’m feeling sad and tired now. I wish I didn’t have to spend days like today. Again, goodbye.—Your friend,



      BARBARA DOBROSELOVA. 
 

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.   












      April 8th
    



      MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—To think that a day like this should
      have fallen to my miserable lot! Surely you are making fun of an old
      man?... However, it was my own fault—my own fault entirely. One
      ought not to grow old holding a lock of Cupid’s hair in one’s hand.
      Naturally one is misunderstood.... Yet man is sometimes a very strange
      being. By all the Saints, he will talk of doing things, yet leave them
      undone, and remain looking the kind of fool from whom may the Lord
      preserve us!... Nay, I am not angry, my beloved; I am only vexed to think
      that I should have written to you in such stupid, flowery phraseology.
      Today I went hopping and skipping to the office, for my heart was under
      your influence, and my soul was keeping holiday, as it were. Yes,
      everything seemed to be going well with me. Then I betook myself to my
      work. But with what result? I gazed around at the old familiar objects, at
      the old familiar grey and gloomy objects. They looked just the same as
      before. Yet WERE those the same inkstains, the same tables and chairs,
      that I had hitherto known? Yes, they WERE the same, exactly the same; so
      why should I have gone off riding on Pegasus’ back? Whence had that mood
      arisen? It had arisen from the fact that a certain sun had beamed upon me,
      and turned the sky to blue. But why so? Why is it, sometimes, that sweet
      odours seem to be blowing through a courtyard where nothing of the sort
      can be? They must be born of my foolish fancy, for a man may stray so far
      into sentiment as to forget his immediate surroundings, and to give way to
      the superfluity of fond ardour with which his heart is charged. On the
      other hand, as I walked home from the office at nightfall my feet seemed
      to lag, and my head to be aching. Also, a cold wind seemed to be blowing
      down my back (enraptured with the spring, I had gone out clad only in a
      thin overcoat). Yet you have misunderstood my sentiments, dearest. They
      are altogether different to what you suppose. It is a purely paternal
      feeling that I have for you. I stand towards you in the position of a
      relative who is bound to watch over your lonely orphanhood. This I say in
      all sincerity, and with a single purpose, as any kinsman might do. For,
      after all, I AM a distant kinsman of yours—the seventh drop of water
      in the pudding, as the proverb has it—yet still a kinsman, and at
      the present time your nearest relative and protector, seeing that where
      you had the right to look for help and protection, you found only
      treachery and insult. As for poetry, I may say that I consider it
      unbecoming for a man of my years to devote his faculties to the making of
      verses. Poetry is rubbish. Even boys at school ought to be whipped for
      writing it.
    
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Can you believe a day like this has fallen into my miserable hands? You must be making fun of an old man, right? ... But honestly, it’s my own fault—completely my own fault. One shouldn’t hold onto a lock of Cupid’s hair as they grow old. Naturally, people misunderstand each other... Yet sometimes, people can be strange. By all the Saints, we talk about doing things but end up leaving them undone, looking like fools from whom the Lord save us!... No, I’m not angry, my beloved; I’m just annoyed that I wrote to you in such silly, flowery language. Today I skipped to the office, feeling light-hearted under your influence, as if my soul was on holiday. Yes, everything seemed to be going my way. Then I got to work. But what happened? I looked around at the same old familiar things, the same grey and gloomy surroundings. They looked just like before. But were those the same ink stains, the same desks and chairs I’ve always known? Yes, they were exactly the same; so why did I feel like I was riding on Pegasus? Where did that mood come from? It came from a certain sun shining on me, turning the sky blue. But why? Why do sweet scents sometimes seem to waft through a courtyard where there’s nothing like that? They must be products of my silly imagination, for a person can get so caught up in sentiment that they forget their surroundings and succumb to the overwhelming warmth of their feelings. Then, as I walked home from the office at night, my feet felt heavy, and my head ached. A cold wind blew down my back (lost in the joys of spring, I had stepped out only in a light coat). But you’ve misunderstood my feelings, dear. They’re not at all what you think. What I feel for you is purely paternal. I see myself as a relative who has to look after your lonely orphanhood. I say this sincerely, with good intentions, just like any family member would. After all, I am a distant relative of yours—the seventh drop of water in the pudding, as the saying goes—still, a relative, and right now, your closest relative and protector. You’ve looked for help and found only betrayal and insult. As for poetry, I think it’s inappropriate for a man my age to spend his time writing verses. Poetry is nonsense. Even schoolboys should be punished for writing it.



      Why do you write thus about “comfort” and “peace” and the rest? I am not a
      fastidious man, nor one who requires much. Never in my life have I been so
      comfortable as now. Why, then, should I complain in my old age? I have
      enough to eat, I am well dressed and booted. Also, I have my diversions.
      You see, I am not of noble blood. My father himself was not a gentleman;
      he and his family had to live even more plainly than I do. Nor am I a
      milksop. Nevertheless, to speak frankly, I do not like my present abode so
      much as I used to like my old one. Somehow the latter seemed more cosy,
      dearest. Of course, this room is a good one enough; in fact, in SOME
      respects it is the more cheerful and interesting of the two. I have
      nothing to say against it—no. Yet I miss the room that used to be so
      familiar to me. Old lodgers like myself soon grow as attached to our
      chattels as to a kinsman. My old room was such a snug little place! True,
      its walls resembled those of any other room—I am not speaking of
      that; the point is that the recollection of them seems to haunt my mind
      with sadness. Curious that recollections should be so mournful! Even what
      in that room used to vex me and inconvenience me now looms in a purified
      light, and figures in my imagination as a thing to be desired. We used to
      live there so quietly—I and an old landlady who is now dead. How my
      heart aches to remember her, for she was a good woman, and never
      overcharged for her rooms. Her whole time was spent in making patchwork
      quilts with knitting-needles that were an arshin [An ell.] long.
      Oftentimes we shared the same candle and board. Also she had a
      granddaughter, Masha—a girl who was then a mere baby, but must now
      be a girl of thirteen. This little piece of mischief, how she used to make
      us laugh the day long! We lived together, a happy family of three. Often
      of a long winter’s evening we would first have tea at the big round table,
      and then betake ourselves to our work; the while that, to amuse the child
      and to keep her out of mischief, the old lady would set herself to tell
      stories. What stories they were!—though stories less suitable for a
      child than for a grown-up, educated person. My word! Why, I myself have
      sat listening to them, as I smoked my pipe, until I have forgotten about
      work altogether. And then, as the story grew grimmer, the little child,
      our little bag of mischief, would grow thoughtful in proportion, and clasp
      her rosy cheeks in her tiny hands, and, hiding her face, press closer to
      the old landlady. Ah, how I loved to see her at those moments! As one
      gazed at her one would fail to notice how the candle was flickering, or
      how the storm was swishing the snow about the courtyard. Yes, that was a
      goodly life, my Barbara, and we lived it for nearly twenty years.... How
      my tongue does carry me away! Maybe the subject does not interest you, and
      I myself find it a not over-easy subject to recall—especially at the
      present time.
      Darkness is falling, and Theresa is busying herself with something or
      another. My head and my back are aching, and even my thoughts seem to be
      in pain, so strangely do they occur. Yes, my heart is sad today,
      Barbara.... What is it you have written to me?——“Why do you
      not come in PERSON to see me?” Dear one, what would people say? I should
      have but to cross the courtyard for people to begin noticing us, and
      asking themselves questions. Gossip and scandal would arise, and there
      would be read into the affair quite another meaning than the real one. No,
      little angel, it were better that I should see you tomorrow at Vespers.
      That will be the better plan, and less hurtful to us both. Nor must you
      chide me, beloved, because I have written you a letter like this (reading
      it through, I see it to be all odds and ends); for I am an old man now,
      dear Barbara, and an uneducated one. Little learning had I in my youth,
      and things refuse to fix themselves in my brain when I try to learn them
      anew. No, I am not skilled in letter-writing, Barbara, and, without being
      told so, or any one laughing at me for it, I know that, whenever I try to
      describe anything with more than ordinary distinctness, I fall into the
      mistake of talking sheer rubbish.... I saw you at your window today—yes,
      I saw you as you were drawing down the blind! Good-bye, goodbye, little
      Barbara, and may God keep you! Good-bye, my own Barbara Alexievna!—Your
      sincere friend,
    
Why do you write about “comfort” and “peace” and all that? I’m not a picky person or someone who needs much. I've never been as comfortable as I am now. So why should I complain in my old age? I have enough to eat, I’m well-dressed and shod. Plus, I have my hobbies. You see, I'm not of noble birth. My father wasn't a gentleman; he and his family had to live even more simply than I do. And I'm not a pushover. Still, to be honest, I don’t like my current place as much as I liked my old one. Somehow, the old one felt cozier and more cherished. Sure, this room is decent; in fact, in some ways, it’s cheery and more interesting than the previous one. I can’t complain about it—no. Yet I miss the room I used to know so well. Old lodgers like me become attached to our belongings like family. My old room was such a cozy little spot! True, its walls were like any others—I’m not talking about that; it’s just that the memories seem to haunt my mind with sadness. It's strange that memories can be so sorrowful! Even what used to annoy and inconvenience me there now appears in a more appealing light, and it seems like something to long for. We used to live so quietly—I and an old landlady who has since passed away. Remembering her makes my heart ache because she was a good woman, and never charged too much for her rooms. She spent her time making patchwork quilts with knitting needles that were an arshin long. Often, we would share the same candle and meal. She also had a granddaughter, Masha—a girl who was just a baby then but is probably thirteen now. That little mischief-maker sure knew how to keep us laughing all day! We lived together like a happy family of three. Many long winter evenings, we would start with tea at the big round table and then get to our work while the old lady entertained the child with stories to keep her out of trouble. What stories they were!—though maybe they were more suited for adults than for kids. Believe me! I would sit there, pipe in hand, completely forgetting about my work. As the story turned darker, the little one would become thoughtful, clutching her rosy cheeks in her tiny hands, hiding her face, and snuggling closer to the old landlady. Oh, how I loved seeing her like that! When you watched her, you’d forget about the flickering candle or the storm swirling the snow in the courtyard. Yes, that was a good life, my Barbara, and we lived it for nearly twenty years... How my tongue runs away with me! Perhaps you aren’t interested in this, and I find it hard to recall—especially right now. 

It’s getting dark, and Theresa is bustling around with something. My head and back are aching, and even my thoughts feel painful, coming oddly. Yes, my heart is heavy today, Barbara... What did you write to me?—“Why don’t you come see me IN PERSON?” Dear one, what would people think? I’d only have to cross the courtyard for them to start noticing us and speculating. Gossip would spread, and they’d twist our encounter into something entirely different than it really is. No, little angel, it’s better if I see you tomorrow at Vespers. That will be a better plan and less harmful to us both. Please don’t scold me, beloved, for writing a letter like this (as I read it now, it feels like a collection of random thoughts); I’m an old man now, dear Barbara, and uneducated. I didn’t learn much when I was young, and things just don’t stick in my mind when I try to learn them again. No, I’m not good at writing letters, Barbara, and without being told or laughed at for it, I know that whenever I try to describe something clearly, I end up talking nonsense... I saw you at your window today—yes, I saw you pulling down the blind! Goodbye, goodbye, little Barbara, and may God keep you! Goodbye, my own Barbara Alexievna!—Your sincere friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
    
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.



      P.S.—Do not think that I could write to you in a satirical vein, for
      I am too old to show my teeth to no purpose, and people would laugh at me,
      and quote our Russian proverb: “Who diggeth a pit for another one, the
      same shall fall into it himself.”
     
P.S.—Don’t think I could write to you in a sarcastic way, because I’m too old to bare my teeth for no reason, and people would just laugh at me, quoting our Russian proverb: “Who digs a pit for someone else, shall fall into it himself.”




 


 












      April 9th
    



      MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Are not you, my friend and benefactor,
      just a little ashamed to repine and give way to such despondency? And
      surely you are not offended with me? Ah! Though often thoughtless in my
      speech, I never should have imagined that you would take my words as a
      jest at your expense. Rest assured that NEVER should I make sport of your
      years or of your character. Only my own levity is at fault; still more,
      the fact that I am so weary of life.
    
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Aren’t you, my friend and benefactor, just a bit embarrassed to mope and give in to such negativity? And surely you’re not mad at me? Ah! Even though I can be thoughtless in what I say, I never thought you would take my words as a joke at your expense. Please believe that I would NEVER make fun of your age or your character. It's only my own carefree attitude that’s to blame; even more, it’s the fact that I'm so tired of life.



      What will such a feeling not engender? To tell you the truth, I had
      supposed that YOU were jesting in your letter; wherefore, my heart was
      feeling heavy at the thought that you could feel so displeased with me.
      Kind comrade and helper, you will be doing me an injustice if for a single
      moment you ever suspect that I am lacking in feeling or in gratitude
      towards you. My heart, believe me, is able to appraise at its true worth
      all that you have done for me by protecting me from my enemies, and from
      hatred and persecution. Never shall I cease to pray to God for you; and,
      should my prayers ever reach Him and be received of Heaven, then assuredly
      fortune will smile upon you!
    
What feelings could arise from that? Honestly, I thought you were joking in your letter; that’s why I felt so heavy-hearted at the idea that you might be so displeased with me. Kind friend and supporter, it would be unfair of you to think for even a moment that I lack feeling or gratitude toward you. My heart, trust me, truly appreciates everything you’ve done for me by protecting me from my enemies, as well as from hatred and persecution. I will never stop praying for you; and if my prayers reach God and are accepted in heaven, then good fortune will definitely come your way!



      Today I am not well. By turns I shiver and flush with heat, and Thedora is
      greatly disturbed about me.... Do not scruple to come and see me, Makar
      Alexievitch. How can it concern other people what you do? You and I are
      well enough acquainted with each other, and one’s own affairs are one’s
      own affairs. Goodbye, Makar Alexievitch, for I have come to the end of all
      I had to say, and am feeling too unwell to write more. Again I beg of you
      not to be angry with me, but to rest assured of my constant respect and
      attachment.—Your humble, devoted servant,
    
Today I’m not feeling well. I alternate between shivering and feeling hot, and Thedora is really worried about me... Please don’t hesitate to come and see me, Makar Alexievitch. Why should it matter to anyone else what you do? You and I know each other well enough, and your own business is your own business. Goodbye, Makar Alexievitch, as I’ve said everything I needed to, and I’m feeling too unwell to write more. Again, I ask you not to be upset with me, but please know that I hold you in constant respect and affection.—Your humble, devoted servant,



      BARBARA DOBROSELOVA. 
 

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.   












      April 12th
    



      DEAREST MISTRESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I pray you, my beloved, to tell
      me what ails you. Every one of your letters fills me with alarm. On the
      other hand, in every letter I urge you to be more careful of yourself, and
      to wrap up yourself warmly, and to avoid going out in bad weather, and to
      be in all things prudent. Yet you go and disobey me! Ah, little angel, you
      are a perfect child! I know well that you are as weak as a blade of grass,
      and that, no matter what wind blows upon you, you are ready to fade. But
      you must be careful of yourself, dearest; you MUST look after yourself
      better; you MUST avoid all risks, lest you plunge your friends into
      desolation and despair.
    
DEAREST MISTRESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I beg you, my love, to tell me what’s bothering you. Every one of your letters makes me anxious. At the same time, in each letter, I urge you to take better care of yourself, to dress warmly, to stay indoors during bad weather, and to be careful in everything you do. Yet you continue to ignore my advice! Oh, sweet angel, you really are like a child! I know how fragile you are, and that no matter what challenges you face, you seem ready to wither. But you need to take care of yourself, my dear; you MUST be more careful; you MUST avoid any risks, or you’ll drive your friends into sadness and despair.



      Dearest, you also express a wish to learn the details of my daily life and
      surroundings. That wish I hasten to satisfy. Let me begin at the
      beginning, since, by doing so, I shall explain things more systematically.
      In the first place, on entering this house, one passes into a very bare
      hall, and thence along a passage to a mean staircase. The reception room,
      however, is bright, clean, and spacious, and is lined with redwood and
      metal-work. But the scullery you would not care to see; it is greasy,
      dirty, and odoriferous, while the stairs are in rags, and the walls so
      covered with filth that the hand sticks fast wherever it touches them.
      Also, on each landing there is a medley of boxes, chairs, and dilapidated
      wardrobes; while the windows have had most of their panes shattered, and
      everywhere stand washtubs filled with dirt, litter, eggshells, and
      fish-bladders. The smell is abominable. In short, the house is not a nice
      one.
    
Dearest, you’ve expressed a desire to know the details of my daily life and surroundings. I’m eager to fulfill that wish. Let me start from the beginning so I can explain things more clearly. First, when you enter this house, you walk into a very bare hall, then through a passage to a shabby staircase. However, the reception room is bright, clean, and spacious, lined with redwood and metalwork. But the scullery is something you wouldn’t want to see; it’s greasy, dirty, and smells horrible, while the stairs are in tatters, and the walls are so filthy that your hand gets stuck wherever it touches. On each landing, there’s a jumble of boxes, chairs, and broken wardrobes; the windows are missing most of their panes, and there are washtubs everywhere filled with dirt, trash, eggshells, and fish guts. The smell is dreadful. In short, this house is not pleasant at all.



      As to the disposition of the rooms, I have described it to you already.
      True, they are convenient enough, yet every one of them has an ATMOSPHERE.
      I do not mean that they smell badly so much as that each of them seems to
      contain something which gives forth a rank, sickly-sweet odour. At first
      the impression is an unpleasant one, but a couple of minutes will suffice
      to dissipate it, for the reason that EVERYTHING here smells—people’s
      clothes, hands, and everything else—and one grows accustomed to the
      rankness. Canaries, however, soon die in this house. A naval officer here
      has just bought his fifth. Birds cannot live long in such an air. Every
      morning, when fish or beef is being cooked, and washing and scrubbing are
      in progress, the house is filled with steam. Always, too, the kitchen is
      full of linen hanging out to dry; and since my room adjoins that
      apartment, the smell from the clothes causes me not a little annoyance.
      However, one can grow used to anything.
    
As for the setup of the rooms, I've already described it to you. Sure, they're quite convenient, but each one has its own ATMOSPHERE. I don't mean that they smell bad; rather, each room seems to have something that gives off a strong, sickly-sweet odor. At first, it’s an unpleasant experience, but it only takes a couple of minutes to get used to it because EVERYTHING here has a smell—people’s clothes, hands, and everything else—and you eventually adapt to the stench. Canaries, however, don't last long in this house. A naval officer here has just bought his fifth. Birds can’t survive in this air for too long. Every morning, when they’re cooking fish or beef, and washing and scrubbing are happening, the house fills with steam. Plus, the kitchen is always crowded with laundry hanging out to dry, and since my room is next to that area, the smell from the clothes is quite annoying. Still, you can get used to anything.



      From earliest dawn the house is astir as its inmates rise, walk about, and
      stamp their feet. That is to say, everyone who has to go to work then gets
      out of bed. First of all, tea is partaken of. Most of the tea-urns belong
      to the landlady; and since there are not very many of them, we have to
      wait our turn. Anyone who fails to do so will find his teapot emptied and
      put away. On the first occasion, that was what happened to myself. Well,
      is there anything else to tell you? Already I have made the acquaintance
      of the company here. The naval officer took the initiative in calling upon
      me, and his frankness was such that he told me all about his father, his
      mother, his sister (who is married to a lawyer of Tula), and the town of
      Kronstadt. Also, he promised me his patronage, and asked me to come and
      take tea with him. I kept the appointment in a room where card-playing is
      continually in progress; and, after tea had been drunk, efforts were made
      to induce me to gamble. Whether or not my refusal seemed to the company
      ridiculous I cannot say, but at all events my companions played the whole
      evening, and were playing when I left. The dust and smoke in the room made
      my eyes ache. I declined, as I say, to play cards, and was, therefore,
      requested to discourse on philosophy, after which no one spoke to me at
      all—a result which I did not regret. In fact, I have no intention of
      going there again, since every one is for gambling, and for nothing but
      gambling. Even the literary tchinovnik gives such parties in his room—though,
      in his case, everything is done delicately and with a certain refinement,
      so that the thing has something of a retiring and innocent air.
    
From the earliest morning, the house is buzzing as everyone gets up, walks around, and stamps their feet. In other words, anyone who has to work is getting out of bed. First, everyone drinks tea. Most of the tea-urns belong to the landlady, and since there aren’t many of them, we have to wait our turn. If you don’t wait, you’ll find your teapot emptied and put away. That happened to me the first time. Well, is there anything else to share? I've already met the people here. The naval officer introduced himself and was so open that he told me all about his dad, his mom, his sister (who is married to a lawyer in Tula), and the town of Kronstadt. He also promised to help me out and invited me to have tea with him. I showed up as planned in a room where they were always playing cards, and after tea, they tried to get me to gamble. I don't know if my refusal seemed silly to them, but they played the whole evening without stopping, even when I left. The dust and smoke in the room hurt my eyes. I declined to play cards, so they asked me to talk about philosophy, after which no one spoke to me at all—which I didn’t mind. Honestly, I have no plans to go back, since everyone is just focused on gambling. Even the literary bureaucrat hosts such gatherings in his room—though he does it in a more refined and subtle way, giving it a somewhat modest and innocent vibe.



      In passing, I may tell you that our landlady is NOT a nice woman. In fact,
      she is a regular beldame. You have seen her once, so what do you think of
      her? She is as lanky as a plucked chicken in consumption, and, with
      Phaldoni (her servant), constitutes the entire staff of the establishment.
      Whether or not Phaldoni has any other name I do not know, but at least he
      answers to this one, and every one calls him by it. A red-haired,
      swine-jowled, snub-nosed, crooked lout, he is for ever wrangling with
      Theresa, until the pair nearly come to blows. In short, life is not overly
      pleasant in this place. Never at any time is the household wholly at rest,
      for always there are people sitting up to play cards. Sometimes, too,
      certain things are done of which it would be shameful for me to speak. In
      particular, hardened though I am, it astonishes me that men WITH FAMILIES
      should care to live in this Sodom. For example, there is a family of poor
      folk who have rented from the landlady a room which does not adjoin the
      other rooms, but is set apart in a corner by itself. Yet what quiet people
      they are! Not a sound is to be heard from them. The father—he is
      called Gorshkov—is a little grey-headed tchinovnik who, seven years
      ago, was dismissed from public service, and now walks about in a coat so
      dirty and ragged that it hurts one to see it. Indeed it is a worse coat
      even than mine! Also, he is so thin and frail (at times I meet him in the
      corridor) that his knees quake under him, his hands and head are tremulous
      with some disease (God only knows what!), and he so fears and distrusts
      everybody that he always walks alone. Reserved though I myself am, he is
      even worse. As for his family, it consists of a wife and three children.
      The eldest of the latter—a boy—is as frail as his father,
      while the mother—a woman who, formerly, must have been good looking,
      and still has a striking aspect in spite of her pallor—goes about in
      the sorriest of rags. Also I have heard that they are in debt to our
      landlady, as well as that she is not overly kind to them. Moreover, I have
      heard that Gorshkov lost his post through some unpleasantness or other—through
      a legal suit or process of which I could not exactly tell you the nature.
      Yes, they certainly are poor—Oh, my God, how poor! At the same time,
      never a sound comes from their room. It is as though not a soul were
      living in it. Never does one hear even the children—which is an
      unusual thing, seeing that children are ever ready to sport and play, and
      if they fail to do so it is a bad sign. One evening when I chanced to be
      passing the door of their room, and all was quiet in the house, I heard
      through the door a sob, and then a whisper, and then another sob, as
      though somebody within were weeping, and with such subdued bitterness that
      it tore my heart to hear the sound. In fact, the thought of these poor
      people never left me all night, and quite prevented me from sleeping.
    
In passing, I should mention that our landlady is NOT a nice woman. In fact, she’s a real hag. You’ve seen her once, so what do you think of her? She’s as skinny as a plucked chicken, and along with Phaldoni (her servant), makes up the entire staff of the place. I don’t know if Phaldoni has any other name, but that’s what everyone calls him. He’s a red-haired, pig-faced, snub-nosed jerk who constantly argues with Theresa until they almost come to blows. In short, life isn’t very pleasant here. The household is never fully at rest, as there are always people up playing cards. Sometimes, certain things happen that I would be ashamed to discuss. It especially surprises me that men WITH FAMILIES choose to live in this dump. For instance, there’s a family of poor folks who have rented a room from the landlady that’s separate from the others, tucked away in a corner. Yet they are such quiet people! Not a sound comes from them. The father—named Gorshkov—is a little grey-haired clerk who was fired from his job seven years ago, and now walks around in a coat so dirty and ragged it’s painful to see. Honestly, it’s worse than mine! He’s so thin and frail (I sometimes see him in the hallway) that his knees shake, and his hands and head tremble with some illness (God knows what!), and he’s so fearful and distrustful of everyone that he always walks alone. I’m pretty reserved myself, but he’s even more so. His family includes a wife and three kids. The oldest—a boy—is as frail as his dad, while the mother—who must have been pretty once, and still has a striking appearance despite her pale skin—wears the saddest rags. I’ve also heard they owe money to our landlady and that she isn’t kind to them at all. Furthermore, I heard Gorshkov lost his job due to some trouble—something legal that I couldn’t quite figure out. Yes, they are definitely poor—Oh my God, how poor! Still, not a sound comes from their room. It’s as if nobody lives there. You never even hear the kids—which is strange, since kids are usually full of energy, and if they’re quiet, it’s a bad sign. One evening, as I was passing by their door and everything was quiet in the house, I heard a sob through the door, then a whisper, then another sob, as if someone inside was crying with such heart-wrenching sadness that it broke my heart to listen. In fact, the thought of those poor people stayed with me all night, keeping me from sleeping.



      Well, good-bye, my little Barbara, my little friend beyond price. I have
      described to you everything to the best of my ability. All today you have
      been in my thoughts; all today my heart has been yearning for you. I
      happen to know, dearest one, that you lack a warm cloak. To me too, these
      St. Petersburg springs, with their winds and their snow showers, spell
      death. Good heavens, how the breezes bite one! Do not be angry, beloved,
      that I should write like this. Style I have not. Would that I had! I write
      just what wanders into my brain, in the hope that I may cheer you up a
      little. Of course, had I had a good education, things might have been
      different; but, as things were, I could not have one. Never did I learn
      even to do simple sums!—Your faithful and unchangeable friend,
    
Well, goodbye, my little Barbara, my priceless friend. I’ve shared everything I could with you. You’ve been on my mind all day; my heart has been aching for you. I know you don’t have a warm cloak, my dear. To me, these St. Petersburg springs, with their winds and snow showers, feel like a death sentence. Goodness, how the cold winds sting! Please don’t be upset, my love, that I’m writing like this. I lack style. I wish I had some! I’m just writing whatever comes to my mind, hoping to lift your spirits a bit. Of course, if I had a good education, things might be different; but, as it is, I could never have one. I never even learned to do simple math!—Your loyal and steadfast friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 












      April 25th
    



      MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Today I met my cousin Sasha. To see
      her going to wrack and ruin shocked me terribly. Moreover, it has reached
      me, through a side wind, that she has been making inquiry for me, and
      dogging my footsteps, under the pretext that she wishes to pardon me, to
      forget the past, and to renew our acquaintance. Well, among other things
      she told me that, whereas you are not a kinsman of mine, that she is my
      nearest relative; that you have no right whatever to enter into family
      relations with us; and that it is wrong and shameful for me to be living
      upon your earnings and charity. Also, she said that I must have forgotten
      all that she did for me, though thereby she saved both myself and my
      mother from starvation, and gave us food and drink; that for two and a
      half years we caused her great loss; and, above all things, that she
      excused us what we owed her. Even my poor mother she did not spare. Would
      that she, my dead parent, could know how I am being treated! But God knows
      all about it.... Also, Anna declared that it was solely through my own
      fault that my fortunes declined after she had bettered them; that she is
      in no way responsible for what then happened; and that I have but myself
      to blame for having been either unable or unwilling to defend my honour.
      Great God! WHO, then, has been at fault? According to Anna, Hospodin [Mr.]
      Bwikov was only right when he declined to marry a woman who—But need
      I say it? It is cruel to hear such lies as hers. What is to become of me I
      do not know. I tremble and sob and weep. Indeed, even to write this letter
      has cost me two hours. At least it might have been thought that Anna would
      have confessed HER share in the past. Yet see what she says!... For the
      love of God do not be anxious about me, my friend, my only benefactor.
      Thedora is over apt to exaggerate matters. I am not REALLY ill. I have
      merely caught a little cold. I caught it last night while I was walking to
      Bolkovo, to hear Mass sung for my mother. Ah, mother, my poor mother!
      Could you but rise from the grave and learn what is being done to your
      daughter!
    
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Today I ran into my cousin Sasha. I was really shocked to see how she's falling apart. Moreover, I've heard from others that she's been looking for me and following me around, pretending she wants to forgive me, forget the past, and reconnect. Well, among other things, she told me that even though you're not family, she is my closest relative; that you have no right to get involved with us as a family; and that it's wrong and shameful for me to be living off your earnings and charity. She also claimed that I must have forgotten everything she did for me, even though she saved both me and my mother from starving and provided us with food and drink; that for two and a half years we caused her significant loss; and most importantly, that she forgave us for what we owed her. Even my poor mother wasn't spared from her comments. I wish my deceased parent could see how I'm being treated! But God knows the truth about it all... Also, Anna said that it was entirely my fault that my situation worsened after she helped me; that she isn't responsible for what happened afterward; and that I have only myself to blame for not being able or willing to defend my honor. Great God! WHO, then, is truly at fault? According to Anna, Mr. Bwikov was justified in refusing to marry a woman who—But do I really need to say it? It's painful to hear such lies from her. I don’t know what will happen to me. I’m shaking, sobbing, and crying. Writing this letter took me two hours. At the very least, one would think Anna would acknowledge her part in the past. Yet look at what she says!... For the love of God, please don't worry about me, my friend, my only benefactor. Thedora tends to blow things out of proportion. I’m not REALLY sick. I just caught a bit of a cold. I got it last night while walking to Bolkovo to attend a Mass for my mother. Ah, mother, my poor mother! If only you could rise from the grave and see what is happening to your daughter!



      B. D. 
 

B. D. 
 












      May 20th
    



      MY DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,—I am sending you a few grapes, which are
      good for a convalescent person, and strongly recommended by doctors for
      the allayment of fever. Also, you were saying the other day that you would
      like some roses; wherefore, I now send you a bunch. Are you at all able to
      eat, my darling?—for that is the chief point which ought to be seen
      to. Let us thank God that the past and all its unhappiness are gone! Yes,
      let us give thanks to Heaven for that much! As for books, I cannot get
      hold of any, except for a book which, written in excellent style, is, I
      believe, to be had here. At all events, people keep praising it very much,
      and I have begged the loan of it for myself. Should you too like to read
      it? In this respect, indeed, I feel nervous, for the reason that it is so
      difficult to divine what your taste in books may be, despite my knowledge
      of your character. Probably you would like poetry—the poetry of
      sentiment and of love making? Well, I will send you a book of MY OWN
      poems. Already I have copied out part of the manuscript.
    
MY DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,—I'm sending you some grapes, which are good for someone recovering and are highly recommended by doctors to help with fever. Also, you mentioned the other day that you wanted some roses, so I'm sending you a bunch. Are you able to eat at all, my darling?—that’s the most important thing to check. Let’s thank God that the past and all its unhappiness are behind us! Yes, let’s give thanks to Heaven for that much! As for books, I can’t find any, except for one that’s written in excellent style, which I believe I can get here. Everyone keeps praising it, and I’ve asked to borrow it for myself. Would you like to read it too? In this regard, I feel a bit anxious because it’s so hard to guess what your taste in books is, even though I know your personality. You’d probably enjoy poetry—the kind that’s sentimental and about love, right? Well, I’ll send you a book of MY OWN poems. I’ve already copied out part of the manuscript.



      Everything with me is going well; so pray do not be anxious on my account,
      beloved. What Thedora told you about me was sheer rubbish. Tell her from
      me that she has not been speaking the truth. Yes, do not fail to give this
      mischief-maker my message. It is not the case that I have gone and sold a
      new uniform. Why should I do so, seeing that I have forty roubles of
      salary still to come to me? Do not be uneasy, my darling. Thedora is a
      vindictive woman—merely a vindictive woman. We shall yet see better
      days. Only do you get well, my angel—only do you get well, for the
      love of God, lest you grieve an old man. Also, who told you that I was
      looking thin? Slanders again—nothing but slanders! I am as healthy
      as could be, and have grown so fat that I am ashamed to be so sleek of
      paunch. Would that you were equally healthy!... Now goodbye, my angel. I
      kiss every one of your tiny fingers, and remain ever your constant friend,
    
Everything's going well with me, so please don't worry about me, my dear. What Thedora told you about me was complete nonsense. Tell her from me that she hasn't been truthful. Yes, make sure to pass along this message to that troublemaker. It's not true that I've gone and sold a new uniform. Why would I do that when I still have forty roubles of salary coming to me? Don't be anxious, my darling. Thedora is just a spiteful woman—nothing more than that. We will see better days ahead. Just focus on getting better, my angel—please get better for the love of God, so you don't upset an old man. Also, who told you I was looking thin? More lies—just lies! I'm perfectly healthy and have actually gotten so plump that I'm embarrassed by my belly. I wish you were as healthy as well!... Now, goodbye, my angel. I kiss each of your tiny fingers and remain your faithful friend.



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
    
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.



      P.S.—But what is this, dearest one, that you have written to me? Why
      do you place me upon such a pedestal? Moreover, how could I come and visit
      you frequently? How, I repeat? Of course, I might avail myself of the
      cover of night; but, alas! the season of the year is what it is, and
      includes no night time to speak of. In fact, although, throughout your
      illness and delirium, I scarcely left your side for a moment, I cannot
      think how I contrived to do the many things that I did. Later, I ceased to
      visit you at all, for the reason that people were beginning to notice
      things, and to ask me questions. Yet, even so, a scandal has arisen.
      Theresa I trust thoroughly, for she is not a talkative woman; but consider
      how it will be when the truth comes out in its entirety! What THEN will
      folk not say and think? Nevertheless, be of good cheer, my beloved, and
      regain your health. When you have done so we will contrive to arrange a
      rendezvous out of doors.
    
P.S.—But what is this, my dear, that you’ve written to me? Why do you put me on such a pedestal? And how could I visit you often? How, I ask again? Sure, I could use the cover of night; but, sadly, the time of year doesn’t really allow for any nighttime to speak of. In fact, even though I hardly left your side for a moment during your illness and delirium, I can't remember how I managed to do all the things I did. Eventually, I stopped visiting altogether because people started to notice and ask me questions. Yet, even then, a scandal has come up. I trust Theresa completely, as she isn’t a chatty person; but think about how it will be when the full truth comes out! What will people say and think THEN? Still, keep your spirits up, my love, and focus on getting better. Once you’re well, we’ll figure out a way to meet outside.




 


 












      June 1st
    



      MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—So eager am I to do something that
      will please and divert you in return for your care, for your ceaseless
      efforts on my behalf—in short, for your love for me—that I
      have decided to beguile a leisure hour for you by delving into my locker,
      and extracting thence the manuscript which I send you herewith. I began it
      during the happier period of my life, and have continued it at intervals
      since. So often have you asked me about my former existence—about my
      mother, about Pokrovski, about my sojourn with Anna Thedorovna, about my
      more recent misfortunes; so often have you expressed an earnest desire to
      read the manuscript in which (God knows why) I have recorded certain
      incidents of my life, that I feel no doubt but that the sending of it will
      give you sincere pleasure. Yet somehow I feel depressed when I read it,
      for I seem now to have grown twice as old as I was when I penned its
      concluding lines. Ah, Makar Alexievitch, how weary I am—how this
      insomnia tortures me! Convalescence is indeed a hard thing to bear!
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I’m so eager to do something that will make you happy and entertain you as a way to repay you for your care, your endless efforts for me—in short, for your love—that I’ve decided to spend some free time to dig through my locker and send you the manuscript enclosed with this letter. I started it during a happier time in my life and have continued working on it sporadically since then. You’ve asked me so many times about my past—about my mother, about Pokrovski, about my time with Anna Thedorovna, about my more recent struggles; you’ve often expressed a genuine wish to read the manuscript where (for reasons I can’t explain) I’ve recorded certain events of my life, so I’m sure sending it will truly make you happy. Still, I feel a bit down when I read it because I feel like I’ve aged twice as much since I wrote the last lines. Ah, Makar Alexievitch, I’m so tired—this insomnia is really tormenting me! Convalescence is really tough to handle!



      B. D. ONE
    
B. D. ONE



      UP to the age of fourteen, when my father died, my childhood was the
      happiest period of my life. It began very far away from here in the depths
      of the province of Tula, where my father filled the position of steward on
      the vast estates of the Prince P——. Our house was situated in
      one of the Prince’s villages, and we lived a quiet, obscure, but happy,
      life. A gay little child was I—my one idea being ceaselessly to run
      about the fields and the woods and the garden. No one ever gave me a
      thought, for my father was always occupied with business affairs, and my
      mother with her housekeeping. Nor did any one ever give me any lessons—a
      circumstance for which I was not sorry. At earliest dawn I would hie me to
      a pond or a copse, or to a hay or a harvest field, where the sun could
      warm me, and I could roam wherever I liked, and scratch my hands with
      bushes, and tear my clothes in pieces. For this I used to get blamed
      afterwards, but I did not care.
    
Up until I was fourteen, when my father passed away, my childhood was the happiest time of my life. It started far from here in the depths of Tula province, where my father worked as a steward on the large estates of Prince P——. Our house was in one of the Prince’s villages, and we lived a quiet, simple, but happy life. I was a cheerful little kid—my main goal was to constantly run around in the fields, woods, and garden. No one really paid attention to me, as my father was always busy with work and my mother was focused on her household duties. I also never received any lessons, which I wasn’t upset about. At the crack of dawn, I would rush to a pond or a thicket, or to a hay or harvest field, where the sun could warm me, and I could explore wherever I wanted, scratch my hands on bushes, and rip my clothes to shreds. I would get scolded for this later, but I didn't mind.



      Had it befallen me never to quit that village—had it befallen me to
      remain for ever in that spot—I should always have been happy; but
      fate ordained that I should leave my birthplace even before my girlhood
      had come to an end. In short, I was only twelve years old when we removed
      to St. Petersburg. Ah! how it hurts me to recall the mournful gatherings
      before our departure, and to recall how bitterly I wept when the time came
      for us to say farewell to all that I had held so dear! I remember throwing
      myself upon my father’s neck, and beseeching him with tears to stay in the
      country a little longer; but he bid me be silent, and my mother, adding
      her tears to mine, explained that business matters compelled us to go. As
      a matter of fact, old Prince P—— had just died, and his heirs
      had dismissed my father from his post; whereupon, since he had a little
      money privately invested in St. Petersburg, he bethought him that his
      personal presence in the capital was necessary for the due management of
      his affairs. It was my mother who told me this. Consequently we settled
      here in St. Petersburg, and did not again move until my father died.
    
If I had never left that village—if I had stayed forever in that place—I would have always been happy; but fate decided that I should leave my hometown even before my girlhood ended. To put it simply, I was just twelve years old when we moved to St. Petersburg. Oh, how it pains me to remember the sad gatherings before our departure, and how bitterly I cried when the time came to say goodbye to everything I cherished! I remember throwing myself onto my father’s neck, begging him through tears to stay in the countryside a little longer; but he told me to be quiet, and my mother, adding her tears to mine, explained that business matters forced us to leave. In reality, old Prince P—— had just died, and his heirs had let my father go from his job; as a result, since he had a little money invested in St. Petersburg, he thought it was necessary to be there in person to manage his affairs. My mother was the one who told me this. So we settled in St. Petersburg and didn’t move again until my father died.



      How difficult I found it to grow accustomed to my new life! At the time of
      our removal to St. Petersburg it was autumn—a season when, in the
      country, the weather is clear and keen and bright, all agricultural labour
      has come to an end, the great sheaves of corn are safely garnered in the
      byre, and the birds are flying hither and thither in clamorous flocks.
      Yes, at that season the country is joyous and fair, but here in St.
      Petersburg, at the time when we reached the city, we encountered nothing
      but rain, bitter autumn frosts, dull skies, ugliness, and crowds of
      strangers who looked hostile, discontented, and disposed to take offence.
      However, we managed to settle down—though I remember that in our new
      home there was much noise and confusion as we set the establishment in
      order. After this my father was seldom at home, and my mother had few
      spare moments; wherefore, I found myself forgotten.
    
How hard it was for me to adjust to my new life! When we moved to St. Petersburg, it was autumn—a time when, in the countryside, the weather is clear, crisp, and bright; all the farming work is done, the big bundles of grain are safely stored, and the birds are flying around in noisy flocks. Yes, during that season, the countryside is cheerful and beautiful, but here in St. Petersburg, when we arrived, all we found was rain, bitter autumn chill, gray skies, ugliness, and crowds of strangers who appeared unfriendly, unhappy, and easily offended. Still, we managed to settle in—though I remember that our new home was filled with a lot of noise and chaos as we got everything organized. After that, my father was rarely home, and my mother had very little free time; as a result, I often felt overlooked.



      The first morning after our arrival, when I awoke from sleep, how sad I
      felt! I could see that our windows looked out upon a drab space of wall,
      and that the street below was littered with filth. Passers-by were few,
      and as they walked they kept muffling themselves up against the cold.
    
The first morning after we got here, when I woke up, I felt really sad! I could see that our windows faced a dull wall, and the street below was covered in trash. There weren't many people walking by, and those who did were bundled up to keep warm against the cold.



      Then there ensued days when dullness and depression reigned supreme.
      Scarcely a relative or an acquaintance did we possess in St. Petersburg,
      and even Anna Thedorovna and my father had come to loggerheads with one
      another, owing to the fact that he owed her money. In fact, our only
      visitors were business callers, and as a rule these came but to wrangle,
      to argue, and to raise a disturbance. Such visits would make my father
      look very discontented, and seem out of temper. For hours and hours he
      would pace the room with a frown on his face and a brooding silence on his
      lips. Even my mother did not dare address him at these times, while, for
      my own part, I used to sit reading quietly and humbly in a corner—not
      venturing to make a movement of any sort.
    
Then there were days when boredom and sadness took over. We hardly had any relatives or friends in St. Petersburg, and even Anna Thedorovna and my father had clashed because he owed her money. Our only visitors were business clients, and usually, they came just to argue, dispute, and cause trouble. These visits made my father look really unhappy and irritable. He would pace the room for hours with a frown and a heavy silence. Even my mother didn’t dare to talk to him during these times, and I would just sit quietly and humbly in a corner—not daring to move at all.



      Three months after our arrival in St. Petersburg I was sent to a
      boarding-school. Here I found myself thrown among strange people; here
      everything was grim and uninviting, with teachers continually shouting at
      me, and my fellow-pupils for ever holding me up to derision, and myself
      constantly feeling awkward and uncouth. How strict, how exacting was the
      system! Appointed hours for everything, a common table, ever-insistent
      teachers! These things simply worried and tortured me. Never from the
      first could I sleep, but used to weep many a chill, weary night away. In
      the evenings everyone would have to repeat or to learn her lessons. As I
      crouched over a dialogue or a vocabulary, without daring even to stir, how
      my thoughts would turn to the chimney-corner at home, to my father, to my
      mother, to my old nurse, to the tales which the latter had been used to
      tell! How sad it all was! The memory of the merest trifle at home would
      please me, and I would think and think how nice things used to be at home.
      Once more I would be sitting in our little parlour at tea with my parents—in
      the familiar little parlour where everything was snug and warm! How
      ardently, how convulsively I would seem to be embracing my mother! Thus I
      would ponder, until at length tears of sorrow would softly gush forth and
      choke my bosom, and drive the lessons out of my head. For I never could
      master the tasks of the morrow; no matter how much my mistress and
      fellow-pupils might gird at me, no matter how much I might repeat my
      lessons over and over to myself, knowledge never came with the morning.
      Consequently, I used to be ordered the kneeling punishment, and given only
      one meal in the day. How dull and dispirited I used to feel! From the
      first my fellow-pupils used to tease and deride and mock me whenever I was
      saying my lessons. Also, they used to pinch me as we were on our way to
      dinner or tea, and to make groundless complaints of me to the head
      mistress. On the other hand, how heavenly it seemed when, on Saturday
      evening, my old nurse arrived to fetch me! How I would embrace the old
      woman in transports of joy! After dressing me, and wrapping me up, she
      would find that she could scarcely keep pace with me on the way home, so
      full was I of chatter and tales about one thing and another. Then, when I
      had arrived home merry and lighthearted, how fervently I would embrace my
      parents, as though I had not seen them for ten years. Such a fussing would
      there be—such a talking and a telling of tales! To everyone I would
      run with a greeting, and laugh, and giggle, and scamper about, and skip
      for very joy. True, my father and I used to have grave conversations about
      lessons and teachers and the French language and grammar; yet we were all
      very happy and contented together. Even now it thrills me to think of
      those moments. For my father’s sake I tried hard to learn my lessons, for
      I could see that he was spending his last kopeck upon me, and himself
      subsisting God knows how. Every day he grew more morose and discontented
      and irritable; every day his character kept changing for the worse. He had
      suffered an influx of debts, nor were his business affairs prospering. As
      for my mother, she was afraid even to say a word, or to weep aloud, for
      fear of still further angering him. Gradually she sickened, grew thinner
      and thinner, and became taken with a painful cough. Whenever I reached
      home from school I would find every one low-spirited, and my mother
      shedding silent tears, and my father raging. Bickering and high words
      would arise, during which my father was wont to declare that, though he no
      longer derived the smallest pleasure or relaxation from life, and had
      spent his last coin upon my education, I had not yet mastered the French
      language. In short, everything began to go wrong, to turn to unhappiness;
      and for that circumstance, my father took vengeance upon myself and my
      mother. How he could treat my poor mother so I cannot understand. It used
      to rend my heart to see her, so hollow were her cheeks becoming, so sunken
      her eyes, so hectic her face. But it was chiefly around myself that the
      disputes raged. Though beginning only with some trifle, they would soon go
      on to God knows what. Frequently, even I myself did not know to what they
      related. Anything and everything would enter into them, for my father
      would say that I was an utter dunce at the French language; that the head
      mistress of my school was a stupid, common sort of women who cared nothing
      for morals; that he (my father) had not yet succeeded in obtaining another
      post; that Lamonde’s “Grammar” was a wretched book—even a worse one
      than Zapolski’s; that a great deal of money had been squandered upon me;
      that it was clear that I was wasting my time in repeating dialogues and
      vocabularies; that I alone was at fault, and that I must answer for
      everything. Yet this did not arise from any WANT OF LOVE for me on the
      part of my father, but rather from the fact that he was incapable of
      putting himself in my own and my mother’s place. It came of a defect of
      character.
    
Three months after we got to St. Petersburg, I was sent to a boarding school. Here, I found myself surrounded by unfamiliar people; everything felt harsh and unwelcoming, with teachers constantly yelling at me and my classmates always mocking me, leaving me feeling awkward and out of place. The system was so strict and demanding! There were set times for everything, a communal dining table, and teachers who were always on your case! These things just stressed and tormented me. Right from the start, I couldn’t sleep and ended up crying many cold, weary nights. In the evenings, everyone had to recite or learn their lessons. As I hunched over a dialogue or vocabulary, afraid to even move, I would remember the cozy corner at home, my father, my mother, my old nanny, and the stories she used to tell! It was all so bittersweet! Just a small memory from home would bring me joy, and I would think about how nice it used to be. I would picture myself sitting in our little living room, having tea with my parents—in that familiar space where everything felt snug and warm! How passionately I would seem to hold my mother! I would linger on these thoughts until the tears of sadness would flow and choke me, pushing the lessons out of my head. I could never manage to learn the tasks for the next day; no matter how much my teacher and classmates scolded me or how many times I repeated my lessons to myself, knowledge never came with the morning. As a result, I often ended up being punished and given only one meal a day. I felt so dull and downcast! Right from the beginning, my classmates teased, ridiculed, and mocked me whenever I was reciting my lessons. They would pinch me on the way to lunch or tea and complain about me to the headmistress. On the flip side, how heavenly it felt when my old nanny came to pick me up on Saturday evenings! I would hug her with joy! After she dressed me and bundled me up, she could hardly keep up with my chatter and tales on our way home. Once I got home cheerful and lighthearted, I would hug my parents tightly, as if I hadn’t seen them in ten years. It was such a commotion—so much talking and storytelling! I would run to greet everyone, laughing, giggling, and skipping around with pure joy. True, my father and I would have serious talks about lessons, teachers, and French grammar; yet we were all very happy and satisfied together. Even now, it makes me thrill to think of those moments. For my father’s sake, I tried hard to learn because I could see he was spending his last coins on me while struggling to make ends meet. Every day, he seemed more sullen, discontented, and irritable; his attitude kept getting worse. He was burdened with debts, and his business dealings weren’t flourishing. As for my mother, she was too afraid to say anything or cry out loud, fearing it would make things worse for him. Gradually, she grew sick, thinner and thinner, and developed a painful cough. Whenever I came home from school, everyone was downcast, my mother in silent tears, and my father furious. Arguments would break out, and my father would declare that even though he got no joy or relaxation from life anymore and had spent his last coin on my education, I still hadn’t mastered French. In short, everything started going wrong, turning into unhappiness; for that, my father took it out on me and my mother. I can’t understand how he could treat my poor mother that way. It tore my heart to see her with sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, and a feverish face. But the disputes mainly centered around me. What would start as a small issue would escalate into something else entirely. Often, I wouldn’t even know what it was about. Anything and everything could spark the arguments, as my father would say I was hopeless at French; that the headmistress was an ignorant woman who didn’t care for morals; that he hadn’t managed to find another job; that Lamonde’s “Grammar” was terrible—even worse than Zapolski’s; that a lot of money had been wasted on me; that it was clear I was wasting my time reciting dialogues and vocabulary; that it was all my fault, and that I was responsible for everything. But this didn’t stem from a lack of love from my father; rather, it was because he couldn’t see things from my and my mother’s perspective. It was a flaw in his character.



      All these cares and worries and disappointments tortured my poor father
      until he became moody and distrustful. Next he began to neglect his
      health, with the result that, catching a chill, he died, after a short
      illness, so suddenly and unexpectedly that for a few days we were almost
      beside ourselves with the shock—my mother, in particular, lying for
      a while in such a state of torpor that I had fears for her reason. The
      instant my father was dead creditors seemed to spring up out of the
      ground, and to assail us en masse. Everything that we possessed had to be
      surrendered to them, including a little house which my father had bought
      six months after our arrival in St. Petersburg. How matters were finally
      settled I do not know, but we found ourselves roofless, shelterless, and
      without a copper. My mother was grievously ill, and of means of
      subsistence we had none. Before us there loomed only ruin, sheer ruin. At
      the time I was fourteen years old. Soon afterwards Anna Thedorovna came to
      see us, saying that she was a lady of property and our relative; and this
      my mother confirmed—though, true, she added that Anna was only a
      very DISTANT relative. Anna had never taken the least notice of us during
      my father’s lifetime, yet now she entered our presence with tears in her
      eyes, and an assurance that she meant to better our fortunes. Having
      condoled with us on our loss and destitute position, she added that my
      father had been to blame for everything, in that he had lived beyond his
      means, and taken upon himself more than he was able to perform. Also, she
      expressed a wish to draw closer to us, and to forget old scores; and when
      my mother explained that, for her own part, she harboured no resentment
      against Anna, the latter burst into tears, and, hurrying my mother away to
      church, then and there ordered Mass to be said for the “dear departed,” as
      she called my father. In this manner she effected a solemn reconciliation
      with my mother.
    
All these cares, worries, and disappointments tortured my poor father until he became moody and untrusting. Then he started neglecting his health, and after catching a chill, he died after a short illness, so suddenly and unexpectedly that we were almost beside ourselves with shock for a few days—my mother, in particular, lying in such a state of numbness that I feared for her sanity. The moment my father died, creditors seemed to pop up out of nowhere and attack us all at once. Everything we owned had to be given up to them, including a little house my father had bought just six months after we arrived in St. Petersburg. I don’t know how things were finally settled, but we found ourselves homeless, without shelter, and broke. My mother was seriously ill, and we had no way to support ourselves. All that lay ahead was absolute ruin. I was fourteen years old at the time. Shortly after, Anna Thedorovna came to visit us, saying she was a property owner and our relative; my mother confirmed this—though she added that Anna was only a very DISTANT relative. Anna had never acknowledged us during my father’s life, yet now she entered our home with tears in her eyes, insisting that she wanted to improve our situation. After expressing her condolences for our loss and our dire circumstances, she stated that my father was to blame for everything, having lived beyond his means and taken on more than he could handle. She also expressed a desire to get closer to us and to let go of past grievances; when my mother explained that she held no resentment toward Anna, the latter burst into tears and hurried my mother off to church, where she requested a Mass to be said for the “dear departed,” as she referred to my father. This way, she managed to create a solemn reconciliation with my mother.



      Next, after long negotiations and vacillations, coupled with much vivid
      description of our destitute position, our desolation, and our
      helplessness, Anna invited us to pay her (as she expressed it) a “return
      visit.” For this my mother duly thanked her, and considered the invitation
      for a while; after which, seeing that there was nothing else to be done,
      she informed Anna Thedorovna that she was prepared, gratefully, to accept
      her offer. Ah, how I remember the morning when we removed to Vassilievski
      Island! [A quarter of St. Petersburg.] It was a clear, dry, frosty morning
      in autumn. My mother could not restrain her tears, and I too felt
      depressed. Nay, my very heart seemed to be breaking under a strange,
      undefined load of sorrow. How terrible it all seemed!...
    
Next, after a lot of back and forth, along with vivid descriptions of our dire situation, our loneliness, and our helplessness, Anna invited us to come over for a “return visit,” as she put it. My mother thanked her for this and thought about the invitation for a bit; then, realizing there was nothing else to do, she told Anna Thedorovna that she was ready to gratefully accept her offer. Ah, how I remember the morning we moved to Vassilievski Island! [A quarter of St. Petersburg.] It was a clear, dry, chilly autumn morning. My mother couldn’t hold back her tears, and I felt down too. In fact, my heart felt like it was breaking under a strange, undefined weight of sorrow. It all seemed so awful!...



      II
    
II



      AT first—that is to say, until my mother and myself grew used to our
      new abode—we found living at Anna Thedorovna’s both strange and
      disagreeable. The house was her own, and contained five rooms, three of
      which she shared with my orphaned cousin, Sasha (whom she had brought up
      from babyhood); a fourth was occupied by my mother and myself; and the
      fifth was rented of Anna by a poor student named Pokrovski. Although Anna
      lived in good style—in far better style than might have been
      expected—her means and her avocation were conjectural. Never was she
      at rest; never was she not busy with some mysterious something or other.
      Also, she possessed a wide and varied circle of friends. The stream of
      callers was perpetual—although God only knows who they were, or what
      their business was. No sooner did my mother hear the door-bell ring than
      off she would carry me to our own apartment. This greatly displeased Anna,
      who used again and again to assure my mother that we were too proud for
      our station in life. In fact, she would sulk for hours about it. At the
      time I could not understand these reproaches, and it was not until long
      afterwards that I learned—or rather, I guessed—why eventually
      my mother declared that she could not go on living with Anna. Yes, Anna
      was a bad woman. Never did she let us alone. As to the exact motive why
      she had asked us to come and share her house with her I am still in the
      dark. At first she was not altogether unkind to us but, later, she
      revealed to us her real character—as soon, that is to say, as she
      saw that we were at her mercy, and had nowhere else to go. Yes, in early
      days she was quite kind to me—even offensively so, but afterwards, I
      had to suffer as much as my mother. Constantly did Anna reproach us;
      constantly did she remind us of her benefactions, and introduce us to her
      friends as poor relatives of hers whom, out of goodness of heart and for
      the love of Christ, she had received into her bosom. At table, also, she
      would watch every mouthful that we took; and, if our appetite failed,
      immediately she would begin as before, and reiterate that we were
      over-dainty, that we must not assume that riches would mean happiness, and
      that we had better go and live by ourselves. Moreover, she never ceased to
      inveigh against my father—saying that he had sought to be better
      than other people, and thereby had brought himself to a bad end; that he
      had left his wife and daughter destitute; and that, but for the fact that
      we had happened to meet with a kind and sympathetic Christian soul, God
      alone knew where we should have laid our heads, save in the street. What
      did that woman not say? To hear her was not so much galling as disgusting.
      From time to time my mother would burst into tears, her health grew worse
      from day to day, and her body was becoming sheer skin and bone. All the
      while, too, we had to work—to work from morning till night, for we
      had contrived to obtain some employment as occasional sempstresses. This,
      however, did not please Anna, who used to tell us that there was no room
      in her house for a modiste’s establishment. Yet we had to get clothes to
      wear, to provide for unforeseen expenses, and to have a little money at
      our disposal in case we should some day wish to remove elsewhere.
      Unfortunately, the strain undermined my mother’s health, and she became
      gradually weaker. Sickness, like a cankerworm, was gnawing at her life,
      and dragging her towards the tomb. Well could I see what she was enduring,
      what she was suffering. Yes, it all lay open to my eyes.
    
At first—meaning until my mother and I got used to our new home—we found living at Anna Thedorovna's both strange and unpleasant. The house belonged to her and had five rooms; she shared three of them with my orphaned cousin, Sasha, whom she had raised from childhood. My mother and I occupied the fourth room, and a poor student named Pokrovski rented the fifth from Anna. Although Anna lived comfortably—much better than expected—her means and her occupation were uncertain. She was always busy with some mysterious task or another. She also had a wide and varied group of friends. The flow of visitors was constant—though God knows who they were or what they wanted. As soon as my mother heard the doorbell ring, she'd quickly take me to our own apartment. This greatly annoyed Anna, who repeatedly insisted that we were too proud for our situation. In fact, she would sulk for hours about it. At the time, I didn’t understand her complaints, and it wasn't until much later that I learned—or guessed—why my mother eventually said she could no longer live with Anna. Yes, Anna was a bad woman. She never left us alone. I'm still unclear on her exact reasons for inviting us to share her house. At first, she wasn’t completely unkind to us, but later she showed her true character—as soon as she realized we were at her mercy and had nowhere else to go. Yes, in the beginning, she was quite nice to me—even to the point of being excessively so—but later, I had to endure as much suffering as my mother. Anna constantly reproached us; she continually reminded us of her generosity and introduced us to her friends as her poor relatives, whom she had taken in out of kindness and for the love of Christ. She would also scrutinize every bite we took at the table, and if we lost our appetite, she'd go on and on about how we were too picky, saying that wealth didn’t guarantee happiness and we should consider living on our own. Moreover, she never stopped criticizing my father—claiming he had tried to be better than others and thus met a bad fate, leaving his wife and daughter destitute and that, but for encountering a kind and sympathetic Christian soul, God only knew where we would have ended up, except maybe on the streets. What didn’t that woman say? Listening to her was not just frustrating but also repulsive. Occasionally, my mother would break down in tears, her health deteriorating day by day, her body becoming nothing but skin and bones. Meanwhile, we had to work—from morning till night—since we had managed to find some occasional work as seamstresses. However, Anna was not happy about this, insisting there was no space in her house for a dressmaking business. Yet we had to get clothes, cover unexpected expenses, and have a little money set aside in case we wanted to move somewhere else someday. Unfortunately, the pressure took a toll on my mother's health, and she grew weaker over time. Illness, like a worm, was eating away at her life and pulling her toward the grave. I could clearly see what she was going through, what she was suffering. Yes, it was all evident to me.



      Day succeeded day, and each day was like the last one. We lived a life as
      quiet as though we had been in the country. Anna herself grew quieter in
      proportion as she came to realise the extent of her power over us. In
      nothing did we dare to thwart her. From her portion of the house our
      apartment was divided by a corridor, while next to us (as mentioned above)
      dwelt a certain Pokrovski, who was engaged in teaching Sasha the French
      and German languages, as well as history and geography—“all the
      sciences,” as Anna used to say. In return for these services he received
      free board and lodging. As for Sasha, she was a clever, but rude and
      uncouth, girl of thirteen. On one occasion Anna remarked to my mother that
      it might be as well if I also were to take some lessons, seeing that my
      education had been neglected at school; and, my mother joyfully assenting,
      I joined Sasha for a year in studying under this Pokrovski.
    
Days went by, and each one felt like the last. We lived a life as peaceful as if we were in the countryside. Anna herself became quieter as she began to understand the extent of her power over us. We didn’t dare to oppose her in anything. Our apartment was separated from her part of the house by a hallway, and next to us (as mentioned earlier) lived a certain Pokrovski, who was teaching Sasha French and German, along with history and geography—“all the subjects,” as Anna used to say. In exchange for his services, he received free food and accommodation. As for Sasha, she was a smart but rude and awkward thirteen-year-old. One time, Anna told my mother that it might be a good idea for me to take some lessons too, considering my education had been overlooked at school; and, since my mother happily agreed, I joined Sasha for a year of studying with Pokrovski.



      The latter was a poor—a very poor—young man whose health would
      not permit of his undertaking the regular university course. Indeed, it
      was only for form’s sake that we called him “The Student.” He lived in
      such a quiet, humble, retiring fashion that never a sound reached us from
      his room. Also, his exterior was peculiar—he moved and walked
      awkwardly, and uttered his words in such a strange manner that at first I
      could never look at him without laughing. Sasha was for ever playing
      tricks upon him—more especially when he was giving us our lessons.
      But unfortunately, he was of a temperament as excitable as herself.
      Indeed, he was so irritable that the least trifle would send him into a
      frenzy, and set him shouting at us, and complaining of our conduct.
      Sometimes he would even rush away to his room before school hours were
      over, and sit there for days over his books, of which he had a store that
      was both rare and valuable. In addition, he acted as teacher at another
      establishment, and received payment for his services there; and, whenever
      he had received his fees for this extra work, he would hasten off and
      purchase more books.
    
The latter was a very poor young man whose health didn’t allow him to take on a regular university course. In fact, we only called him “The Student” for the sake of formality. He lived so quietly and modestly that we never heard a sound coming from his room. His appearance was also unusual—he moved and walked awkwardly, and spoke in such a strange way that at first, I couldn’t help but laugh whenever I looked at him. Sasha was always playing tricks on him, especially while he was giving us lessons. Unfortunately, he had a temperament as excitable as hers. He was so irritable that even the smallest thing could send him into a rage, making him shout at us and complain about our behavior. Sometimes, he would even rush off to his room before school ended and stay there for days, poring over his books, which were both rare and valuable. Additionally, he taught at another school and got paid for his services there; whenever he received his payment for this extra work, he would quickly go out and buy more books.



      In time I got to know and like him better, for in reality he was a good,
      worthy fellow—more so than any of the people with whom we otherwise
      came in contact. My mother in particular had a great respect for him, and,
      after herself, he was my best friend. But at first I was just an overgrown
      hoyden, and joined Sasha in playing the fool. For hours we would devise
      tricks to anger and distract him, for he looked extremely ridiculous when
      he was angry, and so diverted us the more (ashamed though I am now to
      admit it). But once, when we had driven him nearly to tears, I heard him
      say to himself under his breath, “What cruel children!” and instantly I
      repented—I began to feel sad and ashamed and sorry for him. I
      reddened to my ears, and begged him, almost with tears, not to mind us,
      nor to take offence at our stupid jests. Nevertheless, without finishing
      the lesson, he closed his book, and departed to his own room. All that day
      I felt torn with remorse. To think that we two children had forced him,
      the poor, the unhappy one, to remember his hard lot! And at night I could
      not sleep for grief and regret. Remorse is said to bring relief to the
      soul, but it is not so. How far my grief was internally connected with my
      conceit I do not know, but at least I did not wish him to think me a baby,
      seeing that I had now reached the age of fifteen years. Therefore, from
      that day onwards I began to torture my imagination with devising a
      thousand schemes which should compel Pokrovski to alter his opinion of me.
      At the same time, being yet shy and reserved by nature, I ended by finding
      that, in my present position, I could make up my mind to nothing but vague
      dreams (and such dreams I had). However, I ceased to join Sasha in playing
      the fool, while Pokrovski, for his part, ceased to lose his temper with us
      so much. Unfortunately this was not enough to satisfy my self-esteem.
    
Eventually, I got to know and like him more, because he was actually a good, decent guy—better than anyone else we usually hung out with. My mom especially respected him, and after her, he was my closest friend. But at first, I was just a tall, awkward girl, and I joined Sasha in messing around. For hours, we would come up with pranks to annoy and distract him, since he looked really silly when he was mad, which made us laugh even more (I’m embarrassed to admit it now). But one time, when we had almost made him cry, I heard him mutter to himself, “What cruel kids!” and right away I felt sorry. I started to feel sad and ashamed for him. I blushed deeply and begged him, almost in tears, not to take our silly jokes to heart. Still, he closed his book without finishing the lesson and went to his room. I felt guilty all day. To think we, just two kids, had made him, the poor, unhappy man, remember his tough situation! That night, I couldn't sleep for feeling sorry and regretful. They say remorse brings relief to the soul, but that’s not true. How much my grief was tied to my pride, I can't say, but I didn't want him to see me as childish, especially since I was now fifteen. So, from that day on, I started to torture myself by coming up with a thousand ideas to change Pokrovski's opinion of me. At the same time, being shy and reserved by nature, I found that in my current situation, I could only indulge in vague dreams (and I had plenty of those). However, I stopped joining Sasha in the silliness, and Pokrovski, for his part, stopped losing his temper with us so often. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to boost my self-esteem.



      At this point, I must say a few words about the strangest, the most
      interesting, the most pitiable human being that I have ever come across. I
      speak of him now—at this particular point in these memoirs—for
      the reason that hitherto I had paid him no attention whatever, and began
      to do so now only because everything connected with Pokrovski had suddenly
      become of absorbing interest in my eyes.
    
At this point, I need to say a few words about the strangest, most interesting, and most pitiable person I've ever encountered. I'm bringing him up now—at this specific moment in these memoirs—because up until now, I hadn't given him any thought, and I'm starting to pay attention only because everything related to Pokrovski has suddenly become incredibly interesting to me.



      Sometimes there came to the house a ragged, poorly-dressed, grey-headed,
      awkward, amorphous—in short, a very strange-looking—little old
      man. At first glance it might have been thought that he was perpetually
      ashamed of something—that he had on his conscience something which
      always made him, as it were, bristle up and then shrink into himself. Such
      curious starts and grimaces did he indulge in that one was forced to
      conclude that he was scarcely in his right mind. On arriving, he would
      halt for a while by the window in the hall, as though afraid to enter;
      until, should any one happen to pass in or out of the door—whether
      Sasha or myself or one of the servants (to the latter he always resorted
      the most readily, as being the most nearly akin to his own class)—he
      would begin to gesticulate and to beckon to that person, and to make
      various signs. Then, should the person in question nod to him, or call him
      by name (the recognised token that no other visitor was present, and that
      he might enter freely), he would open the door gently, give a smile of
      satisfaction as he rubbed his hands together, and proceed on tiptoe to
      young Pokrovski’s room. This old fellow was none other than Pokrovski’s
      father.
    
Sometimes a ragged, poorly dressed, gray-haired, awkward, and strange-looking little old man would come to the house. At first glance, it might seem like he was always ashamed of something—that there was something weighing on his conscience that made him bristle and then shrink into himself. His curious starts and expressions were so odd that it was hard to believe he was in his right mind. When he arrived, he would pause by the hall window, as if hesitating to come in; until someone passed in or out of the door—either Sasha, myself, or one of the servants (he seemed to prefer the servants since they were more similar to his own class)—he would start gesturing and beckoning, making various signs. If the person acknowledged him with a nod or called him by name (a clear indication that no other visitors were around and that he could come in), he would gently open the door, smile with satisfaction while rubbing his hands together, and tiptoe to young Pokrovski’s room. This old man was none other than Pokrovski’s father.



      Later I came to know his story in detail. Formerly a civil servant, he had
      possessed no additional means, and so had occupied a very low and
      insignificant position in the service. Then, after his first wife (mother
      of the younger Pokrovski) had died, the widower bethought him of marrying
      a second time, and took to himself a tradesman’s daughter, who soon
      assumed the reins over everything, and brought the home to rack and ruin,
      so that the old man was worse off than before. But to the younger
      Pokrovski, fate proved kinder, for a landowner named Bwikov, who had
      formerly known the lad’s father and been his benefactor, took the boy
      under his protection, and sent him to school. Another reason why this
      Bwikov took an interest in young Pokrovski was that he had known the lad’s
      dead mother, who, while still a serving-maid, had been befriended by Anna
      Thedorovna, and subsequently married to the elder Pokrovski. At the
      wedding Bwikov, actuated by his friendship for Anna, conferred upon the
      young bride a dowry of five thousand roubles; but whither that money had
      since disappeared I cannot say. It was from Anna’s lips that I heard the
      story, for the student Pokrovski was never prone to talk about his family
      affairs. His mother was said to have been very good-looking; wherefore, it
      is the more mysterious why she should have made so poor a match. She died
      when young—only four years after her espousal.
    
Later, I learned the details of his story. He used to be a civil servant, but he didn't have any extra resources, so he held a low and unremarkable position in the service. After his first wife (the mother of the younger Pokrovski) passed away, the widower thought about marrying again and took a tradesman's daughter as his second wife. Unfortunately, she quickly took control of everything and ran the household into the ground, leaving the old man worse off than before. But fate was kinder to the younger Pokrovski. A landowner named Bwikov, who had previously known the boy’s father and had helped him, took the boy under his wing and sent him to school. Another reason Bwikov took an interest in young Pokrovski was that he had known the boy’s deceased mother, who, when she was still a maid, had been befriended by Anna Thedorovna and later married to the elder Pokrovski. At the wedding, out of friendship for Anna, Bwikov gave the young bride a dowry of five thousand roubles; but where that money went, I can’t say. I heard the story from Anna, as the student Pokrovski wasn’t one to talk much about his family. People said his mother was very attractive, which makes it even more puzzling why she ended up with such a poor match. She died young—just four years after getting married.



      From school the young Pokrovski advanced to a gymnasium, [Secondary
      school.] and thence to the University, where Bwikov, who frequently
      visited the capital, continued to accord the youth his protection.
      Gradually, however, ill health put an end to the young man’s university
      course; whereupon Bwikov introduced and personally recommended him to Anna
      Thedorovna, and he came to lodge with her on condition that he taught
      Sasha whatever might be required of him.
    
After finishing school, the young Pokrovski moved on to a gymnasium, [Secondary school.] and then to the University, where Bwikov, who often visited the capital, continued to look out for him. However, over time, poor health interrupted the young man’s studies, leading Bwikov to introduce and personally recommend him to Anna Thedorovna. He then started living with her on the condition that he taught Sasha everything she needed to know.



      Grief at the harshness of his wife led the elder Pokrovski to plunge into
      dissipation, and to remain in an almost permanent condition of
      drunkenness. Constantly his wife beat him, or sent him to sit in the
      kitchen—with the result that in time, he became so inured to blows
      and neglect, that he ceased to complain. Still not greatly advanced in
      years, he had nevertheless endangered his reason through evil courses—his
      only sign of decent human feeling being his love for his son. The latter
      was said to resemble his dead mother as one pea may resemble another. What
      recollections, therefore, of the kind helpmeet of former days may not have
      moved the breast of the poor broken old man to this boundless affection
      for the boy? Of naught else could the father ever speak but of his son,
      and never did he fail to visit him twice a week. To come oftener he did
      not dare, for the reason that the younger Pokrovski did not like these
      visits of his father’s. In fact, there can be no doubt that the youth’s
      greatest fault was his lack of filial respect. Yet the father was
      certainly rather a difficult person to deal with, for, in the first place,
      he was extremely inquisitive, while, in the second place, his long-winded
      conversation and questions—questions of the most vapid and senseless
      order conceivable—always prevented the son from working. Likewise,
      the old man occasionally arrived there drunk. Gradually, however, the son
      was weaning his parent from his vicious ways and everlasting
      inquisitiveness, and teaching the old man to look upon him, his son, as an
      oracle, and never to speak without that son’s permission.
    
Grief over the harshness of his wife drove the elder Pokrovski into a cycle of self-indulgence, leaving him in a nearly constant state of drunkenness. His wife frequently hit him or sent him to sit in the kitchen, which eventually made him so accustomed to violence and neglect that he stopped complaining. Although still relatively young, he had jeopardized his mental health through his reckless lifestyle—his only sign of genuine human feeling being his love for his son. The boy was said to look just like his deceased mother, and one can only imagine what memories of his beloved partner stirred in the heart of the poor broken man, fueling his deep affection for the child. He spoke of nothing else but his son and always visited him twice a week. He didn't dare come by more often because the younger Pokrovski didn't enjoy these visits. In fact, it seems that the greatest flaw of the young man was his lack of respect for his father. Still, the father was definitely a challenging person to engage with; for one, he was incredibly nosy, and for another, his long-winded conversations and utterly pointless questions always hindered his son from getting any work done. Additionally, the old man would sometimes show up drunk. However, little by little, the son was helping his father break free from his bad habits and relentless curiosity, teaching him to regard his son as an authority and to wait for his son's permission before speaking.



      On the subject of his Petinka, as he called him, the poor old man could
      never sufficiently rhapsodise and dilate. Yet when he arrived to see his
      son he almost invariably had on his face a downcast, timid expression that
      was probably due to uncertainty concerning the way in which he would be
      received. For a long time he would hesitate to enter, and if I happened to
      be there he would question me for twenty minutes or so as to whether his
      Petinka was in good health, as well as to the sort of mood he was in,
      whether he was engaged on matters of importance, what precisely he was
      doing (writing or meditating), and so on. Then, when I had sufficiently
      encouraged and reassured the old man, he would make up his mind to enter,
      and quietly and cautiously open the door. Next, he would protrude his head
      through the chink, and if he saw that his son was not angry, but threw him
      a nod, he would glide noiselessly into the room, take off his scarf, and
      hang up his hat (the latter perennially in a bad state of repair, full of
      holes, and with a smashed brim)—the whole being done without a word
      or a sound of any kind. Next, the old man would seat himself warily on a
      chair, and, never removing his eyes from his son, follow his every
      movement, as though seeking to gauge Petinka’s state of mind. On the other
      hand, if the son was not in good spirits, the father would make a note of
      the fact, and at once get up, saying that he had “only called for a minute
      or two,” that, “having been out for a long walk, and happening at the
      moment to be passing,” he had “looked in for a moment’s rest.” Then
      silently and humbly the old man would resume his hat and scarf; softly he
      would open the door, and noiselessly depart with a forced smile on his
      face—the better to bear the disappointment which was seething in his
      breast, the better to help him not to show it to his son.
    
When it came to his Petinka, as he called him, the poor old man could never stop expressing his admiration and talking about him. Yet, whenever he came to see his son, he almost always had a downcast, nervous look on his face, likely because he was unsure how he would be received. He would hesitate for a long time before entering, and if I happened to be there, he would ask me for twenty minutes or so whether his Petinka was in good health, what kind of mood he was in, whether he was busy with something important, what exactly he was doing (writing or thinking), and so on. After I had encouraged and reassured the old man enough, he would finally decide to go in and quietly and cautiously open the door. Then, he would peek his head through the crack, and if he saw that his son wasn’t angry and gave him a nod, he would slip silently into the room, take off his scarf, and hang up his hat (which was always in bad shape, full of holes and with a bent brim)—all without saying a word or making a sound. Next, the old man would carefully sit down on a chair and, keeping his eyes on his son, would watch his every move, trying to gauge Petinka’s state of mind. On the other hand, if his son wasn’t in a good mood, the father would take note of this and immediately get up, saying that he had “only stopped by for a minute or two,” that “after a long walk, he happened to be passing by,” and had “come in for a quick rest.” Then, quietly and humbly, the old man would put his hat and scarf back on; gently, he would open the door and leave silently with a forced smile on his face—better to endure the disappointment building inside him, to hide it from his son.



      On the other hand, whenever the son received his father civilly the old
      man would be struck dumb with joy. Satisfaction would beam in his face, in
      his every gesture, in his every movement. And if the son deigned to engage
      in conversation with him, the old man always rose a little from his chair,
      and answered softly, sympathetically, with something like reverence, while
      strenuously endeavouring to make use of the most recherche (that is to
      say, the most ridiculous) expressions. But, alas! He had not the gift of
      words. Always he grew confused, and turned red in the face; never did he
      know what to do with his hands or with himself. Likewise, whenever he had
      returned an answer of any kind, he would go on repeating the same in a
      whisper, as though he were seeking to justify what he had just said. And
      if he happened to have returned a good answer, he would begin to preen
      himself, and to straighten his waistcoat, frockcoat and tie, and to assume
      an air of conscious dignity. Indeed, on these occasions he would feel so
      encouraged, he would carry his daring to such a pitch, that, rising softly
      from his chair, he would approach the bookshelves, take thence a book, and
      read over to himself some passage or another. All this he would do with an
      air of feigned indifference and sangfroid, as though he were free ALWAYS
      to use his son’s books, and his son’s kindness were no rarity at all. Yet
      on one occasion I saw the poor old fellow actually turn pale on being told
      by his son not to touch the books. Abashed and confused, he, in his
      awkward hurry, replaced the volume wrong side uppermost; whereupon, with a
      supreme effort to recover himself, he turned it round with a smile and a
      blush, as though he were at a loss how to view his own misdemeanour.
      Gradually, as already said, the younger Pokrovski weaned his father from
      his dissipated ways by giving him a small coin whenever, on three
      successive occasions, he (the father) arrived sober. Sometimes, also, the
      younger man would buy the older one shoes, or a tie, or a waistcoat;
      whereafter, the old man would be as proud of his acquisition as a peacock.
      Not infrequently, also, the old man would step in to visit ourselves, and
      bring Sasha and myself gingerbread birds or apples, while talking
      unceasingly of Petinka. Always he would beg of us to pay attention to our
      lessons, on the plea that Petinka was a good son, an exemplary son, a son
      who was in twofold measure a man of learning; after which he would wink at
      us so quizzingly with his left eye, and twist himself about in such
      amusing fashion, that we were forced to burst out laughing. My mother had
      a great liking for him, but he detested Anna Thedorovna—although in
      her presence he would be quieter than water and lowlier than the earth.
    
On the other hand, whenever the son treated his father nicely, the old man would be incredibly happy. Joy would light up his face, show in every gesture, and every move he made. If the son decided to chat with him, the old man would always sit up a bit straighter and respond softly and sympathetically, almost with a sense of reverence, while trying hard to use fancy (or rather, silly) words. But unfortunately, he wasn't great with words. He would get flustered and blush; he never knew what to do with his hands or how to carry himself. Moreover, after he answered, he would mumble the same thing over and over, as if he needed to justify what he just said. And if he had given a good reply, he would start to straighten his waistcoat, jacket, and tie, acting like he was really important. In fact, during those moments of encouragement, he would feel so bold that he would quietly get up from his chair, go to the bookshelves, take out a book, and read some passage to himself. He would do all this with an air of feigned indifference and calm, making it seem like he had unlimited access to his son's books, as if his son’s kindness was completely normal. However, one time I saw the poor man go pale when his son told him not to touch the books. Embarrassed and flustered, in his awkward haste, he put the book back upside down; then, making a big effort to regain his composure, he flipped it around with a smile and a blush, looking as though he didn’t know how to react to his own mistake. Gradually, as mentioned earlier, the younger Pokrovski helped his father break away from his bad habits by giving him a small coin whenever he showed up sober three times in a row. Sometimes, the younger man would also buy his father new shoes, a tie, or a waistcoat; after that, the old man would strut around like a proud peacock. Quite often, the old man would come visit us and bring Sasha and me gingerbread birds or apples, while going on and on about Petinka. He would always urge us to focus on our studies, claiming that Petinka was a good son, an exceptional son, a son who was doubly learned; then he would give us a teasing wink with his left eye and twist around in such a funny way that we couldn’t help but laugh. My mother really liked him, but he couldn't stand Anna Thedorovna—though in her presence, he was as quiet as a mouse and humble as could be.



      Soon after this I ceased to take lessons of Pokrovski. Even now he thought
      me a child, a raw schoolgirl, as much as he did Sasha; and this hurt me
      extremely, seeing that I had done so much to expiate my former behaviour.
      Of my efforts in this direction no notice had been taken, and the fact
      continued to anger me more and more. Scarcely ever did I address a word to
      my tutor between school hours, for I simply could not bring myself to do
      it. If I made the attempt I only grew red and confused, and rushed away to
      weep in a corner. How it would all have ended I do not know, had not a
      curious incident helped to bring about a rapprochement. One evening, when
      my mother was sitting in Anna Thedorovna’s room, I crept on tiptoe to
      Pokrovski’s apartment, in the belief that he was not at home. Some strange
      impulse moved me to do so. True, we had lived cheek by jowl with one
      another; yet never once had I caught a glimpse of his abode. Consequently
      my heart beat loudly—so loudly, indeed, that it seemed almost to be
      bursting from my breast. On entering the room I glanced around me with
      tense interest. The apartment was very poorly furnished, and bore few
      traces of orderliness. On table and chairs there lay heaps of books;
      everywhere were books and papers. Then a strange thought entered my head,
      as well as, with the thought, an unpleasant feeling of irritation. It
      seemed to me that my friendship, my heart’s affection, meant little to
      him, for HE was well-educated, whereas I was stupid, and had learned
      nothing, and had read not a single book. So I stood looking wistfully at
      the long bookshelves where they groaned under their weight of volumes. I
      felt filled with grief, disappointment, and a sort of frenzy. I felt that
      I MUST read those books, and decided to do so—to read them one by
      one, and with all possible speed. Probably the idea was that, by learning
      whatsoever HE knew, I should render myself more worthy of his friendship.
      So, I made a rush towards the bookcase nearest me, and, without stopping
      further to consider matters, seized hold of the first dusty tome upon
      which my hands chanced to alight, and, reddening and growing pale by
      turns, and trembling with fear and excitement, clasped the stolen book to
      my breast with the intention of reading it by candle light while my mother
      lay asleep at night.
    
Soon after that, I stopped taking lessons from Pokrovski. Even now, he thought of me as just a kid, a naive schoolgirl, just like he did Sasha; and that really hurt, especially since I had worked so hard to change my behavior. No one seemed to notice my efforts, which only made me angrier. I hardly ever spoke to my tutor outside of class because I just couldn't bring myself to do it. When I tried, I would turn red and get confused, and I would rush off to cry in a corner. I don’t know how it would have all ended if a strange incident hadn’t happened that brought us a bit closer. One evening, when my mom was in Anna Thedorovna’s room, I quietly crept to Pokrovski’s apartment, thinking he wouldn’t be home. Some strange impulse drove me to do it. Even though we lived so close to each other, I had never seen his place before. My heart was pounding so hard, it felt like it was going to burst. When I entered the room, I looked around with intense curiosity. The apartment was really sparsely furnished and messy. There were piles of books on the table and chairs, with papers everywhere. Then, a strange thought and an unpleasant feeling of irritation hit me. It seemed to me that my friendship and affection didn’t mean much to him because he was well-educated while I was clueless, having learned nothing and not read a single book. I stood there, gazing longingly at the long bookshelves that were groaning under the weight of volumes. I was filled with grief, disappointment, and a kind of frenzy. I felt like I HAD to read those books, so I decided to read them all, one by one, as quickly as I could. I thought that by learning everything HE knew, I could prove myself worthy of his friendship. So, I dashed toward the nearest bookcase and, without thinking much longer, grabbed the first dusty book my hands touched. Turning red and pale with fear and excitement, I held the stolen book to my chest, planning to read it by candlelight while my mom slept at night.



      But how vexed I felt when, on returning to our own room, and hastily
      turning the pages, only an old, battered worm-eaten Latin work greeted my
      eyes! Without loss of time I retraced my steps. Just when I was about to
      replace the book I heard a noise in the corridor outside, and the sound of
      footsteps approaching. Fumblingly I hastened to complete what I was about,
      but the tiresome book had become so tightly wedged into its row that, on
      being pulled out, it caused its fellows to close up too compactly to leave
      any place for their comrade. To insert the book was beyond my strength;
      yet still I kept pushing and pushing at the row. At last the rusty nail
      which supported the shelf (the thing seemed to have been waiting on
      purpose for that moment!) broke off short; with the result that the shelf
      descended with a crash, and the books piled themselves in a heap on the
      floor! Then the door of the room opened, and Pokrovski entered!
    
But I was so annoyed when I got back to our room and quickly flipped through the pages, only to find an old, worn-out, worm-eaten Latin book! Without wasting any time, I retraced my steps. Just as I was about to put the book back, I heard a noise in the corridor and the sound of footsteps coming closer. Clumsily, I tried to finish what I was doing, but that frustrating book had become so tightly stuck in the row that when I pulled it out, the others closed up so tightly that there was no space for it to go back in. It was too hard for me to insert the book; I just kept pushing and pushing at the row. Finally, the rusty nail holding up the shelf (it felt like it had been waiting for this moment!) broke completely; as a result, the shelf collapsed with a crash, and the books fell in a heap on the floor! Then the door opened, and Pokrovski walked in!



      I must here remark that he never could bear to have his possessions
      tampered with. Woe to the person, in particular, who touched his books!
      Judge, therefore, of my horror when books small and great, books of every
      possible shape and size and thickness, came tumbling from the shelf, and
      flew and sprang over the table, and under the chairs, and about the whole
      room. I would have turned and fled, but it was too late. “All is over!”
       thought I. “All is over! I am ruined, I am undone! Here have I been
      playing the fool like a ten-year-old child! What a stupid girl I am! The
      monstrous fool!”
     
I have to say, he could never stand anyone messing with his stuff. Woe betide anyone who laid a finger on his books! So, you can imagine my horror when books of all shapes, sizes, and thicknesses tumbled off the shelf, flying and scattering across the table, under the chairs, and all around the room. I would have turned and run, but it was too late. “It’s all over!” I thought. “It’s all over! I’m finished, I’m doomed! Here I am, acting like a fool, just like a ten-year-old! What a silly girl I am! What a huge fool!”



      Indeed, Pokrovski was very angry. “What? Have you not done enough?” he
      cried. “Are you not ashamed to be for ever indulging in such pranks? Are
      you NEVER going to grow sensible?” With that he darted forward to pick up
      the books, while I bent down to help him.
    
Indeed, Pokrovski was very angry. “What? Haven’t you done enough?” he cried. “Aren’t you ashamed to keep pulling these pranks? Are you EVER going to grow up?” With that, he rushed forward to pick up the books, while I bent down to help him.



      “You need not, you need not!” he went on. “You would have done far better
      not to have entered without an invitation.”
     
“You don’t have to, you don’t have to!” he continued. “You would have been much better off staying out without an invite.”



      Next, a little mollified by my humble demeanour, he resumed in his usual
      tutorial tone—the tone which he had adopted in his new-found role of
      preceptor:
    
Next, a bit softened by my humble attitude, he continued in his typical teaching voice—the voice he had taken on in his new role as a mentor:



      “When are you going to grow steadier and more thoughtful? Consider
      yourself for a moment. You are no longer a child, a little girl, but a
      maiden of fifteen.”
     
“When are you going to become more mature and thoughtful? Take a moment to think about yourself. You’re no longer a child, a little girl; you’re a young woman of fifteen.”



      Then, with a desire (probably) to satisfy himself that I was no longer a
      being of tender years, he threw me a glance—but straightway reddened
      to his very ears. This I could not understand, but stood gazing at him in
      astonishment. Presently, he straightened himself a little, approached me
      with a sort of confused expression, and haltingly said something—probably
      it was an apology for not having before perceived that I was now a
      grown-up young person. But the next moment I understood. What I did I
      hardly know, save that, in my dismay and confusion, I blushed even more
      hotly than he had done and, covering my face with my hands, rushed from
      the room.
    
Then, wanting to reassure himself that I was no longer a child, he glanced at me—but immediately turned bright red to his ears. I couldn't figure out why, so I just stared at him in shock. After a moment, he straightened up a bit, walked over with a confused look, and awkwardly said something—probably an apology for not realizing I was now a young adult. But the next moment, I got it. I don’t really know what I did, except that in my embarrassment and confusion, I blushed even more than he had and, covering my face with my hands, ran out of the room.



      What to do with myself for shame I could not think. The one thought in my
      head was that he had surprised me in his room. For three whole days I
      found myself unable to raise my eyes to his, but blushed always to the
      point of weeping. The strangest and most confused of thoughts kept
      entering my brain. One of them—the most extravagant—was that I
      should dearly like to go to Pokrovski, and to explain to him the
      situation, and to make full confession, and to tell him everything without
      concealment, and to assure him that I had not acted foolishly as a minx,
      but honestly and of set purpose. In fact, I DID make up my mind to take
      this course, but lacked the necessary courage to do it. If I had done so,
      what a figure I should have cut! Even now I am ashamed to think of it.
    
What to do with myself, I couldn't figure out for the shame. The only thought in my head was that he had caught me in his room. For three whole days, I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye, always blushing to the point of tears. The most bizarre and confusing thoughts kept creeping into my mind. One of them—the craziest—was that I really wanted to go to Pokrovski and explain everything, confess fully, and tell him everything without hiding anything, assuring him that I hadn’t acted stupidly or carelessly, but honestly and with intention. I actually decided to take this approach, but I didn’t have the courage to go through with it. If I had, what a ridiculous sight I would have made! Even now, I'm embarrassed just thinking about it.



      A few days later, my mother suddenly fell dangerously ill. For two days
      past she had not left her bed, while during the third night of her illness
      she became seized with fever and delirium. I also had not closed my eyes
      during the previous night, but now waited upon my mother, sat by her bed,
      brought her drink at intervals, and gave her medicine at duly appointed
      hours. The next night I suffered terribly. Every now and then sleep would
      cause me to nod, and objects grow dim before my eyes. Also, my head was
      turning dizzy, and I could have fainted for very weariness. Yet always my
      mother’s feeble moans recalled me to myself as I started, momentarily
      awoke, and then again felt drowsiness overcoming me. What torture it was!
      I do not know, I cannot clearly remember, but I think that, during a
      moment when wakefulness was thus contending with slumber, a strange dream,
      a horrible vision, visited my overwrought brain, and I awoke in terror.
      The room was nearly in darkness, for the candle was flickering, and
      throwing stray beams of light which suddenly illuminated the room, danced
      for a moment on the walls, and then disappeared. Somehow I felt afraid—a
      sort of horror had come upon me—my imagination had been over-excited
      by the evil dream which I had experienced, and a feeling of oppression was
      crushing my heart.... 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.
    
A few days later, my mom suddenly got really sick. For the past two days, she hadn’t left her bed, and on the third night of her illness, she was hit with fever and delirium. I hadn’t slept the night before, but now I stayed by my mom's side, bringing her drinks and giving her medicine on schedule. The next night was unbearable. I would doze off occasionally, and things would become blurry in front of me. My head felt dizzy, and I was on the verge of fainting from exhaustion. But every time my mom let out a weak moan, it jolted me awake, and I felt drowsy again. It was torture! I can’t quite remember it all, but I think during a moment when I was caught between waking and sleeping, a strange, horrifying dream invaded my stressed mind, and I woke up feeling terrified. The room was nearly dark; the candle flickered, casting random beams of light that suddenly illuminated the room, danced on the walls, and then vanished. I felt a sense of fear—a type of horror washed over me—my imagination had been stirred up by the nightmare, and it felt like a weight was crushing my heart... I jumped from the chair and let out an involuntary cry—a cry driven by the terrible, torturous sensation that overwhelmed me. Then the door opened, and Pokrovski walked in.



      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.
    
I remember being in his arms when I came to. He carefully set me down on a bench, handed me a glass of water, and then asked me a few questions—though I don’t recall how I answered them. “You’re sick yourself,” he said, taking my hand. “You’re really sick. You have a fever, and I can tell you’re exhausting yourself by neglecting your health. You need to rest. Lie down and go to sleep. Yes, lie down, lie down,” he insisted without giving me a chance to object. In fact, my fatigue had drained my strength so much that my eyes were closing from weakness. So I laid down on the bench, planning to sleep for just half an hour; instead, I slept until morning. Pokrovski then woke me up, saying it was time for me to go 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.
    
When the next evening rolled around, around eight o’clock, I had rested a bit and was getting ready to spend the night in a chair next to my mom (determined not to fall asleep this time). Suddenly, Pokrovski knocked at the door. I opened it, and he told me that, since I might find the time boring, he had brought me a few books to read. I accepted the books, but I still don’t know what they were, or if I even looked at them, even though I didn’t close my eyes all night. The truth was, I felt a weird excitement that kept me from sleeping, and I couldn’t sit still in one spot; I kept getting up from my chair and walking around the room. There was a kind of elation throughout my body—elation at Pokrovski’s attention, at the thought that he cared and was worried about me. I thought and dreamed until dawn, and although I was sure Pokrovski wouldn’t visit us again that night, I couldn’t help imagining 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.
    
That evening, when everyone else in the house had gone to bed, Pokrovski opened his door and started a conversation from his doorway. Even though it’s been so long that I can't remember a single word we said, I remember feeling embarrassed, confused, and irritated with myself as I anxiously awaited the end of our chat—even though I had been looking forward to it all day and had spent my time dreaming about it and planning what to ask and say. Yes, that evening marked the beginning of our friendship, and every night during my mother’s illness, we spent several hours together. Gradually, I broke through his reserve, but I realized that each of our conversations left me feeling frustrated with myself. At the same time, I secretly felt joy and pride in leading him to forget his tedious books. Eventually, our talking took a playful turn toward a discussion about a fallen shelf. It was a special moment because it happened just when I felt ready to open up and be honest. In my excitement and elevated mood, I found myself confessing my desire to learn and to KNOW, since I felt hurt by being seen as just a kid, a mere child.... I must say, I was in a very unusual state of mind that night. My heart was tender, and there were tears in my eyes. I held nothing back as I shared my feelings for him, my wish to love him, and my desire to live in harmony with him, to comfort him, and to make his life easier. In response, he looked at me with a mix of confusion and surprise and said nothing. Suddenly, I began to feel a deep pain and disappointment, thinking he hadn’t understood me, or worse, that he might be laughing at me. I burst into tears like a child, sobbing uncontrollably, caught in a kind of fit; at which point, he took my hand, kissed it, and held it against his chest—saying various comforting things, clearly moved himself. I don’t remember exactly what he said—I just alternated between crying and laughing, blushing, and found myself unable to say a word from joy. Yet, despite my excitement, I sensed that he still felt some awkwardness and unease. Clearly, he was amazed by my enthusiasm and the intensity of my unexpected friendship. It might be that he was initially astonished, but later accepted my devotion and my words of invitation and interest with the same simple honesty with which I had offered them, responding with a friendship and devotion that matched mine, just like a friend or brother would. How happy and warm my heart felt! I had hidden nothing, nor had I held back. No, I had opened myself up completely, and each day would bring him closer 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.
    
Honestly, I can’t describe everything we talked about during those painful yet exhilarating hours when, under the flickering light of a lamp and almost right by my poor sick mother’s bedside, we had our midnight meetings. Whatever popped into our minds, we talked about—whatever came from our hearts, whatever felt like it needed to be said, we voiced it. And most of the time, we were happy. It was such a bittersweet time—a time that was both sad and joyful at the same time! Even now, I find it both painful and joyful to remember. Whether it was happy or hurtful, those memories still sting. At least they feel that way to me, although there’s a certain sweetness that eases the pain. So, whenever I’m feeling heartbroken, weighed down, worn out, and sad, those memories come back to lift and revive me, just like drops of evening dew refresh a poor, wilting flower after a hot day.



      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.
    
My mother got better, but I still spent my nights in a chair by her bedside. Often, Pokrovski would give me books. At first, I read them just to stay awake, but later, I started to pay more attention, and eventually became really eager to read them, as they opened up a new, unexpected, and unfamiliar world for me. New thoughts combined with new impressions flooded my heart, and the more effort, pain, and struggle it took for me to understand these new ideas, the more precious they became to me, stirring my soul deeply. They rushed into my heart so quickly that I barely had a moment to catch my breath, leaving me in a beautiful chaos. Yet, this spiritual upheaval wasn’t enough to completely overwhelm me. I was just imaginative enough to keep me grounded, and that 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....
    
With my mother’s illness finally over, the late-night meetings and long talks I had with Pokrovski came to an end. We only occasionally exchanged a few words—mostly trivial things, but I enjoyed figuring out their meanings and hidden nuances. My life was now complete—I was happy; I was content and at peace. Weeks went by like this....



      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.
    
One day, the older Pokrovski came to see us, chatting in a lively, cheerful, and talkative way. He laughed, cracked jokes, and eventually revealed the source of his excitement by telling us that in a week it would be his Petinka’s birthday. To celebrate, he (the father) planned to wear a new jacket (along with new shoes that his wife was going to buy for him) and come to visit his son. In short, the old man was completely happy and talked about whatever popped into 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.
    
My lover's birthday! From that moment on, I couldn't relax, day or night. No matter what happened, I was determined to remind Pokrovski of our friendship by giving him a gift. But what kind of gift? In the end, I decided to give him books. I knew he had long wanted to have a complete set of Pushkin's works in the latest edition, so I planned to buy Pushkin. My limited budget was thirty roubles, earned from my own work, originally meant for a new dress, but I immediately sent our cook, old Matrena, to find out the price for that edition. Horrors! The cost of the eleven volumes, plus extra for the binding, would be at least SIXTY roubles! Where was I going to get that money? I thought and thought, but couldn't find a solution. I didn't want to go to my mother. Of course, she would help me, but then everyone in the house would know about my gift, and it would look like I was paying him back for all he had done for me over the past year; instead, I wanted to give the gift entirely on my own, without anyone knowing. For all the effort he had put into helping me, I wanted to owe him my friendship and nothing more. At last, I came up with a way to solve the problem.



      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.
    
I knew that at the market in the Gostinni Dvor, you could sometimes buy a book—even one that was barely used and almost brand new—for half its price if you bargained enough. So, I decided to go there. The next day, both Anna Thedorovna and we needed various items, and since my mom was feeling unwell and Anna was being lazy, it fell to me to take care of the errands. So, I headed out 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.
    
Fortunately, I soon came across a beautifully bound set of Pushkin and decided to negotiate for it. At first, they asked for more than what I would have paid in a store; but eventually—though it took a lot of effort on my part, including several pretenses of leaving—I managed to get the seller to drop the price to ten roubles in silver. I was so happy that I had gotten into this negotiation! Poor Matrena couldn’t understand what was going on with me or why I was so eager to buy books. But then, oh, the horror! As soon as the seller saw my stack of thirty roubles in cash, he insisted on the original price he had named. Even though he eventually lowered it a bit in response to my pleas and protests, he only cut it down by two-and-a-half roubles more than I had, claiming he was making this concession just for me because I was “a sweet young lady,” and that he wouldn’t do it for anyone else in the world. To think that only two-and-a-half roubles were still needed! I could have cried out of frustration. Suddenly, an unexpected situation arose that helped me in my dilemma.



      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.
    
Not far away, near another table stacked with books, I saw the older Pokrovski, surrounded by a group of four or five vendors bothering him almost to the point of madness. Each of these guys was trying to sell him their own stuff; and while they presented everything under the sun for his consideration, there was nothing he wanted to buy. The poor old man looked like someone who was being beaten down. He didn’t know what to make of all the offers. When I approached him and asked what he was doing there, the old man felt happy, since he liked me (perhaps) just as much as he liked 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.”
     
“I’m buying some books, Barbara Alexievna,” he said, “I’m getting them for my Petinka. His birthday is coming up soon, and since he likes books, I thought I’d get him a few.”



      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.
    
The old man always spoke in a very indirect way, and this time he was even more confused than usual. No matter which book he asked about, the price was always one, two, or three roubles. He couldn’t afford the bigger books at all; he could only look at them longingly, feel their pages with his fingers, flip through the volumes in his hands, and then put them back. “No, no, that's too expensive,” he would mumble to himself. “I need to go and look somewhere else.” Then he would start browsing through copy-books, collections of poems, and cheaper almanacs again.



      “Why should you buy things like those?” I asked him. “They are such
      rubbish!”
     
“Why would you buy things like that?” I asked him. “They’re such junk!”



      “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.
    
“No, no!” he replied. “Look at how nice these books are! Yes, they ARE nice books!” Still, he said the last words so slowly that I could see he was about to cry out of frustration at finding the nicer books so expensive. A small tear was already trickling down his pale cheeks and red nose. I asked him if he had much money on him; then the poor old man pulled out all he had, wrapped in a piece of dirty newspaper, which consisted of a few small silver coins and twenty kopecks in copper. I immediately grabbed the whole amount and, pulling him towards my vendor, said: “Look here. These eleven volumes of Pushkin are priced at thirty-two-and-a-half roubles, and I have only thirty roubles. Let’s add your two-and-a-half roubles to that, and we can buy the books together as a shared gift.” The old man was thrilled and pulled out his money in one go; then the vendor loaded him up with our joint library. Stuffing it into his pockets and filling both arms, he headed home with his prize, promising me he would secretly bring the books to me the next day.



      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 fête-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.
    
The next day, the old man came to see his son and sat with him, as usual, for about an hour. After that, he visited us, wearing the most comical, mysterious expression imaginable. He was grinning with satisfaction, thinking about the secret he was holding, and he told me that he had sneakily brought the books to our place and hidden them in a corner of the kitchen, under Matrena’s care. Then, naturally, the conversation shifted to the upcoming fête-day, and the old man started talking extensively about gifts. The deeper he went into his topic, the more I could see that there was something on his mind that he couldn’t or wouldn’t share. So I stayed quiet and waited. The mysterious excitement and repressed satisfaction I had noticed in his antics, grimaces, and sly winks slowly faded away, and he began to seem more anxious and uneasy. Eventually, he couldn’t hold it in any 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.”
     
“Listen, Barbara Alexievna,” he said nervously. “Hear me out. When his birthday comes, you take TEN of the books and give them to him yourself—that is, FOR yourself, as your part of the gift. Then I’ll take the eleventh book and give it to him MYSELF, as my gift. If we do that, you’ll have a present for him, and I’ll have one too—both of us the same.”



      “Why do you not want us to present our gifts together, Zachar Petrovitch?”
       I asked him.
    
“Why don’t you 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—”
     
“Oh, fine,” he replied. “Fine, Barbara Alexievna. But— I just 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.
    
The old man paused in confusion, his face reddening from the effort of expressing himself. For a moment or two, he sat frozen in 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.”
     
"You see,” he continued, “I act like a fool way too often. I'm always playing the fool, and I can't stop myself, even though I know it's not right. At home, it's often chilly, and there are sometimes other issues too, and it all makes me feel down. So, whenever that happens, I indulge a bit, and sometimes I drink too much. Now, Petinka doesn't like that; he gets really upset about it, Barbara Alexievna, and scolds me and lectures me. So, I want to use my gift to show him that I'm improving and starting to behave better. For a long time now, I've been saving up to buy him a book—yes, I've been saving for it for quite a while, since I rarely have any money unless Petinka gives me some. He knows this, and because of that, as soon as he sees what I'm spending his money on, he'll realize that I'm doing this just for him."



      My heart ached for the old man. Seeing him looking at me with such
      anxiety, I made up my mind without delay.
    
My heart broke for the old man. Seeing him look at me with that much worry, I decided right away.



      “I tell you what,” I said. “Do you give him all the books.”
     
“I'll tell you this,” I said. “Just give him all the books.”



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



      “Yes, all of them.”
     
“Yes, all of them.”



      “As my own gift?”
  
"As my personal gift?"



“Yes, as your own gift.”
     
“Yes, as your personal gift.”



      “As my gift alone?”
     
“As my sole gift?”



      “Yes, as your gift alone.”
     
"Yes, just for you."



      Surely I had spoken clearly enough, yet the old man seemed hardly to
      understand me.
    
Surely I had spoken clearly enough, yet the old man seemed barely 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?”
     
“Well,” he said after thinking for a moment, “that would definitely be amazing—no doubt it would be really amazing. But what about you, Barbara Alexievna?”



      “Oh, I shall give your son nothing.”
     
“Oh, I won’t give your son anything.”



      “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.
    
“What?” he exclaimed in shock. “Are you really not going to give Petinka anything—do you actually want to give him nothing?” The old man was so upset by my words that he nearly changed his own suggestion if it meant I would give his son something. What a kind heart he had! I quickly assured him that I would definitely have a gift of some kind prepared, since all I wanted was to make sure he enjoyed himself.



      “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.”
     
“As long as your son is happy,” I added, “and you’re happy, I’ll be happy too, because deep down I’ll feel like I gave 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.
    
This completely put the old man at ease. He stayed with us for another couple of hours but couldn’t sit still for a second, constantly getting up from his seat, laughing, joking around with Sasha, giving me quiet kisses, pinching my hands, and making funny faces at Anna Thedorovna. Eventually, she kicked him out of the house. In short, his outbursts of joy were beyond anything I had ever seen before.



      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.
    
On the festive day, he showed up right at eleven o’clock, straight from Mass. He wore a carefully repaired frock coat, a new waistcoat, and a fresh pair of shoes, and he carried a stack of books in his arms. Then we all sat down for coffee (it was Sunday) in Anna Thedorovna’s parlor. The old man started the meal by saying that Pushkin was a great poet. After that, feeling a bit embarrassed and awkward, he suddenly shifted to saying that a man should behave properly; if he didn’t, it could be seen as a sign that he was overindulging, and that such bad habits would lead to his ruin and downfall. Then he shared some alarming examples of such moral failing and finished by telling us that for some time, he had been changing his ways and acting as a role model because he recognized the truth in his son’s advice, and he had taken it to heart so much that he, as the father, had genuinely improved: to demonstrate this, he now wanted to give his son some books he had been saving up for.



      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.
    
As I listened to the old man, I couldn’t help but laugh and cry at the same time. He really knew how to tell a story when the moment called for it! The books were moved to his son’s room and placed on a shelf, where Pokrovski immediately figured out the truth about them. Then we invited the old man to dinner, and we all had a great time together playing cards and games. Sasha was full of energy, and I tried to keep up with her, while Pokrovski showered me with attention and looked for a chance to talk to me privately. But I wasn’t going to let that happen. All in all, it was the happiest day I had experienced in 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!
    
But now only painful, heavy memories come to mind, because I have to start sharing the story of my darker experiences. Maybe that's why my pen starts to move more slowly and seems like it might just refuse to write altogether. The same reason might explain why I dove into recounting even the smallest details of my younger, happier days with such love and enthusiasm. But unfortunately, those days didn't last long and were followed by a time of deep sorrow that only God knows when it will end!



      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.
    
My troubles started with the illness and death of Pokrovski, who got worse two months after my last entry in these memoirs. During those two months, he worked hard to make a living since he had never had a stable job. Like many people with tuberculosis, he never lost hope—right up until the end—that he could live a long life. A tutoring position came up, but he never liked that line of work; and becoming a civil servant was out of the question due to his poor health. Plus, if he had taken that route, he would have had to wait a long time to see his first paycheck. He always had a tendency to see the negative side of things, as his illness progressively warped his character and undermined his health, even if he didn’t realize it. Then autumn arrived, and every day he went out to look for work—meaning he was applying for and trying to get jobs—dressed only in a light jacket. This led to him getting soaked in the rain multiple times, forcing him to stay in bed for good. He died in mid-autumn, at the end 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.
    
Throughout his illness, I barely left his room and took care of him constantly. Often, he couldn't sleep for several nights in a row. Sometimes, he was unconscious or in a delirium; during those moments, he would talk about all kinds of things—his work, his books, his father, and me. During those times, I learned a lot that I hadn't known or figured out about his life. In the early days of his illness, everyone in the house looked at me suspiciously, and Anna Thedorovna would give me knowing glances; but I always met their gaze directly, and over time, they stopped paying attention to my concern for Pokrovski. At least, my mother stopped worrying 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.
    
Sometimes Pokrovski would know who I was, but not often, since he was usually unconscious. Sometimes, too, he would talk all night with some unknown person, using dim, mysterious language that made his gasping voice echo hoarsely through the narrow room like a tomb; and during those times, I found the situation quite strange. On his last night, he was particularly delirious, as he was in terrible agony and kept rambling in his speech until my heart ached with pity. Everyone in the house was worried, and Anna Thedorovna began to pray that God would take him soon. When the doctor was called, he said that the patient would die by 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.
    
That night, the elder Pokrovski stayed in the hallway, right by his son’s room. Even though he had a mattress to lie on, he kept running in and out of the apartment. He was so overwhelmed with grief that he looked terrible, as if he had lost all sense of reality and feeling. His head shook with pain, and his body trembled from head to toe as he occasionally murmured to himself, seemingly caught in some internal debate. I kept expecting him to lose control. Just before dawn, the weight of his mental anguish got to him, and he fell asleep on his mattress like a defeated man; but by eight o’clock, his son was nearing death, so I rushed to wake the father. The dying man was completely aware and said goodbye to us all. For some reason, I couldn’t cry, even though my heart felt like it was 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 last moments were the most distressing and heartbreaking of all. For some time, Pokrovski had been trying to say something with his fading voice, but I couldn't make out his words. My heart was heavy with grief. For an hour, he lay quieter, just looking at me sadly and trying to signal with his cold, lifeless hands. Finally, he attempted his painful request again in a hoarse, deep voice, but it came out as a series of inarticulate sounds, and once again, I couldn't understand him. I brought each family member to his bedside and offered him something to drink, but he just shook his head in sadness. Eventually, I realized what he wanted. He was asking me to pull back the curtain from the window and open it. He probably wanted to take one last look at the daylight, the sun, and all of God’s creation. I opened the curtain, but the day outside was as dull and sorrowful as the flickering life of the poor man. There was no sunshine. The clouds covered the sky like a shroud of mist, making everything look gloomy, rainy, and threatening under a fine drizzle that beat against the window panes, leaving streaks of cold, dirty moisture on their dull surfaces. Only a little bit of daylight managed to compete with the trembling rays of the ikon lamp. The dying man gave me a longing look and nodded. The next moment, he 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 cortège 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 cortège
      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....
    
The funeral was organized by Anna Thedorovna. A simple coffin was purchased, and a rundown hearse was hired; for this expense, she took the dead man's books and other belongings as collateral. However, the old man argued with her over the books and, causing a commotion, managed to take as many as he could—stuffing his pockets full and even filling his hat. In fact, he spent the next three days with them, refusing to let them out of his sight, even when it was time for him to go to church. Throughout, he behaved like someone who had lost their mind and memory. With odd determination, he fussed around the bier—now adjusting the candlestick on the deceased man's chest, now snuffing out and lighting the other candles. Clearly, he couldn’t keep his thoughts on any topic for long. Neither my mother nor Anna Thedorovna attended the requiem, as my mother was ill and Anna was in a falling out with the old man. It was just me and my father present. During the service, a sense of panic and a foreboding of the future washed over me, and I found it hard to stand. Eventually, the coffin was lowered and secured; after which the bearers placed it on a bier and moved out. I followed the procession only to the end of the street. Here, the driver picked up speed, and the old man started running after the hearse—sobbing loudly, though his breaths would break off intermittently from the effort. Next, he lost his hat but wouldn’t stop to pick it up, even as the rain poured down on his head and the wind picked up, stinging his face with sleet. He seemed oblivious to the harsh weather as he dashed from one side of the hearse to the other, the edges of his worn greatcoat flapping around him like wings. Books stuck out of every pocket of his coat, and in his hands, he clutched a particularly large volume, holding it tightly to his chest. Passersby took off their hats and crossed themselves as the procession went by, and some of them, having done so, stood in astonishment at the sight of the poor old man. Occasionally, a book would slip from one of his pockets and fall into the mud; someone would stop him to point out the loss, and he would pause, retrieve the book, and continue his pursuit of the hearse. At the corner of the street, a tattered old woman joined him; then, at last, the hearse turned a corner and vanished from my sight. I went home and threw myself, overwhelmed with grief, onto my mother’s chest—holding her in my arms, kissing her through a torrent of sobs and tears, clinging to her as if I were holding my last friend on earth, wanting to protect her from death. But already, death loomed 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,
    
Thank you so much for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar Alexievitch! Everything felt so fresh and pleasant, so green! I hadn’t seen anything green for such a long time! During my illness, I thought I would never get better, that I was definitely going to die. Can you imagine how I felt yesterday? True, I might have seemed a bit sad to you, and I hope you’re not upset with me for that. Even though I was happy and light-hearted, there were moments, even at my happiest, when for some unknown reason, a wave of sadness washed over me. I found myself crying about small things, without really knowing why I felt sad. The truth is, I’m still unwell—so much that I see everything through a gloomy lens. The pale, clear sky, the setting sun, the evening stillness—somehow, these things made me feel sad and hurt; my heart felt heavy and in need of tears. But why am I sharing this with you? It’s hard for my heart to express itself; even harder to hold back. Yet maybe you’ll understand. Tears and laughter!... How kind you are, Makar Alexievitch! Yesterday, you looked into my eyes as if you could read everything I was feeling—as if you were celebrating my happiness with me. Whether it was a bunch of bushes, a pathway, or a view of water that we passed, you would stop and gaze at my face, as if you were showing me your own treasures. It showed me how kind you are, and I love you for it. Today I’m unwell again because I got my feet wet yesterday and caught a chill. Thedora is also unwell; we’re both ailing. Don’t forget about me. Come and see me as often as you can.—Yours,



      BARBARA ALEXIEVNA. 
 

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.
    
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA—I thought you were going to share our recent adventures in verse; however, I've only received a single page of your writing. Still, I have to say that even though it’s brief, what you’ve written is expressed with remarkable beauty and grace. Nature, your descriptions of the countryside, your insights into your own feelings—the entire piece is beautifully crafted. Sadly, I don’t have that kind of talent! Even if I filled pages and pages, it wouldn’t amount to much—I might as well never have picked up a pen. Yes, I know this 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.
    
You say, my darling, that I'm kind and good, that I couldn't hurt my fellow humans, that I have the ability to understand the goodness of God (as shown in nature’s creations), and so on. It might all be true, my dearest; it could be exactly as you say. In fact, I believe you’re right. But if that’s the case, it’s because when you read a letter like the one you just sent me, your heart naturally softens and opens up to deeper, more serious thoughts. Listen, my darling; I have something to share with you, my beloved.



      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!
    
I’ll start with the time when I was seventeen and first joined the service—though soon I’ll have wrapped up my thirtieth year of working officially. I can say that at first I really liked my new uniform; and as I got older, I matured and started studying the people around me. I also lived an honest life—so much so that eventually I faced persecution. You might not believe this, but it’s true. Can you imagine that such cruel people exist? For even though I'm dull and insignificant, I have feelings just like everyone else. So, would you believe it, Barbara, when I tell you what these cruel people did to me? I’m embarrassed to share it with you—all because I’m quiet, peaceful, and good-natured! 

It all started with “this or that, Makar Alexievitch, is your fault.” Then it escalated to “I need hardly say that the fault is completely Makar Alexievitch’s.” Finally, it became “OF COURSE Makar Alexievitch is to blame.” Do you see how it went, my darling? Every mistake was pointed at me until “Makar Alexievitch” became a joke in our department. While they turned me into a proverb, those guys couldn't even offer me a smile or a kind word. They criticized my boots, my uniform, my hair, my build. None of it pleased them: everything had to be changed. And it’s been that way ever since. Of course, I’ve gotten used to it, since I can adapt to anything (being, as you know, a peaceful person like all short men)—but why should this happen? Who have I harmed? Who have I ever replaced? Who have I ever slandered to their superiors? No, the real issue is that I've asked for a raise more than once. But have I ever schemed for it? No, you’d be mistaken to think that, my dearest. HOW could I have done that? You've seen plenty of times how incapable I am of deceit or trickery. 

So why has this happened to me?... However, since you think I deserve respect, my darling, I don’t mind, because you are by far the best person in the world... What do you think is the greatest social virtue? In a private chat, Evstafi Ivanovitch once told me that the greatest social virtue could be an ability to get money to spend. My comrades would jokingly (yes, I know only jokingly) suggest the ethical maxim that a man should never be a burden to anyone. Well, I am no burden to anyone. I eat my own piece of bread; and even if that piece is just a poor one, sometimes even infested with maggots, at least I've EARNED it, so it’s being used rightly and lawfully. So what should I do? I know I can’t earn much from my work as a copyist; yet even that little makes me proud, since it requires WORK and has made me sweat. What’s wrong with being a copyist? “He’s just a clerk,” people say about me. But what’s so disgraceful about that? My writing is at least legible, neat, and nice to look at—and his Excellency is satisfied with it. In fact, I copy many important documents. At the same time, I know my writing lacks STYLE, which is why I’ve never advanced in the service. Even to you, my dear, I write plainly and without fancy tricks, just as thoughts come to my mind. Yes, I know all this; but if everyone became a great writer, who would be left to do the copying?... Whatever questions I ask you in my letters, my dearest, please answer them. I’m sure you need me, that I can help you; and since that’s the case, I must not let myself be distracted by trivial things. Even if I'm compared to a rat, I don’t care, as long as that rat is wanted by you, is useful in the world, stays in its place, and gets its reward. But what kind of rat is this!



      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,
    
Enough of this, my dear. I shouldn’t have brought it up, but I got a bit carried away. Still, it’s nice to speak the truth sometimes. Goodbye, my love, my darling, my sweet little comfort! I will see you soon—yes, I will definitely see you. Until then, don’t worry. I’ll be bringing a book with me. Once again, goodbye.—Your sincere well-wisher,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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.
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH—I’m writing to you urgently—I’m doing my best to finish my work on time. Can you guess why? It’s because there’s a chance for you to make a great purchase. Thedora tells me that a retired civil servant she knows has a uniform for sale—one that’s in good condition and cut to the standard style, and it’s likely to be very cheap. Now, PLEASE don’t say you don’t have the money, because I know you do. Use that money, I urge you, and don’t just save it. Look at those terrible clothes you’re wearing! They’re shameful—they’re patched everywhere! In fact, you have nothing new at all. I know this for sure, and I don’t care WHAT you say about it. So just listen to me this once, and buy this uniform. Do it for MY sake. Do it to prove that you truly 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.
    
You’ve sent me some linens as a gift. But listen, Makar Alexievitch, you’re really hurting yourself financially. Is it a joke that you should spend so much money—such a ridiculous amount—on me? You love to play the big spender! I’m telling you that I don’t need it, that spending like this is unnecessary. I know—I’m CERTAIN—that you love me; that’s why it’s pointless to remind me with gifts. Plus, I don’t even like receiving them since I know how much they must have cost you. No—use your money for something better. I’m begging you to do that. Also, you’ve asked me to send you a continuation of my memoirs—to finish them. But I don’t even know how I managed to write as much as I did; right now, I don’t have the energy to write more about my past, nor do I want to think about it at all. Those memories are too painful for me. The hardest part is talking about my poor mother, who left her helpless daughter at the mercy of terrible people. My heart aches whenever I think of it; it’s so fresh in my mind that I can’t push it away, and it won’t let me rest, even though a year has passed since it happened. But you already know all this.



      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. Distant kinsman though you
      may be, I pray you always to defend my honour. Other people I do not wish
      to know, and would gladly forget if I could.... What are they wanting with
      me now? Thedora declares it all to be a trick, and says that in time they
      will leave me alone. God grant it be so!
    
Also, I’ve told you what Anna Thedorovna is up to now. She’s accusing me of being ungrateful and denying the claims made against her regarding Monsieur Bwikov. She keeps summoning me and saying that I’ve chosen a bad path, but if I come back to her, she’ll smooth things over with Bwikov and make him admit his fault. She also says he wants to give me a dowry. Forget all of them! I’m really happy here with you and good Thedora, whose loyalty reminds me of my old nurse, who’s been gone for a long time. Even though you’re a distant relative, I ask you to always defend my honor. I don’t want to know anyone else, and I’d gladly forget them if I could... What do they want with me now? Thedora says it’s all a trick, and she believes they’ll leave me alone eventually. God, I hope that’s true!



      B. D. 
 

B. D.   












      June 21st.
    



      MY OWN, MY DARLING,—I wish to write to you, yet know not where to
      begin. Things are as strange as though we were actually living together.
      Also I would add that never in my life have I passed such happy days as I
      am spending at present. ‘Tis as though God had blessed me with a home and
      a family of my own! Yes, you are my little daughter, beloved. But why
      mention the four sorry roubles that I sent you? You needed them; I know
      that from Thedora herself, and it will always be a particular pleasure to
      me to gratify you in anything. It will always be my one happiness in life.
      Pray, therefore, leave me that happiness, and do not seek to cross me in
      it. Things are not as you suppose. I have now reached the sunshine since,
      in the first place, I am living so close to you as almost to be with you
      (which is a great consolation to my mind), while, in the second place, a
      neighbour of mine named Rataziaev (the retired official who gives the
      literary parties) has today invited me to tea. This evening, therefore,
      there will be a gathering at which we shall discuss literature! Think of
      that my darling! Well, goodbye now. I have written this without any
      definite aim in my mind, but solely to assure you of my welfare. Through
      Theresa I have received your message that you need an embroidered cloak to
      wear, so I will go and purchase one. Yes, tomorrow I mean to purchase that
      embroidered cloak, and so give myself the pleasure of having satisfied one
      of your wants. I know where to go for such a garment. For the time being I
      remain your sincere friend,
    
MY OWN, MY DARLING,—I want to write to you, but I don't know where to start. Things feel as strange as if we were actually living together. I also have to say that I've never experienced such happy days as I’m having right now. It’s as though God has blessed me with a home and a family of my own! Yes, you are my little daughter, my beloved. But why mention the four measly roubles I sent you? You needed them; I know that from Thedora herself, and it always brings me joy to be able to help you with anything. That will always be my greatest happiness in life. So please, let me keep that happiness, and don’t try to take it away from me. Things are not as you think. I’ve reached a good place because I’m living so close to you that it feels like I’m nearly with you (which is a huge comfort to me), and, on top of that, a neighbor of mine named Rataziaev (the retired official who hosts the literary parties) invited me to tea today. So tonight, there’s going to be a gathering where we’ll discuss literature! Can you believe that, my darling? Well, goodbye for now. I wrote this without any specific purpose, just to reassure you that I’m doing well. Through Theresa, I learned that you need an embroidered cloak to wear, so I’ll go and buy one. Yes, tomorrow I plan to get that embroidered cloak, giving myself the pleasure of meeting one of your needs. I know where to find such a garment. For now, I remain your sincere friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      June 22nd.
    



      MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I have to tell you that a sad event
      has happened in this house—an event to excite one’s utmost pity.
      This morning, about five o’clock, one of Gorshkov’s children died of
      scarlatina, or something of the kind. I have been to pay the parents a
      visit of condolence, and found them living in the direst poverty and
      disorder. Nor is that surprising, seeing that the family lives in a single
      room, with only a screen to divide it for decency’s sake. Already the
      coffin was standing in their midst—a plain but decent shell which
      had been bought ready-made. The child, they told me, had been a boy of
      nine, and full of promise. What a pitiful spectacle! Though not weeping,
      the mother, poor woman, looked broken with grief. After all, to have one
      burden the less on their shoulders may prove a relief, though there are
      still two children left—a babe at the breast and a little girl of
      six! How painful to see these suffering children, and to be unable to help
      them! The father, clad in an old, dirty frockcoat, was seated on a
      dilapidated chair. Down his cheeks there were coursing tears—though
      less through grief than owing to a long-standing affliction of the eyes.
      He was so thin, too! Always he reddens in the face when he is addressed,
      and becomes too confused to answer. A little girl, his daughter, was
      leaning against the coffin—her face looking so worn and thoughtful,
      poor mite! Do you know, I cannot bear to see a child look thoughtful. On
      the floor there lay a rag doll, but she was not playing with it as,
      motionless, she stood there with her finger to her lips. Even a bon-bon
      which the landlady had given her she was not eating. Is it not all sad,
      sad, Barbara?
    
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I have to share some heartbreaking news that has happened in this house—something that stirs deep sympathy. This morning, around five o’clock, one of Gorshkov’s children died from scarlet fever, or something similar. I went to visit the parents to offer my condolences, and I found them living in extreme poverty and chaos. It's not surprising, considering the family lives in a single room, with just a screen for privacy. Already, the coffin was in the middle of the room—a simple yet decent one that they had bought pre-made. They told me the child was a nine-year-old boy full of potential. What a heartbreaking sight! Though she wasn't crying, the mother, poor thing, looked utterly crushed with grief. After all, losing one less burden might feel like a relief, even though two children remain—a nursing infant and a little girl of six! It's painful to see these suffering kids and not be able to assist them! The father, wearing an old, dirty frock coat, sat on a broken chair. Tears streamed down his face—not so much from sorrow but because of a long-standing eye issue. He was so thin, too! He always turns red when someone speaks to him and gets so flustered he can hardly reply. A little girl, his daughter, was leaning against the coffin—her face looking so weary and contemplative, poor thing! You know, I can’t stand to see a child look so thoughtful. On the floor, there was a rag doll, but she wasn’t playing with it; she stood still with her finger to her lips. Not even the candy the landlady had given her was being eaten. Isn’t it all just so sad, Barbara?



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      June 25th.
    



      MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH—I return you your book. In my opinion
      it is a worthless one, and I would rather not have it in my possession.
      Why do you save up your money to buy such trash? Except in jest, do such
      books really please you? However, you have now promised to send me
      something else to read. I will share the cost of it. Now, farewell until
      we meet again. I have nothing more to say.
    
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH—I'm returning your book. I think it’s worthless, and I’d rather not keep it. Why do you spend your money on such garbage? Do you actually enjoy these kinds of books, even jokingly? Anyway, you’ve promised to send me something else to read. I’ll chip in for that. So, goodbye until we meet again. I have nothing more to add.



      B. D. 
 

B. D.   












      June 26th.
    



      MY DEAR LITTLE BARBARA—To tell you the truth, I myself have not read
      the book of which you speak. That is to say, though I began to read it, I
      soon saw that it was nonsense, and written only to make people laugh.
      “However,” thought I, “it is at least a CHEERFUL work, and so may please
      Barbara.” That is why I sent it you.
    
MY DEAR LITTLE BARBARA—Honestly, I haven't read the book you're talking about. I started it, but quickly realized it was nonsense, just meant to be funny. “Still,” I thought, “it’s at least an UPLIFTING work, so it might entertain Barbara.” That's why I sent it to you.



      Rataziaev has now promised to give me something really literary to read;
      so you shall soon have your book, my darling. He is a man who reflects; he
      is a clever fellow, as well as himself a writer—such a writer! His
      pen glides along with ease, and in such a style (even when he is writing
      the most ordinary, the most insignificant of articles) that I have often
      remarked upon the fact, both to Phaldoni and to Theresa. Often, too, I go
      to spend an evening with him. He reads aloud to us until five o’clock in
      the morning, and we listen to him. It is a revelation of things rather
      than a reading. It is charming, it is like a bouquet of flowers—there
      is a bouquet of flowers in every line of each page. Besides, he is such an
      approachable, courteous, kind-hearted fellow! What am I compared with him?
      Why, nothing, simply nothing! He is a man of reputation, whereas I—well,
      I do not exist at all. Yet he condescends to my level. At this very moment
      I am copying out a document for him. But you must not think that he finds
      any DIFFICULTY in condescending to me, who am only a copyist. No, you must
      not believe the base gossip that you may hear. I do copying work for him
      simply in order to please myself, as well as that he may notice me—a
      thing that always gives me pleasure. I appreciate the delicacy of his
      position. He is a good—a very good—man, and an unapproachable
      writer.
    
Rataziaev has promised to give me something truly literary to read, so you'll soon get your book, my dear. He’s a thoughtful guy and a talented writer—what a writer! His words flow effortlessly, and his style is captivating (even when he’s writing the simplest or most mundane articles). I’ve often pointed this out to Phaldoni and Theresa. I frequently spend evenings with him, where he reads aloud to us until five in the morning, and we listen. It feels more like a revelation than just reading. It’s delightful, like a bouquet of flowers—there’s a bouquet of flowers in every line on each page. Plus, he’s so approachable, polite, and kind-hearted! What am I compared to him? Absolutely nothing! He’s a person of great stature, while I—well, I might as well not exist at all. Yet he still treats me as an equal. Right now, I’m copying a document for him. But don’t think he finds it hard to look down to my level as just a copyist. No, don’t believe any of the nasty rumors you might hear. I do this copying for my own enjoyment and to get his attention—which always makes me happy. I understand the delicate nature of his position. He’s a good—very good—man and an exceptional writer.



      What a splendid thing is literature, Barbara—what a splendid thing!
      This I learnt before I had known Rataziaev even for three days. It
      strengthens and instructs the heart of man.... No matter what there be in
      the world, you will find it all written down in Rataziaev’s works. And so
      well written down, too! Literature is a sort of picture—a sort of
      picture or mirror. It connotes at once passion, expression, fine
      criticism, good learning, and a document. Yes, I have learned this from
      Rataziaev himself. I can assure you, Barbara, that if only you could be
      sitting among us, and listening to the talk (while, with the rest of us,
      you smoked a pipe), and were to hear those present begin to argue and
      dispute concerning different matters, you would feel of as little account
      among them as I do; for I myself figure there only as a blockhead, and
      feel ashamed, since it takes me a whole evening to think of a single word
      to interpolate—and even then the word will not come! In a case like
      that a man regrets that, as the proverb has it, he should have reached
      man’s estate but not man’s understanding.... What do I do in my spare
      time? I sleep like a fool, though I would far rather be occupied with
      something else—say, with eating or writing, since the one is useful
      to oneself, and the other is beneficial to one’s fellows. You should see
      how much money these fellows contrive to save! How much, for instance,
      does not Rataziaev lay by? A few days’ writing, I am told, can earn him as
      much as three hundred roubles! Indeed, if a man be a writer of short
      stories or anything else that is interesting, he can sometimes pocket five
      hundred roubles, or a thousand, at a time! Think of it, Barbara! Rataziaev
      has by him a small manuscript of verses, and for it he is asking—what
      do you think? Seven thousand roubles! Why, one could buy a whole house for
      that sum! He has even refused five thousand for a manuscript, and on that
      occasion I reasoned with him, and advised him to accept the five thousand.
      But it was of no use. “For,” said he, “they will soon offer me seven
      thousand,” and kept to his point, for he is a man of some determination.
    
What a wonderful thing literature is, Barbara—what a wonderful thing! I realized this before I had even known Rataziaev for three days. It strengthens and educates a person's heart. No matter what exists in the world, you can find it all captured in Rataziaev’s works. And it's written so well, too! Literature is like a picture—a sort of picture or mirror. It embodies passion, expression, keen criticism, solid knowledge, and a record. Yes, I’ve learned this from Rataziaev himself. I can assure you, Barbara, that if only you could sit with us, listening to the conversation (while smoking a pipe with the rest of us), and hear those present starting to debate various topics, you would feel as insignificant among them as I do; for I see myself there as a fool, embarrassed because it takes me an entire evening to come up with a single word to add—and even then, the word might not come! In moments like this, a man laments that, as the saying goes, he has reached adulthood but not adult understanding. What do I do in my free time? I sleep like an idiot, although I would much rather be doing something else—like eating or writing, since one is useful to me and the other benefits others. You should see how much money these guys manage to save! For instance, how much does Rataziaev stash away? I’ve heard that a few days of writing can earn him as much as three hundred roubles! In fact, if someone writes short stories or anything else interesting, they can sometimes earn five hundred roubles or even a thousand at once! Just think about it, Barbara! Rataziaev has a small manuscript of poems, and for it, he’s asking—guess how much? Seven thousand roubles! You could buy an entire house for that amount! He's even turned down five thousand for a manuscript, and on that occasion, I argued with him and advised him to take the five thousand. But it was no use. “Because,” he said, “they’ll soon offer me seven thousand,” and he stuck to his point because he is quite determined.



      Suppose, now, that I were to give you an extract from “Passion in Italy”
       (as another work of his is called). Read this, dearest Barbara, and judge
      for yourself:
    
Suppose, now, that I were to share an excerpt from “Passion in Italy” 
      (as another of his works is titled). Read this, dear Barbara, and see 
      for yourself:



      “Vladimir started, for in his veins the lust of passion had welled until
      it had reached boiling point.
    
“Vladimir started, as the desire within him had built up until it was at a boiling point.



      “‘Countess,’ he cried, ‘do you know how terrible is this adoration of
      mine, how infinite this madness? No! My fancies have not deceived me—I
      love you ecstatically, diabolically, as a madman might! All the blood that
      is in your husband’s body could never quench the furious, surging rapture
      that is in my soul! No puny obstacle could thwart the all-destroying,
      infernal flame which is eating into my exhausted breast! Oh Zinaida, my
      Zinaida!’
    
“‘Countess,’ he exclaimed, ‘do you realize how intense this obsession of mine is, how boundless this madness? No! My feelings haven’t misled me—I love you passionately, crazily, like a madman! All the blood in your husband’s body could never satisfy the overwhelming, raging ecstasy in my soul! No small barrier could stop the all-consuming, hellish fire that is burning in my weary heart! Oh Zinaida, my Zinaida!’”



      “‘Vladimir!’ she whispered, almost beside herself, as she sank upon his
      bosom.
    
“‘Vladimir!’ she whispered, nearly overwhelmed, as she sank against his chest.



      “‘My Zinaida!’ cried the enraptured Smileski once more.
    
“‘My Zinaida!’ shouted the excited Smileski once more.



      “His breath was coming in sharp, broken pants. The lamp of love was
      burning brightly on the altar of passion, and searing the hearts of the
      two unfortunate sufferers.
    
“His breath came in sharp, broken gasps. The flame of love was burning brightly on the altar of passion, searing the hearts of the two unfortunate souls.”



      “‘Vladimir!’ again she whispered in her intoxication, while her bosom
      heaved, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes flashed fire.
    
“‘Vladimir!’ she whispered again, caught up in her intoxication, while her chest rose and fell, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled with intensity.



      “Thus was a new and dread union consummated.
    
“Thus, a new and terrifying union was formed.



      “Half an hour later the aged Count entered his wife’s boudoir.
    
“Half an hour later, the elderly Count entered his wife’s private dressing room.



      “‘How now, my love?’ said he. ‘Surely it is for some welcome guest beyond
      the common that you have had the samovar [Tea-urn.] thus prepared?’ And he
      smote her lightly on the cheek.”
     
“‘Hey there, my love,’ he said. ‘You must have a special guest in mind to have prepared the samovar like this?’ And he lightly tapped her on the cheek.”



      What think you of THAT, Barbara? True, it is a little too outspoken—there
      can be no doubt of that; yet how grand it is, how splendid! With your
      permission I will also quote you an extract from Rataziaev’s story, Ermak
      and Zuleika:
    
What do you think of THAT, Barbara? It's true, it's a bit too blunt—there's no doubt about that; but how magnificent it is, how impressive! If you don't mind, I'll also share an excerpt from Rataziaev’s story, Ermak and Zuleika:



      “‘You love me, Zuleika? Say again that you love me, you love me!’
    
“‘You love me, Zuleika? Say it again that you love me, you love me!’”



      “‘I DO love you, Ermak,’ whispered Zuleika.
    
“I DO love you, Ermak,” whispered Zuleika.



      “‘Then by heaven and earth I thank you! By heaven and earth you have made
      me happy! You have given me all, all that my tortured soul has for
      immemorial years been seeking! ‘Tis for this that you have led me hither,
      my guiding star—‘tis for this that you have conducted me to the
      Girdle of Stone! To all the world will I now show my Zuleika, and no man,
      demon or monster of Hell, shall bid me nay! Oh, if men would but
      understand the mysterious passions of her tender heart, and see the poem
      which lurks in each of her little tears! Suffer me to dry those tears with
      my kisses! Suffer me to drink of those heavenly drops, Oh being who art
      not of this earth!’
    
“Then by heaven and earth, I thank you! You have made me so happy! You’ve given me everything my tortured soul has been searching for all these years! It’s for this that you brought me here, my guiding star—this is why you led me to the Girdle of Stone! I will proudly show my Zuleika to the world, and no man, demon, or monster from Hell will be able to stop me! Oh, if only people could understand the mysterious feelings of her tender heart and see the beauty hidden in each of her little tears! Let me dry those tears with my kisses! Let me drink from those heavenly drops, oh being who isn’t of this earth!”



      “‘Ermak,’ said Zuleika, ‘the world is cruel, and men are unjust. But LET
      them drive us from their midst—let them judge us, my beloved Ermak!
      What has a poor maiden who was reared amid the snows of Siberia to do with
      their cold, icy, self-sufficient world? Men cannot understand me, my
      darling, my sweetheart.’
    
“‘Ermak,’ Zuleika said, ‘the world is harsh, and people are unfair. But let them push us away—let them be the ones to judge us, my beloved Ermak! What does a poor girl raised in the Siberian snow have to do with their cold, self-sufficient world? Men can’t understand me, my darling, my love.’”



      “‘Is that so? Then shall the sword of the Cossacks sing and whistle over
      their heads!’ cried Ermak with a furious look in his eyes.”
     
“‘Is that right? Then the Cossacks' sword will sing and whistle over their heads!’ shouted Ermak, his eyes filled with fury.”



      What must Ermak have felt when he learnt that his Zuleika had been
      murdered, Barbara?—that, taking advantages of the cover of night,
      the blind old Kouchoum had, in Ermak’s absence, broken into the latter’s
      tent, and stabbed his own daughter in mistake for the man who had robbed
      him of sceptre and crown?
    
What do you think Ermak felt when he found out that his Zuleika had been murdered, Barbara?—that, under the cover of night, the blind old Kouchoum had, while Ermak was away, broken into Ermak’s tent and stabbed his own daughter, thinking she was the man who had taken his scepter and crown?



      “‘Oh that I had a stone whereon to whet my sword!’ cried Ermak in the
      madness of his wrath as he strove to sharpen his steel blade upon the
      enchanted rock. ‘I would have his blood, his blood! I would tear him limb
      from limb, the villain!’”
     
“‘Oh, if only I had a stone to sharpen my sword!’ shouted Ermak in his furious rage as he tried to hone his steel blade on the enchanted rock. ‘I want his blood, his blood! I would rip him apart, that scoundrel!’”



      Then Ermak, unable to survive the loss of his Zuleika, throws himself into
      the Irtisch, and the tale comes to an end.
    
Then Ermak, unable to cope with the loss of his Zuleika, jumps into the Irtisch, and the story ends.



      Here, again, is another short extract—this time written in a more
      comical vein, to make people laugh:
    
Here’s another short excerpt—this time written to be funnier and make people laugh:



      “Do you know Ivan Prokofievitch Zheltopuzh? He is the man who took a piece
      out of Prokofi Ivanovitch’s leg. Ivan’s character is one of the rugged
      order, and therefore, one that is rather lacking in virtue. Yet he has a
      passionate relish for radishes and honey. Once he also possessed a friend
      named Pelagea Antonovna. Do you know Pelagea Antonovna? She is the woman
      who always puts on her petticoat wrong side outwards.”
     
“Do you know Ivan Prokofievitch Zheltopuzh? He’s the guy who took a chunk out of Prokofi Ivanovitch’s leg. Ivan is tough and not exactly known for his good qualities. Still, he has a real love for radishes and honey. He used to have a friend named Pelagea Antonovna. Do you know Pelagea Antonovna? She’s the woman who always wears her petticoat inside out.”



      What humour, Barbara—what purest humour! We rocked with laughter
      when he read it aloud to us. Yes, that is the kind of man he is. Possibly
      the passage is a trifle over-frolicsome, but at least it is harmless, and
      contains no freethought or liberal ideas. In passing, I may say that
      Rataziaev is not only a supreme writer, but also a man of upright life—which
      is more than can be said for most writers.
    
What humor, Barbara—what pure humor! We couldn’t stop laughing when he read it aloud to us. Yes, that’s the kind of guy he is. The section might be a bit too playful, but at least it’s harmless and doesn’t include any free-thinking or liberal ideas. By the way, I should mention that Rataziaev isn’t just an exceptional writer, but also a person of integrity—which is more than can be said for most writers.



      What, do you think, is an idea that sometimes enters my head? In fact,
      what if I myself were to write something? How if suddenly a book were to
      make its appearance in the world bearing the title of “The Poetical Works
      of Makar Dievushkin”? What THEN, my angel? How should you view, should you
      receive, such an event? I may say of myself that never, after my book had
      appeared, should I have the hardihood to show my face on the Nevski
      Prospect; for would it not be too dreadful to hear every one saying, “Here
      comes the literateur and poet, Dievushkin—yes, it is Dievushkin
      himself.” What, in such a case, should I do with my feet (for I may tell
      you that almost always my shoes are patched, or have just been resoled,
      and therefore look anything but becoming)? To think that the great writer
      Dievushkin should walk about in patched footgear! If a duchess or a
      countess should recognise me, what would she say, poor woman? Perhaps,
      though, she would not notice my shoes at all, since it may reasonably be
      supposed that countesses do not greatly occupy themselves with footgear,
      especially with the footgear of civil service officials (footgear may
      differ from footgear, it must be remembered). Besides, I should find that
      the countess had heard all about me, for my friends would have betrayed me
      to her—Rataziaev among the first of them, seeing that he often goes
      to visit Countess V., and practically lives at her house. She is said to
      be a woman of great intellect and wit. An artful dog, that Rataziaev!
    
What do you think is an idea that sometimes crosses my mind? What if I were to write something myself? What if suddenly a book titled “The Poetical Works of Makar Dievushkin” appeared in the world? What THEN, my angel? How would you react to such an event? I can tell you that after my book came out, I would never have the nerve to show my face on Nevski Prospect again; it would be too terrible to hear everyone say, “Here comes the author and poet, Dievushkin—yes, it’s Dievushkin himself.” What would I do with my shoes (I should mention that my shoes are almost always patched or just re-soled, so they look anything but presentable)? Imagine the great writer Dievushkin walking around in patched shoes! If a duchess or a countess recognized me, what would she think, poor thing? But maybe she wouldn’t even notice my shoes, since it’s reasonable to assume that countesses don’t pay much attention to shoes, especially those of civil service officials (shoes can vary, remember). Plus, I’d find out that the countess had heard all about me because my friends would’ve spilled the beans to her—Rataziaev would be among the first, as he often visits Countess V. and practically lives at her place. She’s said to be a woman of great intelligence and wit. That clever dog, Rataziaev!



      But enough of this. I write this sort of thing both to amuse myself and to
      divert your thoughts. Goodbye now, my angel. This is a long epistle that I
      am sending you, but the reason is that today I feel in good spirits after
      dining at Rataziaev’s. There I came across a novel which I hardly know how
      to describe to you. Do not think the worse of me on that account, even
      though I bring you another book instead (for I certainly mean to bring
      one). The novel in question was one of Paul de Kock’s, and not a novel for
      you to read. No, no! Such a work is unfit for your eyes. In fact, it is
      said to have greatly offended the critics of St. Petersburg. Also, I am
      sending you a pound of bonbons—bought specially for yourself. Each
      time that you eat one, beloved, remember the sender. Only, do not bite the
      iced ones, but suck them gently, lest they make your teeth ache. Perhaps,
      too, you like comfits? Well, write and tell me if it is so. Goodbye,
      goodbye. Christ watch over you, my darling!—Always your faithful
      friend,
    
But enough about that. I’m writing this to entertain myself and take your mind off things. Goodbye for now, my angel. This is a long letter I’m sending you, but the reason is that today I’m in a good mood after dining at Rataziaev’s. There, I came across a novel that I hardly know how to describe to you. Please don’t think any less of me for that, even though I’m planning to bring you another book (and I definitely will). The novel in question was by Paul de Kock, and definitely not something for you to read. No, no! Such a work is unsuitable for your eyes. In fact, it’s said to have really offended the critics in St. Petersburg. Also, I’m sending you a pound of candy—specifically bought for you. Every time you eat one, my love, remember who sent it. Just don’t bite the iced ones; suck on them gently so your teeth don’t hurt. Maybe you also like sweet treats? Well, write and let me know if that’s the case. Goodbye, goodbye. May Christ watch over you, my darling!—Always your faithful friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      June 27th.
    



      MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH—Thedora tells me that, should I wish,
      there are some people who will be glad to help me by obtaining me an
      excellent post as governess in a certain house. What think you, my friend?
      Shall I go or not? Of course, I should then cease to be a burden to you,
      and the post appears to be a comfortable one. On the other hand, the idea
      of entering a strange house appals me. The people in it are landed gentry,
      and they will begin to ask me questions, and to busy themselves about me.
      What answers shall I then return? You see, I am now so unused to society—so
      shy! I like to live in a corner to which I have long grown used. Yes, the
      place with which one is familiar is always the best. Even if for companion
      one has but sorrow, that place will still be the best.... God alone knows
      what duties the post will entail. Perhaps I shall merely be required to
      act as nursemaid; and in any case, I hear that the governess there has
      been changed three times in two years. For God’s sake, Makar Alexievitch,
      advise me whether to go or not. Why do you never come near me now? Do let
      my eyes have an occasional sight of you. Mass on Sundays is almost the
      only time when we see one another. How retiring you have become! So also
      have I, even though, in a way, I am your kinswoman. You must have ceased
      to love me, Makar Alexievitch. I spend many a weary hour because of it.
      Sometimes, when dusk is falling, I find myself lonely—oh, so lonely!
      Thedora has gone out somewhere, and I sit here and think, and think, and
      think. I remember all the past, its joys and its sorrows. It passes before
      my eyes in detail, it glimmers at me as out of a mist; and as it does so,
      well-known faces appear, which seem actually to be present with me in this
      room! Most frequently of all, I see my mother. Ah, the dreams that come to
      me! I feel that my health is breaking, so weak am I. When this morning I
      arose, sickness took me until I vomited and vomited. Yes, I feel, I know,
      that death is approaching. Who will bury me when it has come? Who will
      visit my tomb? Who will sorrow for me? And now it is in a strange place,
      in the house of a stranger, that I may have to die! Yes, in a corner which
      I do not know!... My God, how sad a thing is life!... Why do you send me
      comfits to eat? Whence do you get the money to buy them? Ah, for God’s
      sake keep the money, keep the money. Thedora has sold a carpet which I
      have made. She got fifty roubles for it, which is very good—I had
      expected less. Of the fifty roubles I shall give Thedora three, and with
      the remainder make myself a plain, warm dress. Also, I am going to make
      you a waistcoat—to make it myself, and out of good material.
    
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH—Thedora tells me that if I want, there are people who would be happy to help me get a great job as a governess in a certain household. What do you think, my friend? Should I go or not? Of course, that would mean I wouldn't be a burden to you anymore, and the position seems comfortable. On the other hand, the thought of entering a strange house terrifies me. The people living there are part of the landed gentry, and they'll start asking me questions and prying into my life. What answers can I give them? You see, I'm not used to being social anymore—I'm so shy! I prefer to stay in my little corner where I feel comfortable. Yes, a familiar place is always the best. Even if all I have for company is sorrow, that place will still be the best.... Only God knows what responsibilities the job will involve. Maybe I'll just end up being a nursemaid; anyway, I've heard that the governess there has been replaced three times in two years. For heaven's sake, Makar Alexievitch, please advise me on whether to go or not. Why do you never come to see me anymore? Let me catch a glimpse of you every now and then. Sunday Mass is almost the only time we see each other. You’ve become so withdrawn! I have too, even though I’m technically your relative. You must have stopped loving me, Makar Alexievitch. I spend many long, miserable hours because of it. Sometimes, when night falls, I feel so lonely—oh, so lonely! Thedora has gone out, and I sit here thinking and thinking and thinking. I remember everything from the past, its joys and sorrows. It all flashes before me in detail, shimmering like it’s coming through a fog; and while it does, familiar faces appear, seeming almost to be present with me in this room! Most often, I see my mother. Ah, the dreams that come to me! I feel my health failing; I’m so weak. When I got up this morning, I felt sick until I couldn’t stop throwing up. Yes, I can feel it—I know that death is near. Who will bury me when it comes? Who will visit my grave? Who will mourn for me? And now it seems I might have to die in a strange place, in someone else's home! Yes, in a corner I don't know!... My God, how sad life is!... Why do you send me sweets to eat? Where do you get the money to buy them? Oh, please keep your money, keep your money. Thedora sold a carpet I made. She got fifty roubles for it, which is great—I was expecting less. Of the fifty roubles, I’ll give Thedora three, and with the rest, I’ll make myself a simple, warm dress. Also, I'm going to make you a waistcoat—I'll make it myself, using good material.



      Also, Thedora has brought me a book—“The Stories of Bielkin”—which
      I will forward you, if you would care to read it. Only, do not soil it,
      nor yet retain it, for it does not belong to me. It is by Pushkin. Two
      years ago I read these stories with my mother, and it would hurt me to
      read them again. If you yourself have any books, pray let me have them—so
      long as they have not been obtained from Rataziaev. Probably he will be
      giving you one of his own works when he has had one printed. How is it
      that his compositions please you so much, Makar Alexievitch? I think them
      SUCH rubbish!
      —Now goodbye. How I have been chattering on! When feeling sad, I
      always like to talk of something, for it acts upon me like medicine—I
      begin to feel easier as soon as I have uttered what is preying upon my
      heart. Good bye, good-bye, my friend—Your own
    
Also, Thedora has given me a book—“The Stories of Bielkin”—which I can send to you if you’d like to read it. Just please don’t damage it or keep it, as it doesn’t belong to me. It’s by Pushkin. Two years ago, I read these stories with my mother, and it would hurt to read them again. If you have any books yourself, please share them with me—as long as they aren’t from Rataziaev. He’ll probably give you one of his own works once he gets it printed. Why do you enjoy his writings so much, Makar Alexievitch? I think they’re absolute nonsense! —Now goodbye. I’ve been rambling on! When I’m feeling down, I always want to talk about something because it acts like medicine for me—I start to feel better as soon as I voice what’s on my mind. Goodbye, goodbye, my friend—Yours truly



      B. D. 
 

B. D. 
 












      June 28th.
    



      MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA—Away with melancholy! Really, beloved,
      you ought to be ashamed of yourself! How can you allow such thoughts to
      enter your head? Really and truly you are quite well; really and truly you
      are, my darling. Why, you are blooming—simply blooming. True, I see
      a certain touch of pallor in your face, but still you are blooming. A fig
      for dreams and visions! Yes, for shame, dearest! Drive away those fancies;
      try to despise them. Why do I sleep so well? Why am I never ailing? Look
      at ME, beloved. I live well, I sleep peacefully, I retain my health, I can
      ruffle it with my juniors. In fact, it is a pleasure to see me. Come,
      come, then, sweetheart! Let us have no more of this. I know that that
      little head of yours is capable of any fancy—that all too easily you
      take to dreaming and repining; but for my sake, cease to do so.
    
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA—Enough with the sadness! Honestly, my love, you should be ashamed! How can you let such thoughts creep into your mind? You are doing just fine, truly you are, my darling. Look at you—you’re positively glowing. Sure, I notice a bit of pale color on your face, but you still look great. Forget those dreams and fantasies! Yes, for shame, my dear! Push away those thoughts; try to ignore them. Why do I sleep so soundly? Why am I always healthy? Look at ME, my love. I live well, I sleep soundly, I stay healthy, and I can keep up with the younger ones. Honestly, it’s a joy to see me. Come now, sweetheart! Let’s not dwell on this any longer. I know your mind can wander and you often get lost in your thoughts; but for my sake, please stop.



      Are you to go to these people, you ask me? Never! No, no, again no! How
      could you think of doing such a thing as taking a journey? I will not
      allow it—I intend to combat your intention with all my might. I will
      sell my frockcoat, and walk the streets in my shirt sleeves, rather than
      let you be in want. But no, Barbara. I know you, I know you. This is
      merely a trick, merely a trick. And probably Thedora alone is to blame for
      it. She appears to be a foolish old woman, and to be able to persuade you
      to do anything. Do not believe her, my dearest. I am sure that you know
      what is what, as well as SHE does. Eh, sweetheart? She is a stupid,
      quarrelsome, rubbish-talking old woman who brought her late husband to the
      grave. Probably she has been plaguing you as much as she did him. No, no,
      dearest; you must not take this step. What should I do then? What would
      there be left for ME to do? Pray put the idea out of your head. What is it
      you lack here? I cannot feel sufficiently overjoyed to be near you, while,
      for your part, you love me well, and can live your life here as quietly as
      you wish. Read or sew, whichever you like—or read and do not sew.
      Only, do not desert me. Try, yourself, to imagine how things would seem
      after you had gone. Here am I sending you books, and later we will go for
      a walk. Come, come, then, my Barbara! Summon to your aid your reason, and
      cease to babble of trifles.
    
Are you really thinking about going to those people? Never! No way, absolutely not! How could you even consider taking such a trip? I won’t allow it—I’m going to fight against your decision with everything I have. I would sell my coat and walk around in my shirt sleeves before I let you go without. But no, Barbara. I know you too well. This is just a trick, just a trick. And it's probably Thedora’s fault. She seems like a silly old woman who can get you to do anything. Don’t trust her, my dear. I know you understand things just as well as she does. Right, sweetheart? She’s a dumb, argumentative loser who drove her husband to his grave. She’s likely been bothering you just as much as she did him. No, no, my love; you can’t take this step. What would I do then? What would be left for ME? Please forget about it. What could you possibly be lacking here? I can’t express how happy I am to be with you, and you love me well, and can live your life here peacefully. Read or sew, whatever you prefer—or read and don’t sew. Just don’t leave me. Try to picture how it would feel after you’re gone. Here I am sending you books, and later we can go for a walk. Come on, Barbara! Use your reason and stop talking about nonsense.



      As soon as I can I will come and see you, and then you shall tell me the
      whole story. This will not do, sweetheart; this certainly will not do. Of
      course, I know that I am not an educated man, and have received but a
      sorry schooling, and have had no inclination for it, and think too much of
      Rataziaev, if you will; but he is my friend, and therefore, I must put in
      a word or two for him. Yes, he is a splendid writer. Again and again I
      assert that he writes magnificently. I do not agree with you about his
      works, and never shall. He writes too ornately, too laconically, with too
      great a wealth of imagery and imagination. Perhaps you have read him
      without insight, Barbara? Or perhaps you were out of spirits at the time,
      or angry with Thedora about something, or worried about some mischance?
      Ah, but you should read him sympathetically, and, best of all, at a time
      when you are feeling happy and contented and pleasantly disposed—for
      instance, when you have a bonbon or two in your mouth. Yes, that is the
      way to read Rataziaev. I do not dispute (indeed, who would do so?) that
      better writers than he exist—even far better; but they are good, and
      he is good too—they write well, and he writes well. It is chiefly
      for his own sake that he writes, and he is to be approved for so doing.
    
As soon as I can, I’ll come and see you, and then you can tell me the whole story. This isn’t right, sweetheart; it really isn’t. Of course, I know I’m not an educated man, and my schooling has been pretty poor, and I’ve never had much interest in it, and I think too highly of Rataziaev, if you will; but he’s my friend, and I have to say a few good things about him. Yes, he’s a fantastic writer. Again and again, I’ll say that he writes beautifully. I don’t agree with you about his works, and I never will. He writes too elaborately, too briefly, with an abundance of imagery and imagination. Maybe you read him without understanding, Barbara? Or perhaps you were feeling down at the time, or upset with Thedora about something, or worried about some trouble? Ah, but you should read him with an open heart, and, best of all, when you’re feeling happy and content, like when you have a candy or two in your mouth. Yes, that’s how to read Rataziaev. I won’t argue (really, who would?) that there are better writers than him—many much better; but they’re good, and he’s good too—they write well, and so does he. He mainly writes for himself, and he deserves respect for that.



      Now goodbye, dearest. More I cannot write, for I must hurry away to
      business. Be of good cheer, and the Lord God watch over you!—Your
      faithful friend,
    
Now goodbye, my dear. I can’t write more because I need to rush off to work. Stay cheerful, and may God watch over you!—Your loyal friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
    
MAKAR DAVIDOVICH.



      P.S—Thank you so much for the book, darling! I will read it through,
      this volume of Pushkin, and tonight come to you.
    
P.S—Thanks a lot for the book, sweetheart! I’ll read this volume of Pushkin all the way through, and then I’ll come to you tonight.



      MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH—No, no, my friend, I must not go on living
      near you. I have been thinking the matter over, and come to the conclusion
      that I should be doing very wrong to refuse so good a post. I should at
      least have an assured crust of bread; I might at least set to work to earn
      my employers’ favour, and even try to change my character if required to
      do so. Of course it is a sad and sorry thing to have to live among
      strangers, and to be forced to seek their patronage, and to conceal and
      constrain one’s own personality—but God will help me. I must not
      remain forever a recluse, for similar chances have come my way before. I
      remember how, when a little girl at school, I used to go home on Sundays
      and spend the time in frisking and dancing about. Sometimes my mother
      would chide me for so doing, but I did not care, for my heart was too
      joyous, and my spirits too buoyant, for that. Yet as the evening of Sunday
      came on, a sadness as of death would overtake me, for at nine o’clock I
      had to return to school, where everything was cold and strange and severe—where
      the governesses, on Mondays, lost their tempers, and nipped my ears, and
      made me cry. On such occasions I would retire to a corner and weep alone;
      concealing my tears lest I should be called lazy. Yet it was not because I
      had to study that I used to weep, and in time I grew more used to things,
      and, after my schooldays were over, shed tears only when I was parting
      with friends...
      It is not right for me to live in dependence upon you. The thought
      tortures me. I tell you this frankly, for the reason that frankness with
      you has become a habit. Cannot I see that daily, at earliest dawn, Thedora
      rises to do washing and scrubbing, and remains working at it until late at
      night, even though her poor old bones must be aching for want of rest?
      Cannot I also see that YOU are ruining yourself for me, and hoarding your
      last kopeck that you may spend it on my behalf? You ought not so to act,
      my friend, even though you write that you would rather sell your all than
      let me want for anything. I believe in you, my friend—I entirely
      believe in your good heart; but, you say that to me now (when, perhaps,
      you have received some unexpected sum or gratuity) and there is still the
      future to be thought of. You yourself know that I am always ailing—that
      I cannot work as you do, glad though I should be of any work if I could
      get it; so what else is there for me to do? To sit and repine as I watch
      you and Thedora? But how would that be of any use to you? AM I necessary
      to you, comrade of mine? HAVE I ever done you any good? Though I am bound
      to you with my whole soul, and love you dearly and strongly and
      wholeheartedly, a bitter fate has ordained that that love should be all
      that I have to give—that I should be unable, by creating for you
      subsistence, to repay you for all your kindness. Do not, therefore, detain
      me longer, but think the matter out, and give me your opinion on it. In
      expectation of which I remain your sweetheart,
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH—No, no, my friend, I can’t continue living this close to you. I've been thinking about it and I’ve realized it would be wrong to turn down such a good opportunity. At least I would have a guaranteed meal; I could start working to earn my employers’ favor and even try to change myself if necessary. Of course, it's sad and unfortunate to have to live among strangers, seeking their support and hiding who I really am—but I believe God will help me. I can’t stay a recluse forever, especially since I’ve had similar chances before. I remember when I was a little girl at school, I would go home on Sundays and spend the time playing and dancing around. Sometimes my mother would scold me for it, but I didn’t care because I felt so happy and carefree. But as Sunday evening approached, a sadness like death would wash over me, knowing I had to go back to school at nine o’clock, where everything was cold, strange, and harsh—where the governesses would lose their tempers on Mondays, pinch my ears, and make me cry. On those occasions, I would retreat to a corner and cry by myself, hiding my tears so I wouldn’t be called lazy. Yet it wasn't the studying that made me weep, and eventually I got used to it. After my school days, I only cried when saying goodbye to friends...

It’s not right for me to rely on you. The thought eats at me. I say this openly because I’ve gotten into the habit of being honest with you. Can’t I see that every morning, at the crack of dawn, Thedora wakes up to wash and scrub, working until late at night, even though her poor old body must be aching for rest? Can’t I also see that YOU are wearing yourself out for me, saving your last kopeck just to help me? You shouldn’t do that, my friend, even if you say you would rather sell everything than let me be without. I believe in you, my friend—I completely trust your good heart; but you say this to me now (perhaps after receiving some unexpected money) and there’s still the future to consider. You know well that I’m always unwell—that I can’t work like you do, even though I would be glad to take any job if I could find one; so what else can I do? Just sit here feeling sorry for myself while watching you and Thedora? But how would that help you? AM I necessary to you, my friend? HAVE I ever done anything for you? Although I am bound to you with all my soul, loving you dearly and passionately, a cruel fate has determined that my love is all I have to give—that I can’t repay you for your kindness by providing for you. So please, don’t keep me here any longer. Think it over and give me your thoughts. I await your response, Your sweetheart,



      B. D. 
 

B. D. 
 












      July 1st.
    



      Rubbish, rubbish, Barbara!—What you say is sheer rubbish. Stay here,
      rather, and put such thoughts out of your head. None of what you suppose
      is true. I can see for myself that it is not. Whatsoever you lack here,
      you have but to ask me for it. Here you love and are loved, and we might
      easily be happy and contented together. What could you want more? What
      have you to do with strangers? You cannot possibly know what strangers are
      like. I know it, though, and could have told you if you had asked me.
      There is a stranger whom I know, and whose bread I have eaten. He is a
      cruel man, Barbara—a man so bad that he would be unworthy of your
      little heart, and would soon tear it to pieces with his railings and
      reproaches and black looks. On the other hand, you are safe and well here—you
      are as safe as though you were sheltered in a nest. Besides, you would, as
      it were, leave me with my head gone. For what should I have to do when you
      were gone? What could I, an old man, find to do? Are you not necessary to
      me? Are you not useful to me? Eh? Surely you do not think that you are not
      useful? You are of great use to me, Barbara, for you exercise a beneficial
      influence upon my life. Even at this moment, as I think of you, I feel
      cheered, for always I can write letters to you, and put into them what I
      am feeling, and receive from you detailed answers.... I have bought you a
      wardrobe, and also procured you a bonnet; so you see that you have only to
      give me a commission for it to be executed.... No—in what way are
      you not useful? What should I do if I were deserted in my old age? What
      would become of me? Perhaps you never thought of that, Barbara—perhaps
      you never said to yourself, “How could HE get on without me?” You see, I
      have grown so accustomed to you. What else would it end in, if you were to
      go away? Why, in my hiking to the Neva’s bank and doing away with myself.
      Ah, Barbara, darling, I can see that you want me to be taken away to the
      Volkovo Cemetery in a broken-down old hearse, with some poor outcast of
      the streets to accompany my coffin as chief mourner, and the gravediggers
      to heap my body with clay, and depart and leave me there. How wrong of
      you, how wrong of you, my beloved! Yes, by heavens, how wrong of you! I am
      returning you your book, little friend; and, if you were to ask of me my
      opinion of it, I should say that never before in my life had I read a book
      so splendid. I keep wondering how I have hitherto contrived to remain such
      an owl. For what have I ever done? From what wilds did I spring into
      existence? I KNOW nothing—I know simply NOTHING. My ignorance is
      complete. Frankly, I am not an educated man, for until now I have read
      scarcely a single book—only “A Portrait of Man” (a clever enough
      work in its way), “The Boy Who Could Play Many Tunes Upon Bells”, and
      “Ivik’s Storks”. That is all. But now I have also read “The Station
      Overseer” in your little volume; and it is wonderful to think that one may
      live and yet be ignorant of the fact that under one’s very nose there may
      be a book in which one’s whole life is described as in a picture. Never
      should I have guessed that, as soon as ever one begins to read such a
      book, it sets one on both to remember and to consider and to foretell
      events. Another reason why I liked this book so much is that, though, in
      the case of other works (however clever they be), one may read them, yet
      remember not a word of them (for I am a man naturally dull of
      comprehension, and unable to read works of any great importance),—although,
      as I say, one may read such works, one reads such a book as YOURS as
      easily as though it had been written by oneself, and had taken possession
      of one’s heart, and turned it inside out for inspection, and were
      describing it in detail as a matter of perfect simplicity. Why, I might
      almost have written the book myself! Why not, indeed? I can feel just as
      the people in the book do, and find myself in positions precisely similar
      to those of, say, the character Samson Virin. In fact, how many
      good-hearted wretches like Virin are there not walking about amongst us?
      How easily, too, it is all described! I assure you, my darling, that I
      almost shed tears when I read that Virin so took to drink as to lose his
      memory, become morose, and spend whole days over his liquor; as also that
      he choked with grief and wept bitterly when, rubbing his eyes with his
      dirty hand, he bethought him of his wandering lamb, his daughter Dunasha!
      How natural, how natural! You should read the book for yourself. The thing
      is actually alive. 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.
    
Rubbish, rubbish, Barbara!—What you're saying is complete nonsense. Stay here and forget those thoughts. None of what you think is true. I can see for myself that it isn't. Whatever you feel you lack here, just ask me for it. You are loved here, and we could easily be happy and content together. What more could you want? Why bother with strangers? You can't possibly know what they're like. I do, though, and I could have told you if you had asked me. There’s a stranger I know, someone I’ve had meals with. He’s a cruel man, Barbara—a man so terrible that he wouldn't be worthy of your dear heart, and he would soon break it with his harsh words, complaints, and dark looks. On the other hand, you are safe and well here—you are as safe as if you were in a nest. Besides, if you leave, it would be like leaving me without my head. What would I do when you’re gone? What could I, an old man, find to do? Aren't you necessary to me? Don’t you think you’re useful? Come on! Surely you don’t think you aren’t useful? You are so important to me, Barbara, because you bring a positive influence into my life. Even now, as I think of you, I feel uplifted, because I can always write you letters, sharing my feelings, and receive detailed replies from you... I’ve even bought you a wardrobe and a bonnet, so you see that you just need to give me a request for things to be taken care of... No—how are you not useful? What if I were left all alone in my old age? What would happen to me? Maybe you’ve never thought about that, Barbara—maybe you've never asked yourself, “How would HE manage without me?” You see, I’ve become so used to you. What would happen if you left? I’d end up going to the bank of the Neva and ending it all. Ah, Barbara, my dear, I can see you want me to be taken away to the Volkovo Cemetery in a rundown old hearse, with some poor street person to follow my coffin as the main mourner, while the grave diggers pile dirt on top of me and leave me there. How wrong of you, how wrong of you, my love! Yes, by heavens, how wrong of you! I’m giving your book back, little friend; and if you were to ask me my opinion of it, I would say I've never read a more splendid book in my life. I keep wondering how I managed to be so oblivious until now. What have I ever done? Where did I even come from? I KNOW nothing—I know absolutely NOTHING. My ignorance is complete. Honestly, I’m not educated, because until now I’ve hardly read a single book—only “A Portrait of Man” (which is clever enough in its way), “The Boy Who Could Play Many Tunes Upon Bells,” and “Ivik’s Storks.” That’s all. But now I’ve also read “The Station Overseer” in your little volume; and it’s amazing to think that one can go on living while being completely unaware that just under one’s nose there could be a book that describes one’s entire life in such detail. I would never have guessed that the moment you start reading such a book, it makes you remember, contemplate, and even predict events. Another reason I loved this book so much is that, while with other works (no matter how clever), you can read them and not remember a thing (because I’m naturally slow to comprehend and unable to read serious works),—yet, as I said, reading your book comes so easily as if it were my own writing, as if it reached into my heart, turned it inside out for inspection, and described it in simple detail. Honestly, I might have written the book myself! Why not? I can relate to the characters as they do, finding myself in situations just like those of the character Samson Virin. Really, how many kind-hearted guys like Virin are out there among us? The way it’s all described is so clear! I assure you, my love, I almost cried when I read how Virin took to drinking, lost his memory, became gloomy, and spent days over his liquor; and also how he wept bitterly when, wiping his eyes with his dirty hands, he remembered his lost daughter, Dunasha! It’s so natural, so relatable! You should read the book yourself. It’s truly alive. Even I can see that; even I can realize that it's a vivid representation of life around me. In it, I see our own Theresa (not to mention anyone else) and the poor bureaucrat—who is just like this Samson Virin, except for his last name, Gorshkov. The book describes scenarios that could easily happen to us—to me in particular. Even a count living on Nevsky Prospect or Naberezhnaia Street could have similar experiences, despite appearing different due to his higher status. Yes, the same things could happen to him—just the same things.... Here you are wanting to leave us; yet, be cautious, as it might be I who suffers from your decision. You could ruin both yourself and me. For the love of God, please put those thoughts aside, my darling, and don’t torture me unnecessarily. How could you, my poor little fledgling, find food, protect yourself from misfortune, and fend off the schemes of wicked people? Think better of this, Barbara, and ignore foolish advice and slander. Instead, read your book again, and pay careful attention. It may do you a lot of 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,
    
I mentioned Rataziaev’s “The Station Overseer.” However, the author told me that the work feels outdated since these days, books come with illustrations and various embellishments (though I couldn’t understand everything he said). He regards Pushkin as a brilliant poet who has brought honor to Holy Russia. Read your book again, Barbara, take my advice, and make an old man happy. God Himself will reward you. Yes, He will definitely reward you.—Your faithful friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
    
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.
    
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Today Thedora came to me with fifteen roubles in silver. How happy the poor woman was when I gave her three of them! I'm writing to you in a rush because I'm busy cutting out a waistcoat to send you—buff, with a floral pattern. Also, I’m sending you a book of stories, some of which I’ve read myself, especially one called “The Cloak.” ... You invited me to go to the theater with you. But won’t it be too expensive? Of course, we could sit in the gallery. It's been a while (I honestly can’t remember the last time) since I visited a theater! Still, I can’t help but worry that such entertainment is beyond our budget. Thedora keeps shaking her head and saying you’re living beyond your means. I can sense the same thing from how much you’ve spent on me. Please be careful, dear friend, so that nothing bad comes of it, because Thedora has also mentioned some rumors about your trouble with your landlady’s bills. Honestly, I’m quite worried about you. Now, goodbye, as I must hurry to attend to something else—changing the ribbons 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?
    
P.S.—You know, if we go to the theater, I think I'll wear my new hat and black shawl. Won't that 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.
    
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA—So much for yesterday! Yes, dear, we have both been made fools, as I've become completely infatuated with the actress I mentioned. Last night, I listened to her with all my attention, even though it was essentially my first time seeing her, having only been to the theater once before. Back then, I lived closely with a group of five young men—a loud bunch—and one night, I was dragged along to the theater, even though I kept myself distanced from their antics and went just for the company. They talked endlessly about this actress! Every night the theater was open, they would all head there (they always seemed to have enough money), where they would climb to the gallery, cheer, and repeatedly call for this actress. Honestly, they went completely wild for her. Even after we got home, they wouldn't stop talking about her all night, calling her their Glasha and claiming they were in love with "the canary of their hearts." They would tease me about her as well since I was just as young as they were. I must have looked ridiculous sitting with them in the fourth tier of the gallery! Yet, I only caught a glimpse of the edge of the curtain and had to be satisfied with just listening. She had a lovely, rich, soothing voice like a nightingale’s, and we all would clap loudly and shout at the top of our lungs. In short, we almost got thrown out. The first time I went home, I was in a daze, with just one rouble left in my pocket and ten long days before payday. But guess what, dear? The very next day, before heading to work, I stopped by a French perfumery and spent all my remaining money on some cologne and scented soap! I don’t even know why I did that. I didn’t have dinner at home that day either; I just kept walking past her windows (she lived on the fourth floor of a building on Nevsky Prospect). Eventually, I went back to my place, but only to rest for a short hour before heading out again to Nevsky Prospect to keep watch in front of her windows. I kept this up for a month and a half—pursuing her. Sometimes I would hire cabs and then let them go right in front of her place; eventually, I completely ruined myself and went into debt. Then I stopped being in love with her—I grew tired of the chase.... You can see, then, how low an actress can bring a decent man. Back then, I was young. Yes, back then, I was REALLY young.



      M. D. 
 

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.
    
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I’m quickly returning the book I received from you on the 6th of this month, and I’m also eager to explain things to you in this letter. What a shame, my love, that you’ve put me in this situation! Our fates are handed out by the Almighty based on our actions. Some are meant to wear a general’s epaulets or serve as a privy councillor; I mean to say, some are given lives of command, while others are assigned only lives of quiet labor and hardship. These outcomes are determined by a person’s ability. One person may excel in one area, and another in another. Their abilities are arranged by the Lord God Himself. I have now spent thirty years in public service, fulfilling my duties flawlessly, remaining disciplined, and never being caught engaging in any inappropriate behavior. As a citizen, I admit—I confess it openly—I have been guilty of some shortcomings; yet those shortcomings are balanced by certain virtues. I have earned respect from my superiors, and even his Excellency has never found fault with me; although I haven’t received any special favors, I know everyone considers me at least acceptable. My writing is also quite legible and clear. It’s not too rounded or too fine; it’s a flowing hand that’s always appropriate. Of our staff, only Ivan Prokofievitch writes with a similar style. I’ve lived this way until the grey hairs of old age; yet I can’t think of any serious mistakes I’ve made. Of course, no one is without MINOR faults. Everyone has them, and you too, my dear. But in serious or audacious offenses, I have never been caught, nor in breaking regulations or disrupting public peace. No, never! You surely know this, just as the author of your book must have known it. Yes, he must have known this when he sat down to write. I never expected this from you, my Barbara. I would 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.
    
What? Am I really not going to be able to live peacefully in my little corner anymore? Even though it’s a humble space, I can’t keep living, as the saying goes, without muddying the waters, hurting anyone, or forgetting to fear the Lord God and myself? I’m not allowed to make sure that no one wrongs me or invades my home—I can’t take care that everything’s alright for me, that I have clothes to wear, that my shoes don’t need mending, that I can find work, or that I have enough food and drink? Isn’t it important that, where the pavement is broken, I have to walk carefully to save my boots? If I write to you too much about myself, should I really be writing about someone else instead—about HIS needs, about HIS lack of tea (and doesn’t everyone need tea)? Have I ever been the type to pry into what others are eating? Have I ever offended anyone in that way? No, no, dear! Why would I want to insult others when they’re not bothering ME? Let me share an example. A man can toil endlessly in public service and earn the respect of his superiors (whatever that’s worth), and then suddenly, for no apparent reason, be made a fool. Of course, he might break loose now and then (and I’m not just talking about drinking), buy himself a new pair of shoes, and enjoy seeing his feet looking nice and well-shod. Yes, I’ve experienced that feeling myself (I’m writing this sincerely). Yet I’m still shocked that Thedor Thedorovitch would ignore what’s being said about him and do nothing to defend himself. True, he’s just a lower-ranking official, and sometimes he enjoys scolding people; but why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he vent a little frustration when he feels like it? Let’s say it’s NECESSARY, for the sake of FORM, to scold, to set everyone straight, and to throw around some insults (because, between us, Barbara, our friend can’t operate without a bit of an insult—and everyone goes along with it, doing things behind his back)? Well, since officials have different ranks, and each one expects to be able to insult their fellow officials according to their rank, it follows that the TONE of official insults should also be ranked, in line with the natural order of things. The whole world is structured on the principle that each of us has to defer to someone else and, in return, have a certain authority to insult others. Without this system, the world couldn’t function, and we’d just end up with chaos. Still, I’m surprised that our Thedor continues to overlook the insults he faces.



      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 no one 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,
    
Why do I even bother with my official work? Why is it necessary? Will anyone who reads it give me a greatcoat or buy me a new pair of shoes? No, Barbara. People just read the documents and then expect me to write more. Sometimes a man will isolate himself and avoid going out simply because, even though he hasn’t done anything to be ashamed of, he fears the gossip and slander that’s everywhere. If his civic and family life is tied to literature, everything gets published, read, laughed at, and discussed; eventually, he hardly dares to show his face in public since he’ll be described in a way that makes him recognizable by his walk alone! Then, once he changes his ways and becomes gentler (even if he’s still overwhelmed with official work), he’ll be considered a virtuous, decent citizen who deserves respect from his peers, obeyed his superiors, wished no one harm, kept God in his heart, and died with people mourning him. But wouldn’t it be better, instead of letting the poor guy die, to give him a cloak while he’s STILL ALIVE—to give it to this same Thedor Thedorovitch (which is me)? Yes, it would be much better if, after hearing about his subordinate’s virtues, the department head called the deserving man into his office and promoted him on the spot, giving him a salary increase. This way, vice would be punished, virtue would win, and the staff of that department would live in harmony. Here’s a real-life example. So how could you possibly send me that book, my dear? It’s poorly thought out and unrealistic, because such a civil servant doesn’t exist in reality. No, I protest against it again, little Barbara; I protest once more.—Your most humble and devoted servant,



      M. D. 
 

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
      learnt 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.
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Your recent behavior and letters have frightened me, leaving me shocked and filled with doubt, until what you said about Thedor cleared things up. Why despair and lash out, Makar Alexievitch? Your explanations only partly satisfy me. Maybe I was wrong to insist on taking a good opportunity when it was offered to me, especially since my last experience left me shaken in a way that’s no laughing matter. You also say that your love for me has forced you into hiding. I realized how much I owe you when you mentioned that you were using the money you supposedly saved at the bank for my sake; but upon learning that you never had such a fund and that, out of compassion for my situation, you decided to spend your entire salary on me—even borrowing against it—and that when I fell ill you actually sold your clothes—I found myself in a tough spot not knowing how to take all this or what to think about it. Oh, Makar Alexievitch! You should have stopped after your initial acts of kindness—acts driven by sympathy and familial love—rather than continue to spend your resources on unnecessary things. Yes, you have betrayed our friendship, Makar Alexievitch, by not being honest with me; and now that I see you’ve spent your last coin on clothes, sweets, outings, books, and theater visits for me, I cry bitter tears for my unforgivable carelessness in accepting these things without considering your welfare. Yes, everything you’ve done to make me happy has turned into a source of sorrow, leaving me with nothing but regret. Recently, I noticed how down you looked; and though I worried something bad was about to happen, I never imagined it would end up like this. It’s shocking that your better judgment could fail you, Makar Alexievitch! What will people think and say about you? Who will want to associate with you? You, whom I’ve valued for your kindness, modesty, and common sense—YOU, who now seem to have succumbed to a vice you’ve never shown before. What was I to feel when Thedora told me you had been found drunk in the street and picked up by the police? I was shocked—although, given that you had been unreachable for four days, I was somewhat expecting such an incredible occurrence. Have you thought about what your superiors will say when they find out the real reason for your absence? You claim that everyone is mocking you, that everyone knows about our connection, and that your neighbors look down on me. Ignore this, Makar Alexievitch; for heaven's sake, don't worry. The incident with the officers has deeply alarmed me, even though I heard some rumors about it. Please explain what it means. You also wrote that you were afraid to be honest with me because your confessions might cost you my friendship. You mentioned feeling hopeless that you can’t help me during my illness, since you’ve sold everything that could have supported me, and borrowed as much as you can, while constantly having trouble with your landlady. Well, by not sharing all this with me, you chose the wrong path. But now, I understand everything. You’ve forced me to see that I’ve contributed to your unhappy situation, and that my own actions have brought me double the grief. This realization leaves me stunned, Makar Alexievitch. Oh, friend, being sick is indeed a tragedy, as now we, poor souls, must keep apart so as not to spread the illness. Yes, I’ve brought you troubles that you’ve never encountered in your previously humble and solitary life. This thought tortures and exhausts me more than I can express.



      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,
    
Write to me honestly. Tell me how you decided to take this path. Please, comfort me if you can. It’s not just self-interest that makes me mention my own need for comfort, but my friendship and love for you, which will always remain in my heart. Goodbye. I’m eager to hear back from you. You have a low opinion of me, Makar Alexievitch.—Your friend and lover,



      BARBARA DOBROSELOVA. 
 

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,
    
MY DEAR BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—What should I say to you now that everything is over and we are slowly going back to how things used to be? You mentioned you're worried about what others will think of me. Let me assure you that my self-respect is the most important thing to me; therefore, while I share my difficulties and mistakes with you, I must also tell you that none of my superiors know about my actions, and they never will, which means I still have some respect from them. The only thing I fear is gossip. Even though my landlady loves to talk, she barely said anything when I paid her part of what I owe today, using the ten roubles you gave me; as for the rest of my acquaintances, they don’t concern me. As long as I haven’t borrowed money from them, I don’t need to worry about their opinions. To wrap up my explanations, know that I value your respect for me above all else, and it has been my greatest comfort during this rough patch. Thank God, the initial shock has faded now that you’ve agreed not to see me as unfaithful and selfish just because I deceived you. I want to keep you close because I can’t bear to be apart from you, and I love you like my guardian angel.... I have returned to work and am focusing hard on my responsibilities. Also, yesterday Evstafi Ivanovitch and I exchanged a couple of words. But I won't hide from you that my debts are weighing me down, and my wardrobe is in terrible shape. Still, these things don’t REALLY matter, and I hope you won’t worry about them. If you can manage, please send me another half-rouble (even though that half-rouble feels like a stab to my heart—stabbing me with the thought that I’m not the one helping you; it’s YOU helping ME). Thedora did well to get those fifteen roubles for you. Right now, like a foolish old man, I have no hope of getting more money, but as soon as I do, I will write to you and let you know everything. What worries me the most is the fear of gossip. Goodbye, little angel. I kiss your hands and ask you to get better. If this letter isn’t detailed, it’s because I need to get to the office soon, so I can get back on track with my work and make up for the past. I’ll share more details about my situation (and the incident with the officers) tonight.—Your devoted and respectful friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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.
    
DEAR LITTLE BARBARA,—It’s YOU who has made a mistake—and one that must weigh heavily on your conscience. Honestly, your last letter has surprised and confused me so much that, after reflecting on my feelings again, I realize I was completely right in what I did. Of course, I’m not talking about my wild behavior (no, really!), but about the fact that I love you, and that it’s unwise for me to love you—very unwise. You don’t understand how things really are, my darling. You don’t know why I’m FORCED to love you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t say all those things. Yet, I believe it’s your mind rather than your heart that’s speaking. I’m sure your heart feels 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.
    
What happened that night between me and those officers is something I can hardly remember. You have to understand that for a while now, I've been in such terrible distress—I've been hanging by a thread for an entire month. My situation has been truly pitiful. Even though I tried to stay hidden from you, my landlady was constantly yelling and complaining at me. That wouldn’t have bothered me too much—the awful old woman could yell as much as she wanted—if it weren’t for the embarrassment of it all, and the fact that she somehow found out about our connection and kept shouting it to everyone in the house until I felt completely overwhelmed, trying to block it out. The problem is that other people didn’t block it out; instead, they were listening intently. Honestly, I don’t know what to do anymore.



      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—no one 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,
    
Honestly, this miserable crowd has pushed me to my limits. It all started when I heard a strange rumor from Thedora—that an unworthy suitor visited you and insulted you with an inappropriate proposal. I felt deeply insulted myself, which made me lose control. In my fury, I was going to confront this scoundrel—although I wasn’t sure what I would do next, as I was afraid of offending you. What a night of sorrow it was, filled with gloom, rain, and sleet! Later, I was trying to get home but couldn't even stand. Then Emelia Ilyitch happened to pass by. He’s a government official—or rather, he used to be, since he was dismissed from his position a while ago. I don’t know what he was doing there at that moment; I just know that I ended up going with him.... Surely you don’t find any pleasure in reading about your friend’s misfortunes, his sorrows, and the temptations he faced?... On the evening of the third day, Emelia urged me to go see the officer I mentioned, whose address I got from our janitor. To be honest, I had noticed him before when he came to play cards here, and I followed him home. I realize now that I was wrong to do that, but I was out of my mind when I heard people telling him stories about me. I can't remember exactly what happened next. I just remember that several other officers were there too, or maybe I only thought I saw them—God knows. I also can’t recall exactly what I said, just that I said a lot in my anger. Then they kicked me out of the room and shoved me down the stairs. You know how I got home. That's all. Of course, later I blamed myself, and my pride took a hit; but no one except you knows about this incident, and it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps you think it was as bad as you imagine it, Barbara? One thing I do know for sure is that last year one of our lodgers, Aksenti Osipovitch, treated Peter Petrovitch in a similar way but kept it completely secret. He called him into his room (I happened to be spying through a crack in the wall) and had a proper conversation, with only me as a witness; whereas in my situation, there was no conversation at all. After that, nothing more happened between Aksenti Osipovitch and Peter Petrovitch because Peter was so eager to advance in life that he kept quiet. So, they greet each other and shake hands whenever they meet.... I won’t deny that I’ve made a serious mistake—there’s no arguing that, or that I’ve greatly fallen in my own view; but I think it was destined to happen—and one cannot escape fate, my dear. So, here's a detailed account of my misfortunes and sorrows, for you to read whenever you find the time. I'm far from well, dear, and have lost all my cheerfulness, but I send you this letter as a sign of my love, devotion, and respect, Oh dear lady of my heart.—Your humble servant,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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,
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I’ve read your two letters, and they really break my heart. Look, my friend. You skip over some things and only talk about part of your troubles. Is it possible that your letters come from a mental state that isn’t quite right?... Please come and see me, for God’s sake. Come today, right from the office, and join us for dinner like you used to. I have no idea how you’re living now or what agreement you’ve made with your landlady, because you haven’t mentioned those things and seem to have left them out on purpose. See you later, my friend. Be sure to come today. You’d be better off ALWAYS having dinner here. Thedora is a fantastic cook. Goodbye—Yours,



      BARBARA DOBROSELOVA. 
 

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.
    
MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Thank God He has given you a chance to repay my kindness with kindness. I believe in that, as well as in the sweetness of your angelic heart. So, I won't blame you. But I ask you, please don't blame me again for being a spendthrift in my later years. Was it really such a sin? And even if you think it was, remember, dear friend, how much it hurts me to hear those words from you. Don't be upset with me for saying this; my heart is heavy. Poor people often have strange thoughts—it's just how we are. I've experienced this myself. The poor man is demanding. He can't see the world as it truly is; he eyes every passerby with suspicion and looks around nervously, listening to everything being said. Could they be talking about him? Why does he feel so unappealing? What impression is he making on others? It's common knowledge, my Barbara, that the poor man is held in lower regard than a rag and will never earn anyone's respect. Yes, write what you will about him—let the critics say what they want—he'll always remain the same. And why is that? Because, by his very nature, the poor man has to wear his emotions openly; nothing about him is private, and as for his dignity—! Well, Emelia told me the other day that once, when he had to collect donations, he needed official approval for every single coin, since people thought it was pointless to give money to a poor man. Nowadays, charity is administered peculiarly. Perhaps it has always been this way. Either people don’t know how to give it properly, or they’re really skilled at it—one of the two. Maybe you didn't know this, so I wanted to share it with you. And how does the poor man become so aware? The answer is—through experience. He knows because any day he could see a gentleman walk into a restaurant asking, “What should I eat today? I’ll take such-and-such a dish,” while the poor man might only have gruel to eat that day. There are also men—pitiful busybodies—who go around just to find some unfortunate clerk or failing official with toes sticking out of his boots or unkempt hair! And when they spot one, they report it, and their nonsense gets filed away.... But why should it concern you if my hair isn't cut? If you’ll forgive what might seem rude, I’d say the poor man feels about such things with the sensitivity of a young girl. YOU, for instance, probably wouldn't want to undress in front of everyone; in the same way, the poor man doesn’t appreciate being scrutinized or asked about his family situation, and so on. A man of honor and self-respect like me finds it painful to associate with people who’d take those away from him.



      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.
    
Today I sat in front of my colleagues feeling like a bear cub or a plucked sparrow, burning with shame. Yes, it really hurt, Barbara. Naturally, you blush when you can see your bare toes sticking out of your boots and your buttons hanging by a thread! It felt like I was especially disheveled this time. No wonder my spirits dropped. While discussing business with Stepan Karlovitch, he suddenly exclaimed, for no clear reason, "Ah, poor old Makar Alexievitch!" and then left the sentence hanging. But I knew exactly what he meant, and I blushed so hard that even the bald spot on my head turned red. Of course, it’s nothing serious, but it does worry me and leads to anxious thoughts. What could these guys know about me? I hope they know nothing! But I admit I have my suspicions about one of my colleagues. If they ever decide to betray me, they would sell out my private life for a penny because 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,
    
I have a good idea who’s behind all this. It's Rataziaev. He probably knows someone in our department to whom he has told the story with some twists added. Or maybe he’s shared it in his own department, and from there, it has spread into ours. Everyone here knows it, right down to the last detail, because I’ve seen them pointing at you through the window. Oh yes, I’ve seen it. Yesterday, when I came over to have dinner with you, the whole crew was hanging out of the window to watch me, and the landlady commented that young people are trouble and called you some pretty disrespectful names. But that’s nothing compared to Rataziaev’s nasty intention to write about us in his book and to mock us in a satire. He has openly said that he plans to do it, and others are saying the same thing. Honestly, I don’t know what to think or what to decide. There’s no point in pretending that you and I haven’t messed up in the eyes of God. You were going to send me some book to distract me—weren’t you, darling? But what book could possibly distract me now? Only books that have never existed on earth. Novels are worthless; they’re written for fools and the lazy. Believe me, darling, I know from long experience. Even if they praise Shakespeare to you, I’m telling you that Shakespeare is rubbish, and only good for parodies—Your own,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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,
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Don’t worry. God will help everything turn out fine. Thedora has got a lot of work for both of us, and we're diving into it with enthusiasm. Hopefully, it will set things right for us. Thedora thinks my recent troubles are linked to Anna Thedorovna, but I don’t care—I feel incredibly cheerful today. So you're thinking about borrowing more money? If you do, may God keep you safe, because you’ll definitely be in trouble when repayment time comes! You’d be better off coming to live with us for a while. Yes, come and stay here, and ignore what your landlady says. As for your other enemies and naysayers, I’m sure you’re just upsetting yourself with unfounded worries... By the way, I’ve noticed your writing style varies a lot from letter to letter. Goodbye until we meet again. I’m looking forward to your visit—Yours,



      B. D. 
 

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.
    
MY ANGEL, BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I’m eager to tell you, oh light of my life, that my hopes are rising again. But, my little daughter—do you really mean it when you say I shouldn’t borrow anymore? I honestly can’t do without them. Things would go poorly for us both if I stopped. You’re unwell. So, I’m telling you clearly that I MUST borrow, and I need to keep doing it.



      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. I waited and waited. At length I
      determined to make a final attempt, and plucked him by the sleeve. He
      muttered something, and, his pen mended, set about his writing. There was
      nothing for me to do but to depart. He and the rest of them are worthy
      fellows, dearest—that I do not doubt—but they are also proud,
      very proud. What have I to do with them? Yet I thought I would write and
      tell you all about it. Meanwhile Emelia Ivanovitch had been encouraging me
      with nods and smiles. He is a good soul, and has promised to recommend me
      to a friend of his who lives in Viborskaia Street and lends money. Emelia
      declares that this friend will certainly lend me a little; so tomorrow,
      beloved, I am going to call upon the gentleman in question.... What do you
      think about it? It would be a pity not to obtain a loan. My landlady is on
      the point of turning me out of doors, and has refused to allow me any more
      board. Also, my boots are wearing through, and have lost every button—and
      I do not possess another pair! Could anyone in a government office display
      greater shabbiness? It is dreadful, my Barbara—it is simply
      dreadful!
    
Also, I should mention that my desk at the office is now next to a certain Emelia Ivanovitch. He isn't the Emelia you know, but a man who, like me, is a privy councillor and, along with me, the senior and oldest official in our department. He's a decent guy, genuinely kind, and not overly chatty, though he looks like a bear in both appearance and demeanor. He's hardworking, and I have to admit his handwriting is even more difficult to read than mine. Yes, he's a good guy. However, we’ve never been close. We've only exchanged polite greetings when we see each other, borrowed each other's penknife when necessary, and adhered to the basic courtesies that society expects. 

Well, today he asked me, “Makar Alexievitch, why do you look so deep in thought?” Since I could tell he meant well, I shared some, though not everything, about my financial troubles. “Then you should borrow,” he said. “You should get a loan from Peter Petrovitch, who does a bit of lending. I once borrowed from him myself, and he charged me reasonable interest.” At that, my heart raced. I kept hoping that God would inspire Peter Petrovitch to help me with a loan! I figured that with the money, I could pay off my landlady and support you while getting away from my current situation where I can hardly sit down to eat without those rascals making jokes about me. 

Sometimes his Excellency walks past our desk in the office. He glances at me and can’t help but notice how poorly I'm dressed. Now, neatness and cleanliness are very important to him. Even though he doesn’t say anything, I feel utterly ashamed when he’s around. So, steeling myself and pushing my shyness aside, I approached Peter Petrovitch, feeling like a ghost. Still, I was hopeful. Even though he was busy talking to Thedosei Ivanovitch, I went up to him from behind and tugged at his sleeve. He looked away, but I launched into my request for about thirty roubles, etc., but at first, he didn’t understand. Even after explaining it again, he just laughed out loud and said nothing. I tried again, and when he asked what collateral I could offer, he went back to his papers, continuing to write without giving me even a glance. I felt a wave of despair. “Peter Petrovitch,” I said, “I can’t offer any collateral,” but I added that my salary would soon be due, which I would use to repay him, counting the loan as my first debt. Just then, someone called him away, and I had to wait a bit. When he came back, he started fixing his pen as if he didn't even see me there. 

But this time I was determined. “Peter Petrovitch,” I pressed on, “can you not do ANYTHING?” He still stayed silent and seemed to ignore me. I waited and waited. Finally, I made one last attempt and pulled at his sleeve again. He mumbled something, then resumed his writing, clearly uninterested. I had no choice but to leave. He and the others are good people, I’m sure of that, but they’re also very proud. What do I have in common with them? Still, I thought I should write and let you know everything. Meanwhile, Emelia Ivanovitch was encouraging me with nods and smiles. He’s a good guy and said he would recommend me to a friend of his who lives on Viborskaia Street and lends money. Emelia insists that this friend will surely lend me some, so tomorrow, my dear, I’m going to visit him. What do you think? It would be a shame not to take a loan. My landlady is about to kick me out and has refused me any more meals. Plus, my boots are falling apart and lost every button—and I don’t have another pair! Could anyone in a government office look more shabby? It’s terrible, my Barbara—it’s just terrible!



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      August 4th.
    



      MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—For God’s sake borrow some money as
      soon as you can. I would not ask this help of you were it not for the
      situation in which I am placed. Thedora and myself cannot remain any
      longer in our present lodgings, for we have been subjected to great
      unpleasantness, and you cannot imagine my state of agitation and dismay.
      The reason is that this morning we received a visit from an elderly—almost
      an old—man whose breast was studded with orders. Greatly surprised,
      I asked him what he wanted (for at the moment Thedora had gone out
      shopping); whereupon he began to question me as to my mode of life and
      occupation, and then, without waiting for an answer, informed me that he
      was uncle to the officer of whom you have spoken; that he was very angry
      with his nephew for the way in which the latter had behaved, especially
      with regard to his slandering of me right and left; and that he, the
      uncle, was ready to protect me from the young spendthrift’s insolence.
      Also, he advised me to have nothing to say to young fellows of that stamp,
      and added that he sympathised with me as though he were my own father, and
      would gladly help me in any way he could. At this I blushed in some
      confusion, but did not greatly hasten to thank him. Next, he took me
      forcibly by the hand, and, tapping my cheek, said that I was very
      good-looking, and that he greatly liked the dimples in my face (God only
      knows what he meant!). Finally he tried to kiss me, on the plea that he
      was an old man, the brute! At this moment Thedora returned; whereupon, in
      some confusion, he repeated that he felt a great respect for my modesty
      and virtue, and that he much wished to become acquainted with me; after
      which he took Thedora aside, and tried, on some pretext or another, to
      give her money (though of course she declined it). At last he took himself
      off—again reiterating his assurances, and saying that he intended to
      return with some earrings as a present; that he advised me to change my
      lodgings; and, that he could recommend me a splendid flat which he had in
      his mind’s eye as likely to cost me nothing. Yes, he also declared that he
      greatly liked me for my purity and good sense; that I must beware of
      dissolute young men; and that he knew Anna Thedorovna, who had charged him
      to inform me that she would shortly be visiting me in person. Upon that, I
      understood all. What I did next I scarcely know, for I had never before
      found myself in such a position; but I believe that I broke all
      restraints, and made the old man feel thoroughly ashamed of himself—Thedora
      helping me in the task, and well-nigh turning him neck and crop out of the
      tenement. Neither of us doubt that this is Anna Thedorovna’s work—for
      how otherwise could the old man have got to know about us?
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Please borrow some money as soon as you can. I wouldn’t ask for this help if it weren’t for the situation I’m in. Thedora and I can’t stay in our current place any longer because we’ve faced a lot of unpleasantness, and you can’t imagine how agitated and distressed I am. 

This morning, an elderly—almost old—man who was wearing a lot of medals visited us. I was surprised and asked him what he wanted (Thedora had gone out shopping at that moment); he started questioning me about my life and job and then, without waiting for a reply, told me he was the uncle of the officer you mentioned. He was very upset with his nephew for how he had treated me, especially for the slander against me, and he said he was willing to protect me from the young spendthrift’s rudeness. He also advised me to steer clear of guys like that and told me he sympathized with me as if he were my own father, offering to help in any way he could. I felt a bit embarrassed but didn’t rush to thank him. Then, he took my hand and, tapping my cheek, said I was very pretty and liked the dimples in my face (God only knows what he meant by that!). Finally, he tried to kiss me, claiming he was an old man, the creep! Just then, Thedora returned, and he quickly reiterated his respect for my modesty and virtue, expressing a desire to get to know me. After that, he took Thedora aside and tried to give her money for some reason (which she obviously turned down). Eventually, he left, again stressing his intentions and saying he would come back with some earrings as a gift; he advised me to change my lodgings and said he had a great place in mind that wouldn’t cost me anything. He also claimed to like me for my purity and common sense; warned me to be cautious of wild young men; and mentioned that he knew Anna Thedorovna, who asked him to let me know she would be visiting me soon. At that point, everything clicked into place for me. What I did next is a bit of a blur; I had never been in such a position before, but I think I completely let loose and made the old man feel really ashamed of himself—Thedora helped me with that, nearly kicking him out of the building. We both suspect this is all Anna Thedorovna’s doing—how else would the old man have known about us?



      Now, therefore, Makar Alexievitch, I turn to you for help. Do not, for
      God’s sake, leave me in this plight. Borrow all the money that you can
      get, for I have not the wherewithal to leave these lodgings, yet cannot
      possibly remain in them any longer. At all events, this is Thedora’s
      advice. She and I need at least twenty-five roubles, which I will repay
      you out of what I earn by my work, while Thedora shall get me additional
      work from day to day, so that, if there be heavy interest to pay on the
      loan, you shall not be troubled with the extra burden. Nay, I will make
      over to you all that I possess if only you will continue to help me.
      Truly, I grieve to have to trouble you when you yourself are so hardly
      situated, but my hopes rest upon you, and upon you alone. Goodbye, Makar
      Alexievitch. Think of me, and may God speed you on your errand!
    
So, Makar Alexievitch, I'm coming to you for help. Please don’t leave me in this situation. Borrow as much money as you can, because I don’t have the means to leave this place, but I can’t stay here any longer. This is what Thedora thinks I should do. She and I need at least twenty-five roubles, which I promise to pay you back from what I earn. Thedora will find me extra work every day, so if there’s a lot of interest on the loan, you won’t have to worry about that. I’m willing to give you everything I own if you just keep helping me. Honestly, I hate to trouble you when you’re struggling yourself, but my only hope is in you. Goodbye, Makar Alexievitch. Please think of me, and may God help you with your task!



      B.D. 
 

B.D.












      August 4th.
    



      MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—These unlooked-for blows have shaken
      me terribly, and these strange calamities have quite broken my spirit. Not
      content with trying to bring you to a bed of sickness, these lickspittles
      and pestilent old men are trying to bring me to the same. And I assure you
      that they are succeeding—I assure you that they are. Yet I would
      rather die than not help you. If I cannot help you I SHALL die; but, to
      enable me to help you, you must flee like a bird out of the nest where
      these owls, these birds of prey, are seeking to peck you to death. How
      distressed I feel, my dearest! Yet how cruel you yourself are! Although
      you are enduring pain and insult, although you, little nestling, are in
      agony of spirit, you actually tell me that it grieves you to disturb me,
      and that you will work off your debt to me with the labour of your own
      hands! In other words, you, with your weak health, are proposing to kill
      yourself in order to relieve me to term of my financial embarrassments!
      Stop a moment, and think what you are saying. WHY should you sew, and
      work, and torture your poor head with anxiety, and spoil your beautiful
      eyes, and ruin your health? Why, indeed? Ah, little Barbara, little
      Barbara! Do you not see that I shall never be any good to you, never any
      good to you? At all events, I myself see it. Yet I WILL help you in your
      distress. I WILL overcome every difficulty, I WILL get extra work to do, I
      WILL copy out manuscripts for authors, I WILL go to the latter and force
      them to employ me, I WILL so apply myself to the work that they shall see
      that I am a good copyist (and good copyists, I know, are always in
      demand). Thus there will be no need for you to exhaust your strength, nor
      will I allow you to do so—I will not have you carry out your
      disastrous intention... Yes, little angel, I will certainly borrow some
      money. I would rather die than not do so. Merely tell me, my own darling,
      that I am not to shrink from heavy interest, and I will not shrink from
      it, I will not shrink from it—nay, I will shrink from nothing. I
      will ask for forty roubles, to begin with. That will not be much, will it,
      little Barbara? Yet will any one trust me even with that sum at the first
      asking? Do you think that I am capable of inspiring confidence at the
      first glance? Would the mere sight of my face lead any one to form of me a
      favourable opinion? Have I ever been able, remember you, to appear to
      anyone in a favourable light? What think you? Personally, I see
      difficulties in the way, and feel sick at heart at the mere prospect.
      However, of those forty roubles I mean to set aside twenty-five for
      yourself, two for my landlady, and the remainder for my own spending. Of
      course, I ought to give more than two to my landlady, but you must
      remember my necessities, and see for yourself that that is the most that
      can be assigned to her. We need say no more about it. For one rouble I
      shall buy me a new pair of shoes, for I scarcely know whether my old ones
      will take me to the office tomorrow morning. Also, a new neck-scarf is
      indispensable, seeing that the old one has now passed its first year; but,
      since you have promised to make of your old apron not only a scarf, but
      also a shirt-front, I need think no more of the article in question. So
      much for shoes and scarves. Next, for buttons. You yourself will agree
      that I cannot do without buttons; nor is there on my garments a single hem
      unfrayed. I tremble when I think that some day his Excellency may perceive
      my untidiness, and say—well, what will he NOT say? Yet I shall never
      hear what he says, for I shall have expired where I sit—expired of
      mere shame at the thought of having been thus exposed. Ah, dearest!...
      Well, my various necessities will have left me three roubles to go on
      with. Part of this sum I shall expend upon a half-pound of tobacco—for
      I cannot live without tobacco, and it is nine days since I last put a pipe
      into my mouth. To tell the truth, I shall buy the tobacco without
      acquainting you with the fact, although I ought not so to do. The pity of
      it all is that, while you are depriving yourself of everything, I keep
      solacing myself with various amenities—which is why I am telling you
      this, that the pangs of conscience may not torment me. Frankly, I confess
      that I am in desperate straits—in such straits as I have never yet
      known. My landlady flouts me, and I enjoy the respect of no one; my arrears
      and debts are terrible; and in the office, though never have I found the
      place exactly a paradise, no one has a single word to say to me. Yet I
      hide, I carefully hide, this from every one. I would hide my person in the
      same way, were it not that daily I have to attend the office where I have
      to be constantly on my guard against my fellows. Nevertheless, merely to
      be able to CONFESS this to you renews my spiritual strength. We must not
      think of these things, Barbara, lest the thought of them break our
      courage. I write them down merely to warn you NOT to think of them, nor to
      torture yourself with bitter imaginings. Yet, my God, what is to become of
      us? Stay where you are until I can come to you; after which I shall not
      return hither, but simply disappear. Now I have finished my letter, and
      must go and shave myself, inasmuch as, when that is done, one always feels
      more decent, as well as consorts more easily with decency. God speed me!
      One prayer to Him, and I must be off.
    
MY DEAR BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—These unexpected blows have shaken me profoundly, and these bizarre misfortunes have completely broken my spirit. Not satisfied with trying to make you sick, these deceitful and nasty old men are trying to do the same to me. And I assure you they are succeeding—I assure you they are. Yet, I would rather die than not help you. If I can't help you, I WILL die; but for me to help you, you must escape like a bird from the nest where these owls, these predatory creatures, are trying to peck you to death. How distressed I feel, my dearest! Yet how cruel you are! Even though you are suffering pain and humiliation, even though you, little darling, are in spiritual agony, you actually tell me that it bothers you to disturb me, and that you will repay me with the work of your own hands! In other words, you, with your fragile health, are suggesting that you work yourself to death to relieve me of my financial troubles! Take a moment and think about what you're saying. WHY should you sew, work, and torture your poor head with worry, ruin your beautiful eyes, and damage your health? Why, really? Oh, little Barbara, little Barbara! Don’t you see that I will never be any good to you, never useful to you? At least, I see it that way. But I WILL help you in your time of need. I WILL overcome every obstacle, I WILL find extra work, I WILL copy manuscripts for authors, I WILL approach them and insist they hire me, I WILL work hard enough for them to realize I am a good copyist (and good copyists, I know, are always in demand). So you won’t need to wear yourself out, nor will I allow you to—I won't let you carry out this disastrous plan... Yes, my little angel, I will definitely borrow some money. I’d rather die than not do so. Just tell me, my darling, that I shouldn't be afraid of high



      M. DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

M. DIEVUSHKIN.   












      August 5th.
    



      DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—You must not despair. Away with
      melancholy! I am sending you thirty kopecks in silver, and regret that I
      cannot send you more. Buy yourself what you most need until tomorrow. I
      myself have almost nothing left, and what I am going to do I know not. Is
      it not dreadful, Makar Alexievitch? Yet do not be downcast—it is no
      good being that. Thedora declares that it would not be a bad thing if we
      were to remain in this tenement, since if we left it suspicions would
      arise, and our enemies might take it into their heads to look for us. On
      the other hand, I do not think it would be well for us to remain here. If
      I were feeling less sad I would tell you my reason.
    
DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—You mustn't lose hope. Let go of the sadness! I'm sending you thirty kopecks in silver, and I wish I could send you more. Buy yourself what you need until tomorrow. I hardly have anything left myself, and I'm not sure what I'm going to do. Isn't it terrible, Makar Alexievitch? But don’t be discouraged—it’s no use feeling that way. Thedora says it might be better for us to stay in this building, since if we leave, people might start to get suspicious, and our enemies could decide to look for us. However, I don’t think it would be wise for us to stick around here. If I were feeling less gloomy, I would share my reasons with you.



      What a strange man you are, Makar Alexievitch! You take things so much to
      heart that you never know what it is to be happy. I read your letters
      attentively, and can see from them that, though you worry and disturb
      yourself about me, you never give a thought to yourself. Yes, every letter
      tells me that you have a kind heart; but I tell YOU that that heart is
      overly kind. So I will give you a little friendly advice, Makar
      Alexievitch. I am full of gratitude towards you—I am indeed full for
      all that you have done for me, I am most sensible of your goodness; but,
      to think that I should be forced to see that, in spite of your own
      troubles (of which I have been the involuntary cause), you live for me
      alone—you live but for MY joys and MY sorrows and MY affection! If
      you take the affairs of another person so to heart, and suffer with her to
      such an extent, I do not wonder that you yourself are unhappy. Today, when
      you came to see me after office-work was done, I felt afraid even to raise
      my eyes to yours, for you looked so pale and desperate, and your face had
      so fallen in. Yes, you were dreading to have to tell me of your failure to
      borrow money—you were dreading to have to grieve and alarm me; but,
      when you saw that I came very near to smiling, the load was, I know,
      lifted from your heart. So do not be despondent, do not give way, but
      allow more rein to your better sense. I beg and implore this of you, for
      it will not be long before you see things take a turn for the better. You
      will but spoil your life if you constantly lament another person’s sorrow.
      Goodbye, dear friend. I beseech you not to be over-anxious about me.
    
What a strange man you are, Makar Alexievitch! You care so much about everything that you never really know what happiness feels like. I've read your letters closely and can tell that while you worry and stress about me, you never think of yourself. Yes, every letter shows me that you have a good heart; but I want to tell YOU that heart is too kind. So I’m giving you some friendly advice, Makar Alexievitch. I'm really grateful for everything you’ve done for me; I truly appreciate your kindness. But it makes me sad to see that, despite your own troubles (that I’m the unintentional cause of), you focus only on me—you live only for MY joys and MY sorrows and MY needs! If you take someone else's problems so seriously and feel their pain so intensely, it’s no surprise that you’re unhappy. Today, when you came to see me after work, I was almost afraid to look at you because you looked so pale and distraught, and your face seemed so drawn. Yes, you were dreading telling me about your failure to borrow money—you were dreading the thought of hurting and worrying me; but when you saw that I was close to smiling, I know the weight lifted off your heart. So don’t feel hopeless, don’t give in, but let your better judgment take the lead. I’m begging you to do this, because it won’t be long before things start to improve. You’ll ruin your own life if you keep mourning someone else’s sadness. Goodbye, dear friend. Please don’t stress too much about me.



      B. D. 
 

B. D. 
 












      August 5th.
    



      MY DARLING LITTLE BARBARA,—This is well, this is well, my angel! So
      you are of opinion that the fact that I have failed to obtain any money
      does not matter? Then I too am reassured, I too am happy on your account.
      Also, I am delighted to think that you are not going to desert your old
      friend, but intend to remain in your present lodgings. Indeed, my heart
      was overcharged with joy when I read in your letter those kindly words
      about myself, as well as a not wholly unmerited recognition of my
      sentiments. I say this not out of pride, but because now I know how much
      you love me to be thus solicitous for my feelings. How good to think that
      I may speak to you of them! You bid me, darling, not be faint-hearted.
      Indeed, there is no need for me to be so. Think, for instance, of the pair
      of shoes which I shall be wearing to the office tomorrow! The fact is that
      over-brooding proves the undoing of a man—his complete undoing. What
      has saved me is the fact that it is not for myself that I am grieving,
      that I am suffering, but for YOU. Nor would it matter to me in the least
      that I should have to walk through the bitter cold without an overcoat or
      boots—I could bear it, I could well endure it, for I am a simple man
      in my requirements; but the point is—what would people say, what
      would every envious and hostile tongue exclaim, when I was seen without an
      overcoat? It is for OTHER folk that one wears an overcoat and boots. In
      any case, therefore, I should have needed boots to maintain my name and
      reputation; to both of which my ragged footgear would otherwise have
      spelled ruin. Yes, it is so, my beloved, and you may believe an old man
      who has had many years of experience, and knows both the world and
      mankind, rather than a set of scribblers and daubers.
    
MY DARLING LITTLE BARBARA,—This is good, my angel! So you think that my failure to get any money doesn’t matter? Then I'm reassured too, and I'm happy for you. I’m also thrilled to know that you won’t be leaving your old friend and plan to stay in your current place. Honestly, my heart was overflowing with joy when I read the kind words you wrote about me, along with your somewhat deserved acknowledgment of my feelings. I’m saying this not out of pride, but because now I realize how much you care for me by being so thoughtful about my emotions. It feels great to think that I can talk to you about them! You tell me, darling, not to lose heart. Honestly, there’s no reason for me to. Just think about the shoes I’ll be wearing to the office tomorrow! The truth is that dwelling too much can break a person—totally break them. What saves me is knowing that I’m not grieving for myself, but for YOU. It wouldn’t bother me at all to walk through the freezing cold without a coat or boots—I could handle it, I can endure it, because I have simple needs; but the point is—what would people say, what would every envious and malicious person say if I were seen without a coat? One wears a coat and boots for OTHER people. So, I would need boots to protect my name and reputation, which my shabby footwear would otherwise ruin. Yes, it’s true, my beloved, and you can trust an old man who has years of experience and understands both the world and humanity, rather than a bunch of writers and painters.



      But I have not yet told you in detail how things have gone with me today.
      During the morning I suffered as much agony of spirit as might have been
      experienced in a year. ‘Twas like this: First of all, I went out to call
      upon the gentleman of whom I have spoken. I started very early, before
      going to the office. Rain and sleet were falling, and I hugged myself in
      my greatcoat as I walked along. “Lord,” thought I, “pardon my offences,
      and send me fulfilment of all my desires;” and as I passed a church I
      crossed myself, repented of my sins, and reminded myself that I was
      unworthy to hold communication with the Lord God. Then I retired into
      myself, and tried to look at nothing; and so, walking without noticing the
      streets, I proceeded on my way. Everything had an empty air, and everyone
      whom I met looked careworn and preoccupied, and no wonder, for who would
      choose to walk abroad at such an early hour, and in such weather? Next a
      band of ragged workmen met me, and jostled me boorishly as they passed;
      upon which nervousness overtook me, and I felt uneasy, and tried hard not
      to think of the money that was my errand. Near the Voskresenski Bridge my
      feet began to ache with weariness, until I could hardly pull myself along;
      until presently I met with Ermolaev, a writer in our office, who, stepping
      aside, halted, and followed me with his eyes, as though to beg of me a
      glass of vodka. “Ah, friend,” thought I, “go YOU to your vodka, but what
      have I to do with such stuff?” Then, sadly weary, I halted for a moment’s
      rest, and thereafter dragged myself further on my way. Purposely I kept
      looking about me for something upon which to fasten my thoughts, with
      which to distract, to encourage myself; but there was nothing. Not a
      single idea could I connect with any given object, while, in addition, my
      appearance was so draggled that I felt utterly ashamed of it. At length I
      perceived from afar a gabled house that was built of yellow wood. This, I
      thought, must be the residence of the Monsieur Markov whom Emelia
      Ivanovitch had mentioned to me as ready to lend money on interest. Half
      unconscious of what I was doing, I asked a watchman if he could tell me to
      whom the house belonged; whereupon grudgingly, and as though he were vexed
      at something, the fellow muttered that it belonged to one Markov. Are ALL
      watchmen so unfeeling? Why did this one reply as he did? In any case I
      felt disagreeably impressed, for like always answers to like, and, no
      matter what position one is in, things invariably appear to correspond to
      it. Three times did I pass the house and walk the length of the street;
      until the further I walked, the worse became my state of mind. “No, never,
      never will he lend me anything!” I thought to myself, “He does not know
      me, and my affairs will seem to him ridiculous, and I shall cut a sorry
      figure. However, let fate decide for me. Only, let Heaven send that I do
      not afterwards repent me, and eat out my heart with remorse!” Softly I
      opened the wicket-gate. Horrors! A great ragged brute of a watch-dog came
      flying out at me, and foaming at the mouth, and nearly jumping out his
      skin! Curious is it to note what little, trivial incidents will nearly
      make a man crazy, and strike terror to his heart, and annihilate the firm
      purpose with which he has armed himself. At all events, I approached the
      house more dead than alive, and walked straight into another catastrophe.
      That is to say, not noticing the slipperiness of the threshold, I stumbled
      against an old woman who was filling milk-jugs from a pail, and sent the
      milk flying in every direction! The foolish old dame gave a start and a
      cry, and then demanded of me whither I had been coming, and what it was I
      wanted; after which she rated me soundly for my awkwardness. Always have I
      found something of the kind befall me when engaged on errands of this
      nature. It seems to be my destiny invariably to run into something. Upon
      that, the noise and the commotion brought out the mistress of the house—an
      old beldame of mean appearance. I addressed myself directly to her: “Does
      Monsieur Markov live here?” was my inquiry. “No,” she replied, and then
      stood looking at me civilly enough. “But what want you with him?” she
      continued; upon which I told her about Emelia Ivanovitch and the rest of
      the business. As soon as I had finished, she called her daughter—a
      barefooted girl in her teens—and told her to summon her father from
      upstairs. Meanwhile, I was shown into a room which contained several
      portraits of generals on the walls and was furnished with a sofa, a large
      table, and a few pots of mignonette and balsam. “Shall I, or shall I not
      (come weal, come woe) take myself off?” was my thought as I waited there.
      Ah, how I longed to run away! “Yes,” I continued, “I had better come again
      tomorrow, for the weather may then be better, and I shall not have upset
      the milk, and these generals will not be looking at me so fiercely.” In
      fact, I had actually begun to move towards the door when Monsieur Markov
      entered—a grey-headed man with thievish eyes, and clad in a dirty
      dressing-gown fastened with a belt. Greetings over, I stumbled out
      something about Emelia Ivanovitch and forty roubles, and then came to a
      dead halt, for his eyes told me that my errand had been futile. “No.” said
      he, “I have no money. Moreover, what security could you offer?” I admitted
      that I could offer none, but again added something about Emelia, as well
      as about my pressing needs. Markov heard me out, and then repeated that he
      had no money. “Ah,” thought I, “I might have known this—I might have
      foreseen it!” And, to tell the truth, Barbara, I could have wished that
      the earth had opened under my feet, so chilled did I feel as he said what
      he did, so numbed did my legs grow as shivers began to run down my back.
      Thus I remained gazing at him while he returned my gaze with a look which
      said, “Well now, my friend? Why do you not go since you have no further
      business to do here?” Somehow I felt conscience-stricken. “How is it that
      you are in such need of money?” was what he appeared to be asking;
      whereupon, I opened my mouth (anything rather than stand there to no
      purpose at all!) but found that he was not even listening. “I have no
      money,” again he said, “or I would lend you some with pleasure.” Several
      times I repeated that I myself possessed a little, and that I would repay
      any loan from him punctually, most punctually, and that he might charge me
      what interest he liked, since I would meet it without fail. Yes, at that
      moment I remembered our misfortunes, our necessities, and I remembered
      your half-rouble. “No,” said he, “I can lend you nothing without
      security,” and clinched his assurance with an oath, the robber!
    
But I haven't told you yet how my day went.  
      This morning, I felt as much emotional pain as someone might feel in a year. Here’s what happened: First, I went to visit the gentleman I mentioned earlier. I left very early, before heading to the office. It was raining and sleeting, and I wrapped myself tightly in my coat as I walked. “Lord,” I thought, “forgive my sins and grant me my wishes;” and as I passed by a church, I crossed myself, repented, and reminded myself that I wasn’t worthy to communicate with God. I became withdrawn and tried not to look at anything, so I walked without paying attention to my surroundings. Everything felt empty, and everyone I saw looked tired and distracted, which was no surprise, since who would want to be out this early in such weather? Soon, a group of ragged workers bumped into me clumsily as they passed, making me feel nervous and uneasy as I tried not to think about the money I was after. Near the Voskresenski Bridge, my feet started to ache with exhaustion, and I could barely drag myself along until I ran into Ermolaev, a writer from our office. He stepped aside and stared at me, as if hoping I'd offer him a drink. “Oh, buddy,” I thought, “you go off to your drinks; I have nothing to do with that!” Then, feeling very tired, I stopped for a brief rest and pushed on. I looked around, trying to find something to focus my thoughts on, something to distract and uplift me, but there was nothing. I couldn’t connect a single thought with anything around me, and my appearance was so disheveled that I felt utterly embarrassed. Finally, I spotted a gabled yellow wooden house in the distance. I thought this must be the place of Monsieur Markov, whom Emelia Ivanovitch had told me was willing to lend money. Half-consciously, I asked a watchman if he knew who owned the house. Grudgingly and seemingly annoyed, he muttered that it belonged to one Markov. Are all watchmen so cold? Why did this one respond that way? I felt unsettled because like attracts like, and no matter what situation you're in, things always seem to reflect it. I walked past the house three times, along the street, and the further I went, the worse my mood got. “No, never, he will never lend me anything!” I thought. “He doesn’t know me; he’ll think my situation is ridiculous and I’ll look foolish. Whatever happens, let fate decide! Just let Heaven make sure I won’t regret this later and eat my heart out with guilt!” Gently, I opened the gate. To my horror, a massive, ragged watch-dog came barreling out at me, barking and foaming at the mouth! It’s amusing how little, trivial incidents can nearly drive a person insane, scare them to death, and wipe out the resolve they’ve built up. Anyway, I approached the house feeling more dead than alive, only to walk right into another disaster. Not noticing how slippery the threshold was, I stumbled against an old woman filling milk jugs, splattering milk everywhere! The startled old lady gasped and yelled, demanding to know where I came from and what I wanted, then scolded me for being clumsy. I always seem to have incidents like this when I’m on these kinds of errands; it seems to be my fate to run into trouble. The noise attracted the mistress of the house—a shabby old woman. I turned to her and asked, “Does Monsieur Markov live here?” “No,” she replied, then looked at me civilly. “But what do you want with him?” So, I explained about Emelia Ivanovitch and my situation. Once I finished, she called for her daughter—a barefoot teenage girl—and asked her to fetch her father from upstairs. I was then shown into a room lined with portraits of generals, furnished with a sofa, a big table, and a few pots of flowers. “Should I stay or leave?” I thought as I waited. Oh, how I wanted to run away! “Yes,” I decided, “I should come back tomorrow; the weather might be better then, I won’t have spilled the milk, and those generals won’t be glaring at me.” In fact, I had just begun to head toward the door when Monsieur Markov walked in—a gray-haired man with shifty eyes, wearing a dirty dressing gown held up by a belt. After exchanging greetings, I stammered something about Emelia Ivanovitch and forty roubles, but I quickly fell silent as I saw from his eyes that my request was pointless. “No,” he said, “I don’t have any money. Besides, what collateral do you have?” I admitted that I had nothing to offer but tried to explain again about Emelia and my urgent need. Markov listened but reiterated that he had no money. “Oh,” I thought, “I should have known this—I should have anticipated it!” To be honest, Barbara, I wished the ground would swallow me up for how cold I felt at his words, and my legs went numb as chills ran down my back. I stood there staring at him while he returned my gaze with a look that seemed to say, “Well, my friend? Why don’t you leave since you have nothing else to discuss here?” I felt a pang of guilt. “Why do you need money so badly?” he seemed to be asking; I opened my mouth (anything but stand here doing nothing!) but saw he wasn't even listening. “I have no money,” he repeated, “or I would happily lend you some.” I kept insisting that I had a little of my own, and that I would pay him back on time, absolutely on time, and that he could charge me any interest he wanted, and I would meet it without fail. Yes, at that moment, I remembered our struggles and our needs, and I recalled your half-rouble. “No,” he said, “I can’t lend you anything without collateral,” and he emphasized this with an oath, the robber!



      How I contrived to leave the house and, passing through Viborskaia Street,
      to reach the Voskresenski Bridge I do not know. I only remember that I
      felt terribly weary, cold, and starved, and that it was ten o’clock before
      I reached the office. Arriving, I tried to clean myself up a little, but
      Sniegirev, the porter, said that it was impossible for me to do so, and
      that I should only spoil the brush, which belonged to the Government.
      Thus, my darling, do such fellows rate me lower than the mat on which they
      wipe their boots! What is it that will most surely break me? It is not the
      want of money, but the LITTLE worries of life—these whisperings and
      nods and jeers. Any day his Excellency himself may round upon me. Ah,
      dearest, my golden days are gone. Today I have spent in reading your
      letters through; and the reading of them has made me sad. Goodbye, my own,
      and may the Lord watch over you!
    
I’m not sure how I managed to leave the house and make my way through Viborskaia Street to get to the Voskresenski Bridge. I just remember feeling extremely tired, cold, and hungry, and it was already ten o’clock when I arrived at the office. Once I got there, I tried to tidy myself up a bit, but Sniegirev, the porter, told me that it was impossible and that I would just ruin the brush, which belonged to the Government. So, my dear, do these guys really think less of me than the mat they use to wipe their shoes? What will break me for sure? It’s not the lack of money, but the LITTLE worries of life—those whispers, nods, and sneers. Any day now, even his Excellency could turn against me. Ah, my dear, my golden days are over. Today, I’ve spent my time reading your letters, and it’s made me feel sad. Goodbye, my love, and may the Lord watch over you!



      M. DIEVUSHKIN.
    
M. Dievushkin.



      P.S.—To conceal my sorrow I would have written this letter half
      jestingly; but, the faculty of jesting has not been given me. My one
      desire, however, is to afford you pleasure. Soon I will come and see you,
      dearest. Without fail I will come and see you.
    
P.S.—To hide my sadness, I might have written this letter in a joking way; but, I've never had the knack for humor. My only wish is to bring you joy. I’ll be visiting you soon, my dear. I promise I will come to see you.




 


 












      August 11th.
    



      O Barbara Alexievna, I am undone—we are both of us undone! Both of
      us are lost beyond recall! Everything is ruined—my reputation, my
      self-respect, all that I have in the world! And you as much as I. Never
      shall we retrieve what we have lost. I—I have brought you to this
      pass, for I have become an outcast, my darling. Everywhere I am laughed at
      and despised. Even my landlady has taken to abusing me. Today she
      overwhelmed me with shrill reproaches, and abased me to the level of a
      hearth-brush. And last night, when I was in Rataziaev’s rooms, one of his
      friends began to read a scribbled note which I had written to you, and
      then inadvertently pulled out of my pocket. Oh beloved, what laughter
      there arose at the recital! How those scoundrels mocked and derided you
      and myself! I walked up to them and accused Rataziaev of breaking faith. I
      said that he had played the traitor. But he only replied that I had been
      the betrayer in the case, by indulging in various amours. “You have kept
      them very dark though, Mr. Lovelace!” said he—and now I am known
      everywhere by this name of “Lovelace.” They know EVERYTHING about us, my
      darling, EVERYTHING—both about you and your affairs and about
      myself; and when today I was for sending Phaldoni to the bakeshop for
      something or other, he refused to go, saying that it was not his business.
      “But you MUST go,” said I. “I will not,” he replied. “You have not paid my
      mistress what you owe her, so I am not bound to run your errands.” At such
      an insult from a raw peasant I lost my temper, and called him a fool; to
      which he retorted in a similar vein. Upon this I thought that he must be
      drunk, and told him so; whereupon he replied: “WHAT say you that I am?
      Suppose you yourself go and sober up, for I know that the other day you
      went to visit a woman, and that you got drunk with her on two grivenniks.”
       To such a pass have things come! I feel ashamed to be seen alive. I am, as
      it were, a man proclaimed; I am in a worse plight even than a tramp who
      has lost his passport. How misfortunes are heaping themselves upon me! I
      am lost—I am lost for ever!
    
O Barbara Alexievna, I’m ruined—we’re both ruined! We’re both lost beyond recovery! Everything is destroyed—my reputation, my self-respect, all that I have in this world! And you’re just as much of a victim as I am. We will never get back what we’ve lost. I—I have brought you to this point, because I’ve become an outcast, my love. Everywhere I go, people laugh at me and look down on me. Even my landlady has started to insult me. Today she bombarded me with harsh criticisms and belittled me like I was nothing. And last night, when I was at Rataziaev’s place, one of his friends started reading a scribbled note I had written to you, and accidentally pulled it out of my pocket. Oh beloved, the laughter that erupted! Those scoundrels mocked and ridiculed both you and me! I went up to them and accused Rataziaev of betrayal. I told him he had been disloyal. But he just shot back that I was the real traitor for indulging in various affairs. “You’ve kept them very quiet though, Mr. Lovelace!” he said—and now I’m known everywhere by that name “Lovelace.” They know EVERYTHING about us, my love, EVERYTHING—about you and your life and about me; and when I tried to send Phaldoni to the bakery for something today, he refused, saying it wasn’t his job. “But you HAVE to go,” I insisted. “I won’t,” he replied. “You haven’t paid my mistress what you owe her, so I’m not obligated to run your errands.” At such an insult from a peasant, I lost my cool and called him an idiot; he shot back with something similar. I thought he must be drunk and told him so; then he replied: “WHAT do you claim I am? Maybe you should go sober up yourself, because I know you visited a woman the other day and got drunk with her over two grivenniks.” What a low point we’ve reached! I’m embarrassed to even be seen alive. I feel like a man marked for shame; I’m in a worse situation than a homeless person without a passport. Misfortunes are piling up on me! I’m lost—I’m lost forever!



      M. D. 
 

M. D. 
 












      August 13th.
    



      MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—It is true that misfortune is
      following upon misfortune. I myself scarcely know what to do. Yet, no
      matter how you may be fairing, you must not look for help from me, for
      only today I burned my left hand with the iron! At one and the same moment
      I dropped the iron, made a mistake in my work, and burned myself! So now I
      can no longer work. Also, these three days past, Thedora has been ailing.
      My anxiety is becoming positively torturous. Nevertheless, I send you
      thirty kopecks—almost the last coins that I have left to me, much as
      I should have liked to have helped you more when you are so much in need.
      I feel vexed to the point of weeping. Goodbye, dear friend of mine. You
      will bring me much comfort if only you will come and see me today.
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—It’s true that bad luck is piling up. I barely know what to do myself. Still, no matter how you’re doing, don’t expect help from me, because I just burned my left hand with the iron! At the same time, I dropped the iron, messed up my work, and burned myself! So now I can’t work anymore. Also, Thedora has been sick for the past three days. My worry is becoming unbearable. Still, I’m sending you thirty kopecks—almost the last coins I have left, even though I wish I could help you more since you need it so much. I’m so upset I could cry. Goodbye, my dear friend. It would mean a lot to me if you could come and see me today.



      B. D. 
 

B. D.   












      August 14th.
    



      What is the matter with you, Makar Alexievitch? Surely you cannot fear the
      Lord God as you ought to do? You are not only driving me to distraction
      but also ruining yourself with this eternal solicitude for your
      reputation. You are a man of honour, nobility of character, and
      self-respect, as everyone knows; yet, at any moment, you are ready to die
      with shame! Surely you should have more consideration for your grey hairs.
      No, the fear of God has departed from you. Thedora has told you that it is
      out of my power to render you anymore help. See, therefore, to what a pass
      you have brought me! Probably you think it is nothing to me that you
      should behave so badly; probably you do not realise what you have made me
      suffer. I dare not set foot on the staircase here, for if I do so I am
      stared at, and pointed at, and spoken about in the most horrible manner.
      Yes, it is even said of me that I am “united to a drunkard.” What a thing
      to hear! And whenever you are brought home drunk folk say, “They are
      carrying in that tchinovnik.” THAT is not the proper way to make me help
      you. I swear that I MUST leave this place, and go and get work as a cook
      or a laundress. It is impossible for me to stay here. Long ago I wrote and
      asked you to come and see me, yet you have not come. Truly my tears and
      prayers must mean NOTHING to you, Makar Alexievitch! Whence, too, did you
      get the money for your debauchery? For the love of God be more careful of
      yourself, or you will be ruined. How shameful, how abominable of you! So
      the landlady would not admit you last night, and you spent the night on
      the doorstep? Oh, I know all about it. Yet if only you could have seen my
      agony when I heard the news!... Come and see me, Makar Alexievitch, and we
      will once more be happy together. Yes, we will read together, and talk of
      old times, and Thedora shall tell you of her pilgrimages in former days.
      For God’s sake beloved, do not ruin both yourself and me. I live for you
      alone; it is for your sake alone that I am still here. Be your better self
      once more—the self which still can remain firm in the face of
      misfortune. Poverty is no crime; always remember that. After all, why
      should we despair? Our present difficulties will pass away, and God will
      right us. Only be brave. I send you two grivenniks for the purchase of
      some tobacco or anything else that you need; but, for the love of heaven,
      do not spend the money foolishly. Come you and see me soon; come without
      fail. Perhaps you may be ashamed to meet me, as you were before, but you
      NEED not feel like that—such shame would be misplaced. Only do bring
      with you sincere repentance and trust in God, who orders all things for
      the best.
    
What’s wrong with you, Makar Alexievitch? You can’t possibly be afraid of God like you should! You’re not just driving me crazy, but you’re also ruining yourself by constantly worrying about your reputation. Everyone knows you’re an honorable man with character and self-respect, yet at any moment, you seem ready to die of shame! You should really think about your grey hairs. No, the fear of God has left you. Thedora has told you that I can’t help you anymore. Just look at what you’ve done to me! You probably think it doesn’t bother me that you’re acting like this; you probably don’t realize how much you’ve made me suffer. I can’t even step onto the staircase because if I do, people stare at me, point at me, and talk about me in the most awful way. Yes, they even say I’m “linked to a drunkard.” Can you imagine hearing that? And every time you come home drunk, people say, “They’re bringing in that official.” That’s not how you get my help. I swear I HAVE to leave this place and find work as a cook or a laundress. I can’t stay here any longer. I wrote to you a long time ago asking you to come see me, but you haven't come. Honestly, my tears and prayers must mean NOTHING to you, Makar Alexievitch! And where did you get the money for your drinking? Please take care of yourself, or you’ll end up ruined. How shameful, how terrible of you! So the landlady wouldn’t let you in last night, and you spent the night on the doorstep? Oh, I know all about it. But if only you could have seen my suffering when I heard the news!... Come see me, Makar Alexievitch, and we can be happy together again. Yes, we can read together, talk about old times, and Thedora can tell you about her past pilgrimages. For God’s sake, my love, don’t ruin both of us. I live for you; it’s only for you that I’m still here. Be your better self again—the one who can stand strong in hard times. Poverty isn’t a crime; always remember that. After all, why should we despair? Our current troubles will pass, and God will make things right for us. Just be brave. I’m sending you two grivenniks for some tobacco or anything else you need, but please, don’t waste the money. Come and see me soon, without fail. You might feel ashamed to meet me like before, but you shouldn’t feel that way—there’s no need for that kind of shame. Just bring sincere repentance and trust in God, who arranges everything for the best.



      B. D. 
 

B. D. 
 












      August 19th.
    



      MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,-Yes, I AM ashamed to meet you, my darling—I
      AM ashamed. At the same time, what is there in all this? Why should we not
      be cheerful again? Why should I mind the soles of my feet coming through
      my boots? The sole of one’s foot is a mere bagatelle—it will never
      be anything but just a base, dirty sole. And shoes do not matter, either.
      The Greek sages used to walk about without them, so why should we coddle
      ourselves with such things? Yet why, also, should I be insulted and
      despised because of them? Tell Thedora that she is a rubbishy, tiresome,
      gabbling old woman, as well as an inexpressibly foolish one. As for my
      grey hairs, you are quite wrong about them, inasmuch as I am not such an
      old man as you think. Emelia sends you his greeting. You write that you
      are in great distress, and have been weeping. Well, I too am in great
      distress, and have been weeping. Nay, nay. I wish you the best of health
      and happiness, even as I am well and happy myself, so long as I may
      remain, my darling,—Your friend,
    
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA, - Yes, I’m embarrassed to meet you, my dear—I AM embarrassed. But really, what’s the big deal? Why shouldn’t we be cheerful again? Why should I worry about the soles of my feet coming through my boots? The sole of one’s foot is just a minor issue—it’s nothing but a basic, dirty sole. And shoes don’t really matter either. The Greek philosophers used to walk around without them, so why should we pamper ourselves with such things? But why should I feel insulted and looked down on because of it? Tell Thedora that she’s an annoying, tiresome old woman, as well as incredibly foolish. As for my grey hairs, you’re totally wrong about them, because I’m not as old as you think. Emelia sends you his regards. You say that you’re in great distress and have been crying. Well, I’m also in great distress and have been crying. No, no. I wish you the best of health and happiness, just as I am well and happy myself, as long as I can, my dear,—Your friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      August 21st.
    



      MY DEAR AND KIND BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I feel that I am guilty, I feel
      that I have sinned against you. Yet also I feel, from what you say, that
      it is no use for me so to feel. Even before I had sinned I felt as I do
      now; but I gave way to despair, and the more so as recognised my fault.
      Darling, I am not cruel or hardhearted. To rend your little soul would be
      the act of a blood-thirsty tiger, whereas I have the heart of a sheep. You
      yourself know that I am not addicted to bloodthirstiness, and therefore
      that I cannot really be guilty of the fault in question, seeing that
      neither my mind nor my heart have participated in it.
      Nor can I understand wherein the guilt lies. To me it is all a mystery.
      When you sent me those thirty kopecks, and thereafter those two
      grivenniks, my heart sank within me as I looked at the poor little money.
      To think that though you had burned your hand, and would soon be hungry,
      you could write to me that I was to buy tobacco! What was I to do?
      Remorselessly to rob you, an orphan, as any brigand might do? I felt
      greatly depressed, dearest. That is to say, persuaded that I should never
      do any good with my life, and that I was inferior even to the sole of my
      own boot, I took it into my head that it was absurd for me to aspire at
      all—rather, that I ought to account myself a disgrace and an
      abomination. Once a man has lost his self-respect, and has decided to
      abjure his better qualities and human dignity, he falls headlong, and
      cannot choose but do so. It is decreed of fate, and therefore I am not
      guilty in this respect.
      That evening I went out merely to get a breath of fresh air, but one thing
      followed another—the weather was cold, all nature was looking
      mournful, and I had fallen in with Emelia. This man had spent everything
      that he possessed, and, at the time I met him, had not for two days tasted
      a crust of bread. He had tried to raise money by pawning, but what
      articles he had for the purpose had been refused by the pawnbrokers. It
      was more from sympathy for a fellow-man than from any liking for the
      individual that I yielded. That is how the fault arose, dearest.
      He spoke of you, and I mingled my tears with his. Yes, he is a man of
      kind, kind heart—a man of deep feeling. I often feel as he did,
      dearest, and, in addition, I know how beholden to you I am. As soon as
      ever I got to know you I began both to realise myself and to love you; for
      until you came into my life I had been a lonely man—I had been, as
      it were, asleep rather than alive. In former days my rascally colleagues
      used to tell me that I was unfit even to be seen; in fact, they so
      disliked me that at length I began to dislike myself, for, being
      frequently told that I was stupid, I began to believe that I really was
      so. But the instant that YOU came into my life, you lightened the dark
      places in it, you lightened both my heart and my soul. Gradually, I gained
      rest of spirit, until I had come to see that I was no worse than other
      men, and that, though I had neither style nor brilliancy nor polish, I was
      still a MAN as regards my thoughts and feelings. But now, alas! pursued
      and scorned of fate, I have again allowed myself to abjure my own dignity.
      Oppressed of misfortune, I have lost my courage. Here is my confession to
      you, dearest. With tears I beseech you not to inquire further into the
      matter, for my heart is breaking, and life has grown indeed hard and
      bitter for me—Beloved, I offer you my respect, and remain ever your
      faithful friend,
    
MY DEAR AND KIND BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I feel guilty, like I've sinned against you. But I also sense, from what you say, that there's no point in me feeling this way. Even before I messed up, I felt like I do now; I gave in to despair, especially as I recognized my mistake. Darling, I'm not cruel or hardhearted. To tear apart your little soul would be like the act of a savage animal, while I have the heart of a gentle lamb. You know I’m not bloodthirsty, so I can’t genuinely be guilty of the mistake in question, as neither my mind nor my heart truly participated in it. 

I also don’t understand where the guilt lies. It’s all a mystery to me. When you sent me those thirty kopecks and then those two grivenniks, my heart sank looking at such small amounts. To think that despite burning your hand and soon being hungry, you could tell me to buy tobacco! What was I supposed to do? Rob you, an orphan, like a heartless thief? I felt incredibly low, my dear. I believed I would never do any good with my life and that I was beneath even the sole of my own boot. I convinced myself it was ridiculous to aspire to anything — I should consider myself a disgrace and an abomination. Once a man loses his self-respect and decides to give up his better qualities and human dignity, he falls hard, and he can't help it. It’s fate's decree, so I’m not guilty in this regard. 

That evening, I went out just to get some fresh air, but things spiraled from there. The weather was cold, everything felt gloomy, and I ran into Emelia. This man had spent everything he had and hadn’t eaten for two days. He had tried to get money by pawning his things, but the pawnbrokers turned him down. I helped him more out of sympathy than any particular liking for him. That's how my mistake happened, dear. He talked about you, and I cried with him. Yes, he has a kind heart—a deeply feeling man. I often feel as he does, my dear, and I know how grateful I am to you. As soon as I met you, I began to realize myself and love you; before you, I had been a lonely man — more like asleep than alive. In the past, my dishonest colleagues used to tell me I was unfit to be seen; they disliked me so much that I started to dislike myself, believing their words that I was stupid. But the moment YOU entered my life, you brightened my dark places, lifting my heart and soul. Gradually, I found peace of mind, realizing I wasn’t worse than other men, and that even without style, brilliance, or polish, I was still a MAN when it came to my thoughts and feelings. But now, alas! Feeling pursued and scorned by fate, I’ve allowed myself to abandon my dignity again. Weighed down by misfortune, I’ve lost my courage. Here’s my confession to you, dear. With tears, I beg you not to dig any deeper, as my heart is breaking, and life has become terribly hard and bitter for me — Beloved, I offer you my respect and remain forever your faithful friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      September 3rd.
    



      The reason why I did not finish my last letter, Makar Alexievitch, was
      that I found it so difficult to write. There are moments when I am glad to
      be alone—to grieve and repine without any one to share my sorrow:
      and those moments are beginning to come upon me with ever-increasing
      frequency. Always in my reminiscences I find something which is
      inexplicable, yet strongly attractive—so much so that for hours
      together I remain insensible to my surroundings, oblivious of reality.
      Indeed, in my present life there is not a single impression that I
      encounter—pleasant or the reverse—which does not recall to my
      mind something of a similar nature in the past. More particularly is this
      the case with regard to my childhood, my golden childhood. Yet such
      moments always leave me depressed. They render me weak, and exhaust my
      powers of fancy; with the result that my health, already not good, grows
      steadily worse.
    
The reason I didn’t finish my last letter, Makar Alexievitch, is that I found it really hard to write. Sometimes, I’m glad to be alone—to mourn and reflect without anyone to share my sadness, and those moments are happening more often. In my memories, I always find something that’s unexplainable yet very appealing—so much so that I can lose myself for hours, unaware of what’s going on around me, oblivious to reality. In fact, in my current life, there isn’t a single experience I have—good or bad—that doesn’t remind me of something similar from my past. This is especially true when it comes to my childhood, my golden childhood. But those moments always leave me feeling down. They make me feel weak and drain my imagination, which makes my health, already not great, get worse.



      However, this morning it is a fine, fresh, cloudless day, such as we
      seldom get in autumn. The air has revived me and I greet it with joy. Yet
      to think that already the fall of the year has come! How I used to love
      the country in autumn! Then but a child, I was yet a sensitive being who
      loved autumn evenings better than autumn mornings. I remember how beside
      our house, at the foot of a hill, there lay a large pond, and how the pond—I
      can see it even now!—shone with a broad, level surface that was as
      clear as crystal. On still evenings this pond would be at rest, and not a
      rustle would disturb the trees which grew on its banks and overhung the
      motionless expanse of water. How fresh it used to seem, yet how cold! The
      dew would be falling upon the turf, lights would be beginning to shine
      forth from the huts on the pond’s margin, and the cattle would be wending
      their way home. Then quietly I would slip out of the house to look at my
      beloved pond, and forget myself in contemplation. Here and there a
      fisherman’s bundle of brushwood would be burning at the water’s edge, and
      sending its light far and wide over the surface. Above, the sky would be
      of a cold blue colour, save for a fringe of flame-coloured streaks on the
      horizon that kept turning ever paler and paler; and when the moon had come
      out there would be wafted through the limpid air the sounds of a
      frightened bird fluttering, of a bulrush rubbing against its fellows in
      the gentle breeze, and of a fish rising with a splash. Over the dark water
      there would gather a thin, transparent mist; and though, in the distance,
      night would be looming, and seemingly enveloping the entire horizon,
      everything closer at hand would be standing out as though shaped with a
      chisel—banks, boats, little islands, and all. Beside the margin a
      derelict barrel would be turning over and over in the water; a switch of
      laburnum, with yellowing leaves, would go meandering through the reeds;
      and a belated gull would flutter up, dive again into the cold depths, rise
      once more, and disappear into the mist. How I would watch and listen to
      these things! How strangely good they all would seem! But I was a mere
      infant in those days—a mere child.
    
However, this morning it's a beautiful, fresh, cloudless day, something we seldom see in autumn. The air has rejuvenated me, and I greet it with joy. Yet, it’s hard to believe that autumn has already arrived! I used to love the countryside in the fall! Even as a child, I was sensitive and preferred autumn evenings to autumn mornings. I remember how there was a large pond by our house at the foot of a hill, and how that pond—I can still see it!—sparkled with a smooth, crystal-clear surface. On calm evenings, the pond would be still, and not a sound would disturb the trees that grew along its banks and leaned over the motionless water. It always felt so fresh, yet so cold! The dew would fall on the grass, lights would start glowing from the huts by the pond, and the cattle would be heading home. Then, I would quietly slip out of the house to gaze at my beloved pond and get lost in thought. Every now and then, a fisherman’s pile of brushwood would be burning at the water's edge, casting light far and wide over the surface. Above, the sky would be a cold blue, except for the fringe of fiery streaks on the horizon that kept fading away; and when the moon came out, the clear air would carry the sounds of a startled bird fluttering, a bulrush rustling gently in the breeze, and a fish breaking the surface with a splash. A thin, transparent mist would gather over the dark water; and although night was looming in the distance, seemingly swallowing the entire horizon, everything closer looked sharply defined—banks, boats, little islands, and all. A derelict barrel would be rolling around in the water; a switch of laburnum with yellowing leaves would drift through the reeds; and a late gull would flutter up, dive into the cold depths, rise again, and vanish into the mist. How I would watch and listen to all these things! They seemed so strangely beautiful! But I was just a little kid back then—a mere child.



      Yes, truly I loved autumn-tide—the late autumn when the crops are
      garnered, and field work is ended, and the evening gatherings in the huts
      have begun, and everyone is awaiting winter. Then does everything become
      more mysterious, the sky frowns with clouds, yellow leaves strew the paths
      at the edge of the naked forest, and the forest itself turns black and
      blue—more especially at eventide when damp fog is spreading and the
      trees glimmer in the depths like giants, like formless, weird phantoms.
      Perhaps one may be out late, and had got separated from one’s companions.
      Oh horrors! Suddenly one starts and trembles as one seems to see a
      strange-looking being peering from out of the darkness of a hollow tree,
      while all the while the wind is moaning and rattling and howling through
      the forest—moaning with a hungry sound as it strips the leaves from
      the bare boughs, and whirls them into the air. High over the tree-tops, in
      a widespread, trailing, noisy crew, there fly, with resounding cries,
      flocks of birds which seem to darken and overlay the very heavens. Then a
      strange feeling comes over one, until one seems to hear the voice of some
      one whispering: “Run, run, little child! Do not be out late, for this
      place will soon have become dreadful! Run, little child! Run!” And at the
      words terror will possess one’s soul, and one will rush and rush until
      one’s breath is spent—until, panting, one has reached home.
      At home, however, all will look bright and bustling as we children are set
      to shell peas or poppies, and the damp twigs crackle in the stove, and our
      mother comes to look fondly at our work, and our old nurse, Iliana, tells
      us stories of bygone days, or terrible legends concerning wizards and dead
      men. At the recital we little ones will press closer to one another, yet
      smile as we do so; when suddenly, everyone becomes silent. Surely somebody
      has knocked at the door?... But nay, nay; it is only the sound of
      Frolovna’s spinning-wheel. What shouts of laughter arise! Later one will
      be unable to sleep for fear of the strange dreams which come to visit one;
      or, if one falls asleep, one will soon wake again, and, afraid to stir,
      lie quaking under the coverlet until dawn. And in the morning, one will
      arise as fresh as a lark and look at the window, and see the fields
      overlaid with hoarfrost, and fine icicles hanging from the naked branches,
      and the pond covered over with ice as thin as paper, and a white steam
      rising from the surface, and birds flying overhead with cheerful cries.
      Next, as the sun rises, he throws his glittering beams everywhere, and
      melts the thin, glassy ice until the whole scene has come to look bright
      and clear and exhilarating; and as the fire begins to crackle again in the
      stove, we sit down to the tea-urn, while, chilled with the night cold, our
      black dog, Polkan, will look in at us through the window, and wag his tail
      with a cheerful air. Presently, a peasant will pass the window in his cart
      bound for the forest to cut firewood, and the whole party will feel merry
      and contented together. Abundant grain lies stored in the byres, and great
      stacks of wheat are glowing comfortably in the morning sunlight. Everyone
      is quiet and happy, for God has blessed us with a bounteous harvest, and
      we know that there will be abundance of food for the wintertide. Yes, the
      peasant may rest assured that his family will not want for aught. Song and
      dance will arise at night from the village girls, and on festival days
      everyone will repair to God’s house to thank Him with grateful tears for
      what He has done.... Ah, a golden time was my time of childhood!...
    
Yes, I really loved autumn—the late autumn when the crops are harvested, and the fieldwork is done, and the evening gatherings in the huts have started, and everyone is getting ready for winter. Everything becomes more mysterious then; the sky is overcast with clouds, yellow leaves scatter the paths at the edge of the bare forest, and the forest itself turns dark blue—especially at dusk when damp fog rolls in and the trees shimmer in the depths like giants, like strange, formless phantoms. Sometimes, you might be out late and get separated from your friends. Oh no! Suddenly, you jump and shiver as you seem to see a bizarre figure peering out from the darkness of a hollow tree, while the wind moans, rattles, and howls through the forest—moaning with a hungry sound as it strips the leaves from the bare branches and whirls them into the air. High above the treetops, in a noisy, sprawling flock, birds fly with loud cries, seeming to darken the very sky. Then a strange feeling washes over you, and you almost hear a voice whispering: “Run, run, little one! Don’t stay out late; this place will soon become terrifying! Run, little one! Run!” At those words, terror grips your soul, and you dash and dash until you’re out of breath—until, panting, you’ve made it home. Once home, everything looks bright and lively as we kids are set to shell peas or poppies, the damp twigs crackle in the stove, and our mother comes to fondly check on our work, while our old nurse, Iliana, tells us stories from the past or scary legends about wizards and the dead. As she tells the story, we little ones huddle closer together, smiling despite ourselves; then suddenly, everyone falls silent. Surely someone has knocked at the door?... But no, it’s just Frolovna’s spinning wheel. What bursts of laughter follow! Later, you might lie awake, afraid of the strange dreams that come to haunt you; or if you do fall asleep, you’ll wake again soon and, too scared to move, lie trembling under the covers until dawn. In the morning, you’ll wake up refreshed like a lark, look out the window, and see the fields coated in frost, fine icicles hanging from the bare branches, the pond frozen over like paper, and white steam rising from the surface while birds fly above with cheerful calls. Then, as the sun rises, it spreads its glittering rays everywhere, melting the thin, glassy ice until the whole scene looks bright, clear, and uplifting; and as the fire starts crackling again in the stove, we gather around the tea-urn while our black dog, Polkan, peeks in through the window, wagging his tail cheerfully. Soon, a peasant will pass the window in his cart, heading to the forest to gather firewood, and everyone feels merry and content together. Plenty of grain is stored in the barns, and huge stacks of wheat glow warmly in the morning sunlight. Everyone is quiet and happy because God has blessed us with a plentiful harvest, and we know there will be plenty of food for winter. Yes, the peasant can be confident his family won’t lack for anything. Songs and dances will ring out at night from the village girls, and on festive days, everyone will go to God’s house to thank Him with grateful tears for all He has done.... Ah, my childhood was a golden time!...



      Carried away by these memories, I could weep like a child. Everything,
      everything comes back so clearly to my recollection! The past stands out
      so vividly before me! Yet in the present everything looks dim and dark!
      How will it all end?—how? Do you know, I have a feeling, a sort of
      sure premonition, that I am going to die this coming autumn; for I feel
      terribly, oh so terribly ill! Often do I think of death, yet feel that I
      should not like to die here and be laid to rest in the soil of St.
      Petersburg. Once more I have had to take to my bed, as I did last spring,
      for I have never really recovered. Indeed I feel so depressed! Thedora has
      gone out for the day, and I am alone. For a long while past I have been
      afraid to be left by myself, for I keep fancying that there is someone
      else in the room, and that that someone is speaking to me. Especially do I
      fancy this when I have gone off into a reverie, and then suddenly awoken
      from it, and am feeling bewildered. That is why I have made this letter
      such a long one; for, when I am writing, the mood passes away. Goodbye. I
      have neither time nor paper left for more, and must close. Of the money
      which I saved to buy a new dress and hat, there remains but a single
      rouble; but, I am glad that you have been able to pay your landlady two
      roubles, for they will keep her tongue quiet for a time. And you must
      repair your wardrobe.
    
Caught up in these memories, I could cry like a child. Everything, everything comes back to me so clearly! The past stands out so vividly! Yet in the present, everything feels dim and dark! How will it all end?—how? You know, I have this feeling, a sort of strong premonition, that I am going to die this coming autumn; I feel terribly, oh so terribly ill! I often think about death, yet I don’t want to die here and be buried in the soil of St. Petersburg. Once again, I've had to go to bed, as I did last spring, since I've never truly recovered. I really feel so down! Thedora has gone out for the day, and I'm alone. For quite some time now, I’ve been afraid to be by myself because I keep imagining there’s someone else in the room, and that someone is talking to me. I especially think this when I drift off into a daydream and then suddenly wake up, feeling confused. That’s why I’ve made this letter so long; when I write, the mood fades away. Goodbye. I don’t have time or paper for more, and I must wrap this up. Of the money I saved to buy a new dress and hat, I have only one rouble left; but I’m glad you could pay your landlady two roubles, as that will keep her quiet for a while. And you need to fix your wardrobe.



      Goodbye once more. I am so tired! Nor can I think why I am growing so weak—why
      it is that even the smallest task now wearies me? Even if work should come
      my way, how am I to do it? That is what worries me above all things.
    
Goodbye again. I'm so exhausted! I can't figure out why I'm feeling so weak—why even the simplest task wears me out now. Even if work comes my way, how am I supposed to handle it? That's what concerns me the most.



      B. D. 
 

B. D. 
 












      September 5th.
    



      MY BELOVED BARBARA,—Today I have undergone a variety of experiences.
      In the first place, my head has been aching, and towards evening I went
      out to get a breath of fresh air along the Fontanka Canal. The weather was
      dull and damp, and even by six o’clock, darkness had begun to set in.
      True, rain was not actually falling, but only a mist like rain, while the
      sky was streaked with masses of trailing cloud. Crowds of people were
      hurrying along Naberezhnaia Street, with faces that looked strange and
      dejected. There were drunken peasants; snub-nosed old harridans in
      slippers; bareheaded artisans; cab drivers; every species of beggar; boys;
      a locksmith’s apprentice in a striped smock, with lean, emaciated features
      which seemed to have been washed in rancid oil; an ex-soldier who was
      offering penknives and copper rings for sale; and so on, and so on. It was
      the hour when one would expect to meet no other folk than these. And what
      a quantity of boats there were on the canal. It made one wonder how they
      could all find room there. On every bridge were old women selling damp
      gingerbread or withered apples, and every woman looked as damp and dirty
      as her wares. In short, the Fontanka is a saddening spot for a walk, for
      there is wet granite under one’s feet, and tall, dingy buildings on either
      side of one, and wet mist below and wet mist above. Yes, all was dark and
      gloomy there this evening.
    
MY BELOVED BARBARA,—Today I've had a mix of experiences.  
First, I’ve had a headache, so in the evening, I went out to get some fresh air by the Fontanka Canal. The weather was dreary and damp, and by six o’clock, it had already started to get dark. It wasn’t actually raining, just a mist that felt like rain, and the sky was filled with thick, lingering clouds. Crowds were rushing down Naberezhnaia Street, their faces looking strange and downcast. There were drunken peasants, snub-nosed old women in slippers, bareheaded workers, cab drivers, all sorts of beggars, boys, a locksmith’s apprentice in a striped smock with gaunt, sunken features that seemed like they’d been washed in old oil, and an ex-soldier selling penknives and copper rings, among others. At this hour, you’d expect to meet no one else but them. And there were so many boats on the canal, it made you wonder how they could all fit. On every bridge, old women were selling soggy gingerbread or shriveled apples, and every woman looked as wet and grimy as her goods. In short, the Fontanka is a depressing place for a walk, with cold, wet granite underfoot, tall, drab buildings on either side, and mist all around, both above and below. Yes, everything felt dark and gloomy there this evening.



      By the time I had returned to Gorokhovaia Street darkness had fallen and
      the lamps had been lit. However, I did not linger long in that particular
      spot, for Gorokhovaia Street is too noisy a place. But what sumptuous
      shops and stores it contains! Everything sparkles and glitters, and the
      windows are full of nothing but bright colours and materials and hats of
      different shapes. One might think that they were decked merely for
      display; but no,—people buy these things, and give them to their
      wives! Yes, it IS a sumptuous place. Hordes of German hucksters are there,
      as well as quite respectable traders. And the quantities of carriages
      which pass along the street! One marvels that the pavement can support so
      many splendid vehicles, with windows like crystal, linings made of silk
      and velvet, and lacqueys dressed in epaulets and wearing swords! Into some
      of them I glanced, and saw that they contained ladies of various ages.
      Perhaps they were princesses and countesses! Probably at that hour such
      folk would be hastening to balls and other gatherings. In fact, it was
      interesting to be able to look so closely at a princess or a great lady.
      They were all very fine. At all events, I had never before seen such
      persons as I beheld in those carriages....
    
By the time I got back to Gorokhovaia Street, it was dark and the lamps were on. But I didn't stick around for long because Gorokhovaia Street is way too noisy. Still, the shops and stores are absolutely stunning! Everything shines and sparkles, and the windows are filled with vibrant colors, fancy fabrics, and all kinds of hats. You might think they’re just for show, but no—people actually buy these things and gift them to their wives! Yes, it’s a lavish place. There are throngs of German vendors and quite a few respectable merchants too. And the number of carriages passing by is incredible! You wonder how the sidewalk can handle so many beautiful vehicles, with crystal-clear windows, silk and velvet interiors, and footmen dressed in epaulets with swords! I peeked into some of them and saw ladies of all ages inside. Maybe they were princesses or countesses! At that hour, they were probably rushing off to balls and other events. Honestly, it was exciting to get a close look at a princess or a high-society lady. They all looked very impressive. I had never seen such people before like those I saw in those carriages...



      Then I thought of you. Ah, my own, my darling, it is often that I think of
      you and feel my heart sink. How is it that YOU are so unfortunate,
      Barbara? How is it that YOU are so much worse off than other people? In my
      eyes you are kind-hearted, beautiful, and clever—why, then, has such
      an evil fate fallen to your lot? How comes it that you are left desolate—you,
      so good a human being! While to others happiness comes without an
      invitation at all? Yes, I know—I know it well—that I ought not
      to say it, for to do so savours of free-thought; but why should that
      raven, Fate, croak out upon the fortunes of one person while she is yet in
      her mother’s womb, while another person it permits to go forth in
      happiness from the home which has reared her? To even an idiot of an
      Ivanushka such happiness is sometimes granted. “You, you fool Ivanushka,”
       says Fate, “shall succeed to your grandfather’s money-bags, and eat,
      drink, and be merry; whereas YOU (such and such another one) shall do no
      more than lick the dish, since that is all that you are good for.” Yes, I
      know that it is wrong to hold such opinions, but involuntarily the sin of
      so doing grows upon one’s soul. Nevertheless, it is you, my darling, who
      ought to be riding in one of those carriages. Generals would have come
      seeking your favour, and, instead of being clad in a humble cotton dress,
      you would have been walking in silken and golden attire. Then you would
      not have been thin and wan as now, but fresh and plump and rosy-cheeked as
      a figure on a sugar-cake. Then should I too have been happy—happy if
      only I could look at your lighted windows from the street, and watch your
      shadow—happy if only I could think that you were well and happy, my
      sweet little bird! Yet how are things in reality? Not only have evil folk
      brought you to ruin, but there comes also an old rascal of a libertine to
      insult you! Just because he struts about in a frockcoat, and can ogle you
      through a gold-mounted lorgnette, the brute thinks that everything will
      fall into his hands—that you are bound to listen to his insulting
      condescension! Out upon him! But why is this? It is because you are an
      orphan, it is because you are unprotected, it is because you have no
      powerful friend to afford you the decent support which is your due. WHAT
      do such facts matter to a man or to men to whom the insulting of an orphan
      is an offence allowed? Such fellows are not men at all, but mere vermin,
      no matter what they think themselves to be. Of that I am certain. Why, an
      organ-grinder whom I met in Gorokhovaia Street would inspire more respect
      than they do, for at least he walks about all day, and suffers hunger—at
      least he looks for a stray, superfluous groat to earn him subsistence, and
      is, therefore, a true gentleman, in that he supports himself. To beg alms
      he would be ashamed; and, moreover, he works for the benefit of mankind
      just as does a factory machine. “So far as in me lies,” says he, “I will
      give you pleasure.” True, he is a pauper, and nothing but a pauper; but,
      at least he is an HONOURABLE pauper. Though tired and hungry, he still
      goes on working—working in his own peculiar fashion, yet still doing
      honest labour. Yes, many a decent fellow whose labour may be
      disproportionate to its utility pulls the forelock to no one, and begs his
      bread of no one. I myself resemble that organ-grinder. That is to say,
      though not exactly he, I resemble him in this respect, that I work
      according to my capabilities, and so far as in me lies. More could be
      asked of no one; nor ought I to be adjudged to do more.
    
Then I thought of you. Ah, my own, my darling, I often think of you and feel my heart drop. How is it that YOU are so unfortunate, Barbara? Why are YOU so much worse off than others? In my eyes, you are kind-hearted, beautiful, and smart—so why has such a terrible fate befallen you? How is it that you are left all alone—you, such a good person! While others seem to find happiness without any effort? Yes, I know—I know I shouldn’t say this, as it sounds like free-thinking; but why should that cruel Fate pick on one person from the moment she’s born while letting another go out into the world happily from her family home? Even an idiot like Ivanushka sometimes gets that kind of happiness. “You, you foolish Ivanushka,” says Fate, “will inherit your grandfather’s fortune and enjoy life; while YOU (some other person) will only get the scraps, since that’s all you’re good for.” Yes, I know it’s wrong to think this way, but the guilt of doing so weighs on one’s soul. Still, it’s you, my darling, who should be riding in one of those carriages. Generals would have come seeking your favor, and instead of wearing a simple cotton dress, you would have been walking around in silk and gold. Then you wouldn’t be as thin and pale as you are now, but fresh and plump and rosy-cheeked like a figure on a cake. Then I too would have been happy—happy if I could just see your lit windows from the street and watch your shadow—happy just thinking that you were well and happy, my sweet little bird! But how are things really? Not only have wicked people brought you down, but now there’s an old lecher coming to insult you! Just because he wears a fancy coat and can stare at you through a gold-mounted lorgnette, the brute thinks everything will come to him—that you will have to listen to his insulting condescension! Ugh! But why is this happening? It’s because you’re an orphan, it’s because you’re unprotected, it’s because you have no strong friend to give you the decent support you deserve. WHAT do such facts mean to a man, or to men who think it’s okay to insult an orphan? Such men are not true men at all, but mere vermin, no matter how they see themselves. I’m sure of that. An organ-grinder I met on Gorokhovaia Street would deserve more respect than they do, because at least he walks around all day and suffers from hunger—at least he looks for spare change to earn a living and is, therefore, a true gentleman for taking care of himself. He’d be ashamed to beg; plus, he works for the good of others just like a factory machine. “As much as I can,” he says, “I will give you joy.” True, he’s poor, and just a pauper; but at least he’s an HONORABLE pauper. Even when tired and hungry, he keeps working—working in his own way, yet still doing honest labor. Yes, many decent people, whose work might not seem to match its worth, hold their heads high and never beg for their bread. I’m like that organ-grinder. Not exactly like him, but in this way: I work according to my abilities, and as much as I can. No one should expect more from anyone; nor should I be judged for doing less.



      Apropos of the organ-grinder, I may tell you, dearest, that today I
      experienced a double misfortune. As I was looking at the grinder, certain
      thoughts entered my head and I stood wrapped in a reverie. Some cabmen
      also had halted at the spot, as well as a young girl, with a yet smaller
      girl who was dressed in rags and tatters. These people had halted there to
      listen to the organ-grinder, who was playing in front of some one’s
      windows. Next, I caught sight of a little urchin of about ten—a boy
      who would have been good-looking but for the fact that his face was
      pinched and sickly. Almost barefooted, and clad only in a shirt, he was
      standing agape to listen to the music—a pitiful childish figure.
      Nearer to the grinder a few more urchins were dancing, but in the case of
      this lad his hands and feet looked numbed, and he kept biting the end of
      his sleeve and shivering. Also, I noticed that in his hands he had a paper
      of some sort. Presently a gentleman came by, and tossed the grinder a
      small coin, which fell straight into a box adorned with a representation
      of a Frenchman and some ladies. The instant he heard the rattle of the
      coin, the boy started, looked timidly round, and evidently made up his
      mind that I had thrown the money; whereupon, he ran to me with his little
      hands all shaking, and said in a tremulous voice as he proffered me his
      paper: “Pl-please sign this.” I turned over the paper, and saw that there
      was written on it what is usual under such circumstances. “Kind friends I
      am a sick mother with three hungry children. Pray help me. Though soon I
      shall be dead, yet, if you will not forget my little ones in this world,
      neither will I forget you in the world that is to come.” The thing seemed
      clear enough; it was a matter of life and death. Yet what was I to give
      the lad? Well, I gave him nothing. But my heart ached for him. I am
      certain that, shivering with cold though he was, and perhaps hungry, the
      poor lad was not lying. No, no, he was not lying.
      The shameful point is that so many mothers take no care of their children,
      but send them out, half-clad, into the cold. Perhaps this lad’s mother
      also was a feckless old woman, and devoid of character? Or perhaps she had
      no one to work for her, but was forced to sit with her legs crossed—a
      veritable invalid? Or perhaps she was just an old rogue who was in the
      habit of sending out pinched and hungry boys to deceive the public? What
      would such a boy learn from begging letters? His heart would soon be
      rendered callous, for, as he ran about begging, people would pass him by
      and give him nothing. Yes, their hearts would be as stone, and their
      replies rough and harsh. “Away with you!” they would say. “You are seeking
      but to trick us.” He would hear that from every one, and his heart would
      grow hard, and he would shiver in vain with the cold, like some poor
      little fledgling that has fallen out of the nest. His hands and feet would
      be freezing, and his breath coming with difficulty; until, look you, he
      would begin to cough, and disease, like an unclean parasite, would worm
      its way into his breast until death itself had overtaken him—overtaken
      him in some foetid corner whence there was no chance of escape. Yes, that
      is what his life would become.
      There are many such cases. Ah, Barbara, it is hard to hear “For Christ’s
      sake!” and yet pass the suppliant by and give nothing, or say merely: “May
      the Lord give unto you!” Of course, SOME supplications mean nothing (for
      supplications differ greatly in character). Occasionally supplications are
      long, drawn-out and drawling, stereotyped and mechanical—they are
      purely begging supplications. Requests of this kind it is less hard to
      refuse, for they are purely professional and of long standing. “The beggar
      is overdoing it,” one thinks to oneself. “He knows the trick too well.”
       But there are other supplications which voice a strange, hoarse,
      unaccustomed note, like that today when I took the poor boy’s paper. He
      had been standing by the kerbstone without speaking to anybody—save
      that at last to myself he said, “For the love of Christ give me a groat!”
       in a voice so hoarse and broken that I started, and felt a queer sensation
      in my heart, although I did not give him a groat. Indeed, I had not a
      groat on me. Rich folk dislike hearing poor people complain of their
      poverty. “They disturb us,” they say, “and are impertinent as well. Why
      should poverty be so impertinent? Why should its hungry moans prevent us
      from sleeping?”
     
Regarding the organ-grinder, I must tell you, my dear, that today I faced a double misfortune. As I watched the grinder, certain thoughts flooded my mind, and I found myself lost in a daydream. Some cab drivers had also stopped nearby, as well as a young girl with an even smaller girl dressed in rags. They had paused to listen to the organ-grinder, who was playing in front of someone’s windows. Then, I noticed a little boy of about ten—a kid who would have been cute if not for his pinched and sickly face. Almost barefoot and only wearing a shirt, he stood there, wide-eyed, absorbing the music—a pitiful sight. Closer to the grinder, a few other kids were dancing, but this boy looked numb, biting the end of his sleeve and shivering. I also saw he held a piece of paper in his hands. Soon, a man passed by and tossed the grinder a small coin, which fell straight into a box decorated with images of a Frenchman and some ladies. The moment the boy heard the coin clink, he jumped, looked around nervously, and clearly decided that I had thrown the money; he then ran over to me, his little hands trembling, and said in a shaky voice as he offered me his paper: “Pl-please sign this.” I flipped the paper and saw the usual plea written on it. “Kind friends, I am a sick mother with three hungry children. Please help me. Even though I will soon die, if you don’t forget my little ones in this world, I won’t forget you in the next.” It was pretty clear; it was a matter of life and death. But what was I supposed to give the boy? In the end, I gave him nothing. Yet my heart ached for him. I’m certain that, even though he was shivering with cold and perhaps hungry, the poor boy wasn’t lying. No, he wasn’t lying. The disgrace is that so many mothers neglect their children, sending them out half-dressed into the cold. Maybe this lad’s mother was an irresponsible woman, lacking in character? Or perhaps she had no one to help her, forced to sit there helpless—an actual invalid? Or maybe she was just a dishonest person who routinely sent out starving boys to con the public? What would such a boy learn from begging? His heart would turn callous because, as he went around begging, people would pass by without giving him anything. Yes, their hearts would be as hard as stone, and their responses would be rough and unkind. “Get lost!” they would say. “You’re just trying to trick us.” He would hear that from everyone, and his heart would grow hard, shivering in vain against the cold like a poor little bird that has fallen from the nest. His hands and feet would freeze, his breath would become labored, and before long, he would start coughing, with disease creeping in like an unwelcome parasite until death overtook him—in some filthy corner with no way out. Yes, that would become his life. There are many such cases. Ah, Barbara, it’s difficult to hear “For Christ’s sake!” and still walk past the person asking for help without giving anything or merely saying, “May the Lord bless you!” Of course, some requests seem meaningless (as pleas vary greatly in nature). Occasionally, pleas are lengthy, drawn-out, and sound rehearsed—they’re just desperate appeals. It’s easier to ignore those, as they come from professionals who have been doing this for ages. “The beggar is overselling it,” one might think. “He knows the routine too well.” But there are other pleas that carry a strange, hoarse, unfamiliar tone, like today when I took the boy's paper. He had been standing by the curb without speaking to anyone—until finally coming to me and saying, “For the love of Christ, give me a penny!” in a voice so hoarse and broken that it startled me, stirring something in my heart, even though I didn’t give him a penny. In fact, I didn’t even have a penny on me. Wealthy people dislike hearing poor people complain about their poverty. “They bother us,” they say, “and are rude as well. Why should poverty be so rude? Why should its hungry pleas keep us from sleeping?”



      To tell you the truth, my darling, I have written the foregoing not merely
      to relieve my feelings, but, also, still more, to give you an example of
      the excellent style in which I can write. You yourself will recognise that
      my style was formed long ago, but of late such fits of despondency have
      seized upon me that my style has begun to correspond to my feelings; and
      though I know that such correspondence gains one little, it at least
      renders one a certain justice. For not unfrequently it happens that, for
      some reason or another, one feels abased, and inclined to value oneself at
      nothing, and to account oneself lower than a dishclout; but this merely
      arises from the fact that at the time one is feeling harassed and
      depressed, like the poor boy who today asked of me alms. Let me tell you
      an allegory, dearest, and do you hearken to it. Often, as I hasten to the
      office in the morning, I look around me at the city—I watch it
      awaking, getting out of bed, lighting its fires, cooking its breakfast,
      and becoming vocal; and at the sight, I begin to feel smaller, as though
      some one had dealt me a rap on my inquisitive nose. Yes, at such times I
      slink along with a sense of utter humiliation in my heart. For one would
      have but to see what is passing within those great, black, grimy houses of
      the capital, and to penetrate within their walls, for one at once to
      realise what good reason there is for self-depredation and
      heart-searching. Of course, you will note that I am speaking figuratively
      rather than literally.
    
To be honest, my dear, I didn't write the above just to express my feelings, but also to show you the great writing style I can achieve. You’ll recognize that my style was shaped long ago, but recently I've gone through such bouts of despair that my writing now reflects my emotions; and while I know that this connection isn’t very beneficial, it at least provides some sense of fairness. It often happens that for one reason or another, you feel low and undervalue yourself, thinking you’re worth less than a rag; but this usually comes from feeling overwhelmed and down, like the poor boy who asked me for help today. Let me share an allegory, sweetheart, and listen closely. Often, as I hurry to the office in the morning, I look around the city—I watch it wake up, get out of bed, light its fires, cook its breakfast, and come to life; and seeing this, I start to feel small, as if someone has given my curious nose a sharp tap. Yes, at those moments I walk with a deep sense of shame in my heart. If only you could see what goes on inside those big, dark, grimy buildings in the city, if you could get behind their walls, you would quickly understand why there's good reason for self-doubt and soul-searching. Of course, you’ll notice that I’m speaking metaphorically rather than literally.



      Let us look at what is passing within those houses. In some dingy corner,
      perhaps, in some damp kennel which is supposed to be a room, an artisan
      has just awakened from sleep. All night he has dreamt—IF such an
      insignificant fellow is capable of dreaming?—about the shoes which
      last night he mechanically cut out. He is a master-shoemaker, you see, and
      therefore able to think of nothing but his one subject of interest. Nearby
      are some squalling children and a hungry wife. Nor is he the only man that
      has to greet the day in this fashion. Indeed, the incident would be
      nothing—it would not be worth writing about, save for another
      circumstance. In that same house ANOTHER person—a person of great
      wealth—may also have been dreaming of shoes; but, of shoes of a very
      different pattern and fashion (in a manner of speaking, if you understand
      my metaphor, we are all of us shoemakers). This, again, would be nothing,
      were it not that the rich person has no one to whisper in his ear: “Why
      dost thou think of such things? Why dost thou think of thyself alone, and
      live only for thyself—thou who art not a shoemaker? THY children are
      not ailing. THY wife is not hungry. Look around thee. Can’st thou not find
      a subject more fitting for thy thoughts than thy shoes?” That is what I
      want to say to you in allegorical language, Barbara. Maybe it savours a
      little of free-thought, dearest; but, such ideas WILL keep arising in my
      mind and finding utterance in impetuous speech. Why, therefore, should one
      not value oneself at a groat as one listens in fear and trembling to the
      roar and turmoil of the city? Maybe you think that I am exaggerating
      things—that this is a mere whim of mine, or that I am quoting from a
      book? No, no, Barbara. You may rest assured that it is not so.
      Exaggeration I abhor, with whims I have nothing to do, and of quotation I
      am guiltless.
    
Let’s take a look at what’s happening inside those houses. In some shabby corner, maybe in a damp, makeshift room, a craftsman has just woken up. All night he’s been dreaming—if such an ordinary guy can even dream—about the shoes he cut out mechanically last night. He’s a master shoemaker, so he can’t think about anything else but his one passion. Nearby, there are some crying kids and a hungry wife. He’s not the only guy facing the day this way. Honestly, this wouldn’t be worth mentioning if it weren’t for another detail. In that same house, ANOTHER person—a wealthy individual—might also have been dreaming about shoes; but, shoes of a completely different style (metaphorically speaking, if you catch my drift, we’re all shoemakers). This would also be nothing special, except the rich person has no one to say to him: “Why do you think about such things? Why do you only think of yourself and live just for yourself—someone who isn’t a shoemaker? YOUR children aren’t sick. YOUR wife isn’t hungry. Look around. Can’t you find a more worthy topic to think about than your shoes?” That’s what I want to express to you in a symbolic way, Barbara. Maybe it sounds a bit like free-thinking, my dear; but these ideas WILL keep popping up in my mind and spilling out in passionate speech. So, why shouldn’t someone value themselves even a little while listening with fear and anxiety to the noise and chaos of the city? Maybe you think I’m exaggerating—that this is just a whim of mine, or that I’m quoting from a book? No, no, Barbara. You can be sure it’s not like that. I hate exaggeration, I have nothing to do with whims, and I’m not quoting anyone.



      I arrived home today in a melancholy mood. Sitting down to the table, I
      had warmed myself some tea, and was about to drink a second glass of it,
      when there entered Gorshkov, the poor lodger. Already, this morning, I had
      noticed that he was hovering around the other lodgers, and also seeming to
      want to speak to myself. In passing I may say that his circumstances are
      infinitely worse than my own; for, only think of it, he has a wife and
      children! Indeed, if I were he, I do not know what I should do. Well, he
      entered my room, and bowed to me with the pus standing, as usual, in drops
      on his eyelashes, his feet shuffling about, and his tongue unable, at
      first, to articulate a word. I motioned him to a chair (it was a
      dilapidated enough one, but I had no other), and asked him to have a glass
      of tea. To this he demurred—for quite a long time he demurred, but
      at length he accepted the offer. Next, he was for drinking the tea without
      sugar, and renewed his excuses, but upon the sugar I insisted. After long
      resistance and many refusals, he DID consent to take some, but only the
      smallest possible lump; after which, he assured me that his tea was
      perfectly sweet. To what depths of humility can poverty reduce a man!
      “Well, what is it, my good sir?” I inquired of him; whereupon he replied:
      “It is this, Makar Alexievitch. You have once before been my benefactor.
      Pray again show me the charity of God, and assist my unfortunate family.
      My wife and children have nothing to eat. To think that a father should
      have to say this!” I was about to speak again when he interrupted me. “You
      see,” he continued, “I am afraid of the other lodgers here. That is to
      say, I am not so much afraid of, as ashamed to address them, for they are
      a proud, conceited lot of men. Nor would I have troubled even you, my
      friend and former benefactor, were it not that I know that you yourself
      have experienced misfortune and are in debt; wherefore, I have ventured to
      come and make this request of you, in that I know you not only to be
      kind-hearted, but also to be in need, and for that reason the more likely
      to sympathise with me in my distress.” To this he added an apology for his
      awkwardness and presumption. I replied that, glad though I should have
      been to serve him, I had nothing, absolutely nothing, at my disposal. “Ah,
      Makar Alexievitch,” he went on, “surely it is not much that I am asking of
      you? My-my wife and children are starving. C-could you not afford me just
      a grivennik?” At that my heart contracted, “How these people put me to
      shame!” thought I. But I had only twenty kopecks left, and upon them I had
      been counting for meeting my most pressing requirements. “No, good sir, I
      cannot,” said I. “Well, what you will,” he persisted. “Perhaps ten
      kopecks?” Well I got out my cash-box, and gave him the twenty. It was a
      good deed. To think that such poverty should exist! Then I had some
      further talk with him. “How is it,” I asked him, “that, though you are in
      such straits, you have hired a room at five roubles?” He replied that
      though, when he engaged the room six months ago, he paid three months’
      rent in advance, his affairs had subsequently turned out badly, and never
      righted themselves since. You see, Barbara, he was sued at law by a
      merchant who had defrauded the Treasury in the matter of a contract. When
      the fraud was discovered the merchant was prosecuted, but the transactions
      in which he had engaged involved Gorshkov, although the latter had been
      guilty only of negligence, want of prudence, and culpable indifference to
      the Treasury’s interests. True, the affair had taken place some years ago,
      but various obstacles had since combined to thwart Gorshkov. “Of the
      disgrace put upon me,” said he to me, “I am innocent. True, I to a certain
      extent disobeyed orders, but never did I commit theft or embezzlement.”
       Nevertheless the affair lost him his character. He was dismissed the
      service, and though not adjudged capitally guilty, has been unable since
      to recover from the merchant a large sum of money which is his by right,
      as spared to him (Gorshkov) by the legal tribunal. True, the tribunal in
      question did not altogether believe in Gorshkov, but I do so. The matter
      is of a nature so complex and crooked that probably a hundred years would
      be insufficient to unravel it; and, though it has now to a certain extent
      been cleared up, the merchant still holds the key to the situation.
      Personally I side with Gorshkov, and am very sorry for him. Though lacking
      a post of any kind, he still refuses to despair, though his resources are
      completely exhausted. Yes, it is a tangled affair, and meanwhile he must
      live, for, unfortunately, another child which has been born to him has
      entailed upon the family fresh expenses. Also, another of his children
      recently fell ill and died—which meant yet further expense. Lastly,
      not only is his wife in bad health, but he himself is suffering from a
      complaint of long standing. In short, he has had a very great deal to
      undergo. Yet he declares that daily he expects a favourable issue to his
      affair—that he has no doubt of it whatever. I am terribly sorry for
      him, and said what I could to give him comfort, for he is a man who has
      been much bullied and misled. He had come to me for protection from his
      troubles, so I did my best to soothe him. Now, goodbye, my darling. May
      Christ watch over you and preserve your health. Dearest one, even to think
      of you is like medicine to my ailing soul. Though I suffer for you, I at
      least suffer gladly.—Your true friend,
    
I got home today feeling down. I sat at the table, warming some tea for myself, and was about to sip a second glass when Gorshkov, the poor lodger, walked in. Earlier that morning, I had noticed him lingering around the other lodgers and seeming like he wanted to talk to me. I should mention that his situation is a lot worse than mine; after all, he has a wife and kids! Honestly, if I were in his shoes, I wouldn't know what to do. He walked into my room and bowed, his eyes glistening with tears, his feet shuffling, and at first, he couldn’t say a word. I gestured for him to sit down (it was a pretty worn-out chair, but it was all I had) and offered him a glass of tea. He hesitated for quite a while but eventually accepted. Then he wanted to drink the tea without sugar and kept making excuses, but I insisted on the sugar. After much hesitation and many refusals, he agreed to take a tiny piece, claiming that his tea was perfectly sweet. Poverty can really humble a person! “So, what’s on your mind, my good sir?” I asked him. He replied, “It's this, Makar Alexievitch. You’ve helped me before. Please show me that kindness again and help my unfortunate family. My wife and children have nothing to eat. Can you believe a father has to say that?” I was about to speak again when he cut me off. “You see,” he said, “I’m afraid of the other lodgers. It’s not that I fear them so much, but I’m embarrassed to talk to them because they’re such arrogant, self-important men. I wouldn’t even have bothered you, my friend and former benefactor, if I didn’t know that you’ve faced hardship yourself and are in debt. That’s why I thought to ask you, since I know you have a kind heart and might understand my suffering.” He also apologized for being awkward and presumptuous. I replied that, as much as I wanted to help him, I had nothing—absolutely nothing—available. “Ah, Makar Alexievitch,” he continued, “is it really too much to ask? My wife and kids are starving. C-could you spare me just a grivennik?” At that, my heart sank. "How these people put me to shame!" I thought. But I only had twenty kopecks left, which I was counting on to meet my most urgent needs. “No, my good sir, I really can’t,” I said. “Well, what about ten kopecks?” He pressed. I took out my cash box and gave him the twenty. It felt good to help. It’s shocking that such poverty exists! Afterward, we talked more. “How is it,” I asked him, “that even in such difficult circumstances, you’ve rented a room for five roubles?” He explained that although he paid three months' rent upfront when he rented the room six months ago, things had gone downhill since then. You see, Barbara, he was taken to court by a merchant who had cheated the Treasury on a contract. When the scam came to light, the merchant was prosecuted, but Gorshkov got caught up in it, even though he was only negligent and careless regarding the Treasury’s interests. True, this happened years ago, but various hurdles had hindered Gorshkov since then. “Of the disgrace I’ve faced,” he told me, “I’m innocent. Sure, I disobeyed some orders, but I’ve never stolen or embezzled.” Still, this incident ruined his reputation. He was let go from his job, and even though he wasn’t found guilty of anything severe, he hasn't been able to recover a significant sum of money from the merchant that he’s owed by law. It’s true the legal system didn’t completely believe in Gorshkov, but I do. The situation is so complicated and tangled that it might take a hundred years to untangle it. Although some clarity has come to it, the merchant still controls the situation. Personally, I’m on Gorshkov’s side, and I feel for him. Even without a job, he refuses to lose hope, even though he’s completely out of resources. Yes, it’s a complicated situation, and meanwhile, he has to live because, unfortunately, the birth of another child has added new expenses for the family. Plus, one of his children recently got sick and died, which brought even more costs. To top it off, his wife is in poor health, and he’s been dealing with a long-term illness himself. In short, he’s been through a lot. Yet he insists he expects a positive resolution to his situation soon and believes it will happen. I feel so sorry for him and tried to say some comforting words because he’s a man who’s endured a lot of hardship and deception. He came to me seeking comfort from his troubles, so I did my best to support him. Now, goodbye, my darling. May Christ watch over you and keep you healthy. Just thinking of you is like medicine for my troubled soul. Even though I suffer for you, at least I do so gladly.—Your true friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      September 9th.
    



      MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I am beside myself as I take up my
      pen, for a most terrible thing has happened. My head is whirling round.
      Ah, beloved, how am I to tell you about it all? I had never foreseen what
      has happened. But no—I cannot say that I had NEVER foreseen it, for
      my mind DID get an inkling of what was coming, through my seeing something
      very similar to it in a dream.
    
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I am overwhelmed as I write this, because something truly awful has happened. My head is spinning. Oh, my love, how do I begin to explain it all? I never imagined this would occur. But no—I can't say that I never imagined it, because I did have a hint of what was coming, after seeing something very similar in a dream.



      I will tell you the whole story—simply, and as God may put it into
      my heart. Today I went to the office as usual, and, upon arrival, sat down
      to write. You must know that I had been engaged on the same sort of work
      yesterday, and that, while executing it, I had been approached by Timothei
      Ivanovitch with an urgent request for a particular document. “Makar
      Alexievitch,” he had said, “pray copy this out for me. Copy it as quickly
      and as carefully as you can, for it will require to be signed today.” Also
      let me tell you, dearest, that yesterday I had not been feeling myself,
      nor able to look at anything. I had been troubled with grave depression—my
      breast had felt chilled, and my head clouded. All the while I had been
      thinking of you, my darling. Well, I set to work upon the copying, and
      executed it cleanly and well, except for the fact that, whether the devil
      confused my mind, or a mysterious fate so ordained, or the occurrence was
      simply bound to happen, I left out a whole line of the document, and thus
      made nonsense of it! The work had been given me too late for signature
      last night, so it went before his Excellency this morning. I reached the
      office at my usual hour, and sat down beside Emelia Ivanovitch. Here I may
      remark that for a long time past I have been feeling twice as shy and
      diffident as I used to do; I have been finding it impossible to look
      people in the face. Let only a chair creak, and I become more dead than
      alive. Today, therefore, I crept humbly to my seat and sat down in such a
      crouching posture that Efim Akimovitch (the most touchy man in the world)
      said to me sotto voce: “What on earth makes you sit like that, Makar
      Alexievitch?” Then he pulled such a grimace that everyone near us rocked
      with laughter at my expense. I stopped my ears, frowned, and sat without
      moving, for I found this the best method of putting a stop to such
      merriment. All at once I heard a bustle and a commotion and the sound of
      someone running towards us. Did my ears deceive me? It was I who was being
      summoned in peremptory tones! My heart started to tremble within me,
      though I could not say why. I only know that never in my life before had
      it trembled as it did then. Still I clung to my chair—and at that
      moment was hardly myself at all. The voices were coming nearer and nearer,
      until they were shouting in my ear: “Dievushkin! Dievushkin! Where is
      Dievushkin?” Then at length I raised my eyes, and saw before me Evstafi
      Ivanovitch. He said to me: “Makar Alexievitch, go at once to his
      Excellency. You have made a mistake in a document.” That was all, but it
      was enough, was it not? I felt dead and cold as ice—I felt
      absolutely deprived of the power of sensation; but, I rose from my seat
      and went whither I had been bidden. Through one room, through two rooms,
      through three rooms I passed, until I was conducted into his Excellency’s
      cabinet itself. Of my thoughts at that moment I can give no exact account.
      I merely saw his Excellency standing before me, with a knot of people
      around him. I have an idea that I did not salute him—that I forgot
      to do so. Indeed, so panic-stricken was I, that my teeth were chattering
      and my knees knocking together. In the first place, I was greatly ashamed
      of my appearance (a glance into a mirror on the right had frightened me
      with the reflection of myself that it presented), and, in the second
      place, I had always been accustomed to comport myself as though no such
      person as I existed. Probably his Excellency had never before known that I
      was even alive. Of course, he might have heard, in passing, that there was
      a man named Dievushkin in his department; but never for a moment had he
      had any intercourse with me.
    
I'll share the whole story—simply and as it comes to me. Today, I went to the office like usual, and when I got there, I sat down to write. You should know that I had been working on the same task yesterday, and during that time, Timothei Ivanovitch approached me with an urgent request for a specific document. “Makar Alexievitch,” he said, “please copy this for me. Do it as quickly and accurately as you can, because it needs to be signed today.” I also need to tell you, dear, that I wasn’t feeling well yesterday; I couldn’t focus on anything. I was struggling with serious depression—my chest felt heavy, and my mind was foggy. The whole time, I was thinking about you, my love. So, I started copying the document and did a good job except for the fact that, whether by some confusion or fate's design, I accidentally left out a whole line, which made it nonsensical! I was given the work too late for a signature last night, so it went to his Excellency this morning. I arrived at the office at my usual time and sat down next to Emelia Ivanovitch. I should mention that for quite a while now, I've felt twice as shy and awkward as I used to; I find it hard to look people in the eye. If a chair creaks, I feel like I might just disappear. So today, I quietly took my seat and slumped down so much that Efim Akimovitch (the most sensitive person ever) whispered to me, “What’s going on with you, Makar Alexievitch?” Then he made such a face that everyone around us burst into laughter at my expense. I covered my ears, scowled, and sat there quietly since I thought that would stop the laughter. Suddenly, I heard a commotion and someone rushing toward us. Was I imagining things? They were calling for me in urgent tones! My heart started to race for reasons I couldn’t understand. I’ve never felt my heart race like that before. Still, I clung to my chair and felt hardly like myself. The voices grew louder as they shouted in my ear: “Dievushkin! Dievushkin! Where is Dievushkin?” Finally, I looked up and saw Evstafi Ivanovitch in front of me. He said, “Makar Alexievitch, go right away to his Excellency. You made a mistake in a document.” That was all, but it was enough, wasn’t it? I felt dead and cold as ice—I felt completely numb; but, I stood up and went where I was told. I went through one room, then another, and then a third until I reached his Excellency’s office. I can’t recall my thoughts clearly at that moment. I just saw his Excellency standing there with a crowd around him. I think I didn’t even greet him—I forgot to. In fact, I was so panicked that my teeth were chattering, and my knees were shaking. First, I was really embarrassed by how I looked (a quick glance in the mirror on the right terrified me with my own reflection), and second, I had always acted like I didn’t exist. Obviously, his Excellency had probably never known I was even alive. Sure, he might have heard of this guy named Dievushkin in his department, but he had never interacted with me.



      He began angrily: “What is this you have done, sir? Why are you not more
      careful? The document was wanted in a hurry, and you have gone and spoiled
      it. What do you think of it?”—the last being addressed to Evstafi
      Ivanovitch. More I did not hear, except for some flying exclamations of
      “What negligence and carelessness! How awkward this is!” and so on. I
      opened my mouth to say something or other; I tried to beg pardon, but
      could not. To attempt to leave the room, I had not the hardihood. Then
      there happened something the recollection of which causes the pen to
      tremble in my hand with shame. A button of mine—the devil take it!—a
      button of mine that was hanging by a single thread suddenly broke off, and
      hopped and skipped and rattled and rolled until it had reached the feet of
      his Excellency himself—this amid a profound general silence! THAT
      was what came of my intended self-justification and plea for mercy! THAT
      was the only answer that I had to return to my chief!
      The sequel I shudder to relate. At once his Excellency’s attention became
      drawn to my figure and costume. I remembered what I had seen in the
      mirror, and hastened to pursue the button. Obstinacy of a sort seized upon
      me, and I did my best to arrest the thing, but it slipped away, and kept
      turning over and over, so that I could not grasp it, and made a sad
      spectacle of myself with my awkwardness. Then there came over me a feeling
      that my last remaining strength was about to leave me, and that all, all
      was lost—reputation, manhood, everything! In both ears I seemed to
      hear the voices of Theresa and Phaldoni. At length, however, I grasped the
      button, and, raising and straightening myself, stood humbly with clasped
      hands—looking a veritable fool! But no. First of all I tried to
      attach the button to the ragged threads, and smiled each time that it
      broke away from them, and smiled again. In the beginning his Excellency
      had turned away, but now he threw me another glance, and I heard him say
      to Evstafi Ivanovitch: “What on earth is the matter with the fellow? Look
      at the figure he cuts! Who to God is he?” Ah, beloved, only to hear that,
      “Who to God is he?” Truly I had made myself a marked man! In reply to his
      Excellency Evstafi murmured: “He is no one of any note, though his
      character is good. Besides, his salary is sufficient as the scale goes.”
       “Very well, then; but help him out of his difficulties somehow,” said his
      Excellency. “Give him a trifle of salary in advance.” “It is all
      forestalled,” was the reply. “He drew it some time ago. But his record is
      good. There is nothing against him.” At this I felt as though I were in
      Hell fire. I could actually have died! “Well, well,” said his Excellency,
      “let him copy out the document a second time. Dievushkin, come here. You
      are to make another copy of this paper, and to make it as quickly as
      possible.” With that he turned to some other officials present, issued to
      them a few orders, and the company dispersed. No sooner had they done so
      than his Excellency hurriedly pulled out a pocket-book, took thence a note
      for a hundred roubles, and, with the words, “Take this. It is as much as I
      can afford. Treat it as you like,” placed the money in my hand! At this,
      dearest, I started and trembled, for I was moved to my very soul. What
      next I did I hardly know, except that I know that I seized his Excellency
      by the hand. But he only grew very red, and then—no, I am not
      departing by a hair’s-breadth from the truth—it is true—that
      he took this unworthy hand in his, and shook it! Yes, he took this hand of
      mine in his, and shook it, as though I had been his equal, as though I had
      been a general like himself! “Go now,” he said. “This is all that I can do
      for you. Make no further mistakes, and I will overlook your fault.”
     
He started off angrily: “What have you done, sir? Why weren’t you more careful? The document was needed urgently, and now you’ve ruined it. What do you think about that?”—the last part directed at Evstafi Ivanovitch. I didn’t hear anything more except for some shouted remarks like “What negligence and carelessness! How clumsy this is!” and so on. I opened my mouth to say something, to apologize, but nothing came out. I didn’t have the courage to leave the room. Then something happened that makes my hand tremble with shame as I write this. A button of mine—the devil take it!—which was hanging by a thread suddenly popped off, bouncing and rolling until it landed right at the feet of his Excellency—this in the middle of a deep, awkward silence! THAT was my only reply to my boss after trying to justify myself and plead for mercy! 

The follow-up made me shudder. His Excellency immediately noticed my appearance and outfit. I remembered how I looked in the mirror and rushed to chase after the button. A stubbornness of sorts took over, and I tried my hardest to catch it, but it slipped away, tumbling over and over, making me look foolish in my attempts. Then I felt as if my last bit of strength was slipping away, and that I was losing everything—my reputation, my dignity, everything! In my ears, I could hear the voices of Theresa and Phaldoni. Finally, I managed to grab the button, standing up straight with my hands clasped, looking like a complete idiot! But no, first I tried to reattach the button to the frayed threads, smiling each time it popped off again, still smiling. At first, his Excellency had turned away, but now he glanced back at me and I heard him say to Evstafi Ivanovitch: “What on earth is wrong with that guy? Just look at him! Who the hell is he?” Ah, beloved, just to hear that, “Who the hell is he?” It was clear I was in for it! In response to his Excellency, Evstafi murmured: “He’s nobody important, but he has a good character. Plus, his salary is decent for the position.” 

“Very well then; help him out somehow,” said his Excellency. “Give him a bit of salary in advance.” “It’s all been used up,” was the reply. “He took it out some time ago. But his record is good. There’s nothing against him.” At this, I felt like I was in the depths of despair. I honestly thought I might die! “Well, well,” said his Excellency, “let him copy the document again. Dievushkin, come here. You need to make another copy of this paper, and do it as quickly as possible.” With that, he turned to some other officials and gave them a few orders, and they all dispersed. As soon as they left, his Excellency quickly pulled out a wallet, took out a hundred-rouble note, and said, “Take this. It’s all I can afford. Do what you want with it,” placing the money in my hand! At that, dear one, I was so shocked that I trembled, moved to my very core. What I did next is a bit hazy, but I know I grabbed his Excellency’s hand. He just blushed deeply, and then—no, I’m not exaggerating—it’s true—he took my humble hand in his and shook it! Yes, he shook my hand like we were equals, like I was a general just like him! “Go now,” he said. “That’s all I can do for you. Don’t make any more mistakes, and I’ll overlook your fault.”



      What I think about it is this: I beg of you and of Thedora, and had I any
      children I should beg of them also, to pray ever to God for his
      Excellency. I should say to my children: “For your father you need not
      pray; but for his Excellency, I bid you pray until your lives shall end.”
       Yes, dear one—I tell you this in all solemnity, so hearken well unto
      my words—that though, during these cruel days of our adversity, I
      have nearly died of distress of soul at the sight of you and your poverty,
      as well as at the sight of myself and my abasement and helplessness, I yet
      care less for the hundred roubles which his Excellency has given me than
      for the fact that he was good enough to take the hand of a wretched
      drunkard in his own and press it. By that act he restored me to myself. By
      that act he revived my courage, he made life forever sweet to me.... 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!...
    
What I think is this: I ask you and Thedora, and if I had any children, I would ask them too, to always pray to God for his Excellency. I would tell my children: “You don’t need to pray for your father; but for his Excellency, I urge you to pray until your lives end.” Yes, my dear—I say this to you seriously, so listen carefully to my words—that even though, during these tough times, I have nearly died from the pain of seeing you and your struggles, as well as my own humiliation and helplessness, I care less about the hundred roubles that his Excellency has given me than about the fact that he was kind enough to take the hand of a miserable drunkard in his own and squeeze it. That act brought me back to myself. That act revived my courage, and made life forever sweet for me... Yes, I am certain that, though I am a sinner before the Almighty, my prayers for the happiness and success of his Excellency will still rise 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,
    
But, my love, right now I’m feeling really anxious and upset. My heart is pounding like it’s going to burst, and I feel so weak all over. I’m sending you forty-five roubles in cash. I’ll give another twenty to my landlady, and I’ll keep the rest—twenty for new clothes and fifteen for living expenses. But what happened this morning has shaken me deeply, and I need to rest for a bit. It’s very quiet here. I can feel my breathing is all over the place—I can hear it quietly sobbing and trembling inside me. I’ll come and see you soon, but for now, my head is spinning with all these feelings. God knows everything, my darling, my precious treasure!—Your loyal friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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.
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I'm incredibly happy about your good fortune and really appreciate your boss's kindness. Now, take a break from your worries. Just don’t waste money again. Live as simply and frugally as you can, and starting today, always put aside a little something so that misfortune doesn't catch up with you again. For God’s sake, don’t stress—Thedora and I will manage somehow. Why have you sent me so much money? I really don’t need it—what I had was enough. True, I will soon need more money if I plan to leave this place, but Thedora hopes to get back an old debt soon. Of course, I’ll need to set aside at least TWENTY roubles for essentials, but the rest will be sent back to you. Please take care of it, Makar Alexievitch. Now, goodbye. I hope your life continues to be peaceful, and that you stay healthy and in good spirits. I would have written more, but I felt really exhausted. I didn’t leave my bed yesterday. I’m glad you promised to come and see me. Yes, you MUST visit me.



      B. D. 
 

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:
    
MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I beg you not to leave me now that I'm happy and content again. Ignore what Thedora says, and I’ll do anything for you. I’ll behave myself better, even just out of respect for his Excellency, and I'll watch my every action. We will exchange cheerful letters again and share our thoughts, joys, and sorrows (if we even have any more sorrows?). Yes, we will live twice as happily and comfortably as before. Also, we will exchange books.... Angel of my heart, a great change has happened in my fortunes—a change very much for the better. My landlady has become more accommodating; Theresa has regained her senses; even Phaldoni is eager to help me. Plus, I've made peace with Rataziaev. He came to see me on his own as soon as he heard the good news. There’s no doubt that he’s a decent guy, and the rumors about him aren't true. For one thing, I found out he never intended to write about you and me. He told me that himself and then read me his latest work. As for him calling me “Lovelace,” he meant no rudeness or indecency at all. The term is just a foreign word meaning a clever guy, or, in more refined terms, a gentleman you need to reckon with. That’s all; it was just a harmless joke, my love. Only my ignorance made me lose my temper, and I told him I was sorry.... How beautiful is the weather today, my little Barbara! True, there was a slight frost in the early morning, as if scattered through a sieve, but it was nothing, and the breeze soon freshened the air. I went out to buy some shoes and got a great pair. Then, after a stroll along Nevski Prospect, I read “The Daily Bee”. This reminds me that I forgot 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?
    
This morning, I spoke with Emelia Ivanovitch and Aksenti Michaelovitch about his Excellency. It turns out I’m not the only one he’s treated kindly; he’s well-known for his generosity and compassion. People everywhere sing his praises and express their gratitude for what he’s done. He even took care of an orphaned girl, married her off to an official who was the son of a poor widow, and helped him find a position in a certain chancellery, among other things. Well, my dear, I felt it was my duty to contribute by sharing the story of how graciously he treated me. So, I recounted everything to my conversation partners without leaving anything out. Honestly, I humbled myself—though why should I feel ashamed for being happy about such a thing? “Let it be known far and wide,” I told myself, “and it will really reflect well on his Excellency.” I spoke passionately about it and never hesitated. In fact, I felt proud to have such a story to share. I mentioned everyone involved (except you, of course, dear)—my landlady, Phaldoni, Rataziaev, and Markov. I even brought up my shoes! Some of the people listening laughed—everyone actually did—but it was probably because of my appearance or the shoe incident; more likely the latter, but I’m sure it wasn’t meant in a mean way. The listeners might have been young men or well-off; there’s no way they were laughing with bad intentions about what I said. They couldn't have been thinking anything negative about his Excellency. Right, 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.
    
Even now I can’t fully gather my thoughts, so shaken am I by recent events.... Do you have any firewood to keep going, Barbara? You shouldn’t put yourself at risk of getting cold. Also, your worries about the future have been weighing on my mind. Every day I pray to God for you. Ah, HOW I pray to Him!... By the way, do you have any woolen socks to wear and warm clothes in general? Remember, if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask an old man for help. The tough times are behind us, and the future looks bright and promising.



      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,
    
But those were tough times, Barbara, even though they're behind us now and don’t matter anymore! As the years go by, we'll slowly bounce back. I remember my youth so clearly! Back then, I never had a penny to spare. Even though I was cold and hungry, I was always cheerful. In the morning, I’d walk along Nevsky Prospect, meet nice-looking people, and feel happy all day. Yes, it was an amazing time! It felt good to be alive, especially in St. Petersburg. Yet just yesterday, I was begging God with tears to forgive my sins from that sad period—to forgive my complaints, bad thoughts, gambling, and drinking. I thought of you in my prayers, because you were the only one who encouraged me and comforted me, the only one who gave me advice and guidance. I'll never forget that, my dearest. Today, I kissed each of your letters.... Goodbye, my love. I heard there's going to be a clothing sale somewhere nearby. Once again, goodbye, goodbye, my angel—Yours in heart and soul.



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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!
    
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I am in terrible distress. I feel sure that something is about to happen. The issue, my beloved friend, is that Monsieur Bwikov is back in St. Petersburg, since Thedora has seen him. He was driving along in a drozhki but, upon encountering Thedora, he told the coachman to stop, jumped out, and asked her where she was living; but she refused to tell him. Next, he smiled and said he already knew who was living with her (evidently, Anna Thedorovna has informed him), leading Thedora to lose her temper right there on the street, berating him for being an immoral man and the cause of all my troubles. He replied that someone without a groat must be in pretty bad shape; Thedora shot back that I could always either work with my hands or marry—that it wasn’t so much about losing jobs as it was about losing my happiness, which had almost led to my demise. He then remarked that although I was still quite young, I seemed to have lost my mind, and that my “virtue appeared to be under a cloud” (I’m quoting his exact words). Both Thedora and I believed he didn’t know where I lived, but last night, just as I left the house to do some shopping at the Gostinni Dvor, he showed up at our place (clearly, he didn’t want to find me at home) and asked Thedora a lot of questions about our living situation. After looking at my work, he concluded with: “Who is this tchinovnik friend of yours?” At that moment, you happened to be passing through the courtyard, so Thedora pointed you out, and he stared at you and laughed. Thedora then asked him to leave—saying that I was still grieving and it would really upset me to see him there; he paused and replied that he came because he had nothing better to do. He even tried to give Thedora twenty-five roubles, but of course, she refused. What does all this mean? Why did he pay this visit? I can't understand how he found out about me. I’m lost in thought. However, Thedora says that Aksinia, her sister-in-law (who sometimes visits her), knows a laundress named Nastasia, and this woman has a cousin who works as a watchman in a department where a certain friend of Anna Thedorovna’s nephew is part of the staff. Could it be that an intrigue has formed through THIS connection? But Thedora might be entirely wrong. We hardly know what to think. What if he comes again? The mere thought terrifies me. When Thedora told me about this last night, I was so frightened that I nearly fainted. What could he want? In any case, I refuse to associate with such people. What do they have to do with my miserable life? Oh, how haunted I am with anxiety, constantly fearing that Bwikov is nearby! WHAT will become of me? WHAT more does fate have in store for me? For Christ’s sake, please come and see me, Makar Alexievitch! For Christ’s sake, come 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
    
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Today in this house, we experienced a truly unfortunate, mysterious, and unexpected event. First off, I must tell you that poor Gorshkov has been completely cleared of any blame. The decision has taken a long time to arrive, but this morning he went to hear the final verdict. It was entirely in his favor. Any blame that had been placed on him for negligence and irregularity was lifted by the ruling. Furthermore, he has been authorized to claim a large sum of money from the merchant. Thus, he stands entirely vindicated, and his reputation has been restored. In short, he couldn’t have wished for a more complete exoneration. When he got home at three o'clock, he looked as pale as a ghost, and his lips were trembling. Yet there was a smile on his face as he hugged his wife and kids. All of us rushed to congratulate him, and he was deeply touched by our support. Bowing to us, he shook each of our hands in turn. As he did this, I felt somehow that he seemed taller and straighter, and the bags seemed to have vanished from under his eyes. Still, how anxious he was, poor fellow! He couldn’t stay still for two minutes, picking up and dropping everything he came across, bowing and smiling nonstop, sitting down and getting up again, chatting about who knows what related to his honor, his good name, and his little ones. He talked so much—yes, and wept too! In fact, few of us could hold back our tears; although Rataziaev pointed out (probably to lift Gorshkov's spirits) that honor meant nothing when you had nothing to eat and that money was all that truly mattered, and for it alone, God should be thanked. Then he slapped Gorshkov on the shoulder, but I sensed Gorshkov was somehow offended by this. He didn't openly react, but gave Rataziaev a curious look and removed his hand from his shoulder. ONCE upon a time, he wouldn't have behaved this way; but people change. For instance, I myself would have hesitated to seem arrogant in such a joyful moment, even though excessive courtesy might have been seen as a lack of moral courage and mental strength. However, this isn’t my concern. All Gorshkov said was: “Yes, money IS a good thing, thank God!” In fact, throughout our time in his room, he kept saying to himself: “Thank God, thank God!” His wife arranged for a richer and more delicate meal than usual, and even the landlady herself cooked it, for deep down, she’s not a bad person. But until the meal was ready, Gorshkov couldn’t sit still. He kept popping into everyone’s rooms (whether invited or not), sitting down with a smile and sometimes saying something, sometimes saying nothing, just getting up and leaving again. In the naval officer's room, he even picked up a deck of cards and was invited to play a game; but after losing several times and making some mistakes in his play, he quit. “No,” he said, “this is the kind of man I am—that’s all I’m good for,” and left. Next, I met him in the corridor, he took my hands, and looked at me with a rather curious expression. Then he squeezed my hands again and walked away still smiling, but in a strange, tired way, much like a corpse might smile. Meanwhile, his wife was crying tears of joy, and their room was decorated for a celebration. Soon dinner was served, and after they ate, Gorshkov told his wife: “See now, dear, I’m going to rest a little while;” and with that, he went to bed. Shortly after, he called his little daughter to his side, and, placing his hand on her head, he lay there for a long time looking at her. Then he turned to his wife again and asked: “What about Petinka? Where is our Petinka?” to which 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 made his wife realize that something was off with him—that the recent events had shaken him; so she said: “My dearest, you need to sleep a little.” “I will,” he replied, “—right away—I am rather—” And he turned over and lay quiet for a time. Then he turned again and tried to say something, but his wife couldn’t hear it. “What did you say?” she asked, but he didn’t respond. She waited for a few moments until she thought, “He must have fallen asleep,” and went to spend an hour with the landlady. After that hour, she came back—only to find that her husband still hadn’t woken up and was lying still. “He’s sleeping very soundly,” she thought as she sat down and started to occupy herself with something. Since then she has told us that after about half an hour, she fell into a reverie. What she was thinking about, she can’t remember, except that she had completely forgotten about her husband. Then she woke up with a strange sensation in her heart. The first thing she noticed was the eerie silence of the room. Looking at the bed, she saw that her husband was lying in the same position as before. So she approached him, pulled back the blanket, and saw that he was stiff and cold—that he had died suddenly, almost as if struck down. But of what, only God knows. This whole event has left such a terrible impression on me that even now I can’t fully gather my thoughts. It’s hard to believe that a person could die so simply—and he, such a poor, struggling man, this Gorshkov! What a fate, for sure! His wife is overwhelmed with tears and panic, while their little daughter has run off somewhere to hide. In their room, however, there’s chaos and confusion, as the doctors are about to perform an autopsy on the body. But I can’t tell you everything for sure; all I know is that I’m deeply saddened, deeply saddened. How tragic to think that you never know what even a day, what even an hour, may bring! One feels as if life ends for such little reason!...—Your own



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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,
    
MY DEAR BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I’m writing to let you know that Rataziaev has found me some work with a certain writer who has given him a large manuscript. Thank God, this means I have a lot of work ahead. However, even though they need the copy urgently, the original is so poorly written that I hardly know where to start. Some parts of the manuscript are nearly impossible to read. I’ve agreed to do the work for forty kopecks a sheet. So, you can see (and this is why I’m really writing to you) that we will soon be getting some money from an outside source. I have to go now and start my work. —Your true friend,



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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.
    
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I haven’t written to you for the last three days because I have been very worried and anxious.



      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.
    
Three days ago, Bwikov came to see me again. I was alone because Thedora had gone out. As soon as I opened the door, seeing him terrified me so much that I just stood there, feeling myself turn pale. He walked in with his usual loud laugh, took a chair, and sat down. For a long time, I couldn't gather my thoughts; I sat where I was and continued working. Soon, his smile faded because my appearance seemed to strike him in some way. You see, I've lost weight lately; my eyes and cheeks have sunken in, and my face has turned as white as a sheet. Anyone who knew me a year ago would hardly recognize me now. After looking me over for a while, Bwikov seemed to snap out of it, as he said something to which I replied. Then he laughed again. He sat there for a whole hour, talking to me and asking me various questions. Just before he got up to leave, he took my hand and said (to quote him exactly): “Between you and me, Barbara Alexievna, that relative of yours and my good friend—I mean Anna Thedorovna—is a really bad woman,” (he also added a coarser term of insult). “First, she led your cousin astray, and then she ruined you. I've acted like a villain too, but that's just how it goes in the world.” He laughed again. Then, noting that, although he wasn't great at eloquence, he felt it was his duty to have a clear and honest conversation with me, he went on to say that he wanted to marry me; that he felt it was his responsibility to restore my honor; that he could offer me wealth; that after our marriage, he would take me to his country house in the Steppes, where we would hunt hares; that he planned never to return to St. Petersburg because everything there was terrible, and he had to deal with a worthless nephew he had promised to disinherit in favor of a legal heir; and finally, that it was to secure such a legal heir that he was asking for my hand. Lastly, he pointed out that I seemed to be living in very poor conditions (which wasn't surprising, he said, given the awful place I was living in); that I would die if I stayed there a month longer; that all lodgings in St. Petersburg were horrible; and that he would be happy to know if I needed 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 was so shocked by the proposal that I could only burst into tears. He interpreted my tears as gratitude, saying he had always been confident in my good sense, intelligence, and sensitivity, but had hesitated to take this step until he knew how I was doing. Then he asked me some questions about YOU, mentioning that he had heard you were a man of good character and that since he didn’t want to owe you anything, would a sum of five hundred roubles pay you back for everything you had done for me? I replied that what you had done for me could never be repaid with money; he then exclaimed that I was being foolish and silly, that I was clearly still young enough to read poetry, that stories like this ruin young girls, that books only corrupt morals, and that he personally couldn’t stand them. “You should live as long as I have,” he added, “and THEN you’ll see what men can be.”

He then asked me to seriously consider his proposal, saying he wouldn’t want me to make such an important decision lightly, since thoughtlessness and impulsiveness often lead to disaster for young people, but he hoped to receive a positive response. “Otherwise,” he said, “I’ll have no choice but to marry a certain merchant’s daughter in Moscow to keep my promise to deny my nephew his inheritance.” He then pressed five hundred roubles into my hand—saying it was for me to buy some sweets—and ended by saying that in the country I’d grow as fat as a doughnut or a cheese in butter; that he was very busy at the moment; and that despite being wrapped up in work all day, he had seized the chance to visit me. Finally, he left.

For a long time, I sat lost in thought. Even though my mind was troubled, I quickly made a decision... My friend, I’m going to marry this man; I have no choice but to accept his proposal. If anyone can lift me from this misery, restore my reputation, and spare me from future poverty and hardship, it’s him. What else can I hope for in the future? What more can I ask of fate? Thedora insists that one should NEVER lose their happiness; but what, I ask HER, can be considered happiness in my situation? In any case, I see no other option, dear friend. There’s nothing else I can do. I’ve worked myself to the point of ruining my health. I can’t keep working forever. Should I go out into the world? No; I’m worn down by grief and useless. Naturally, this marriage won’t bring me paradise, but what other options do I have, my friend—what other options do I have? What 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 hadn't asked for your advice earlier because I wanted to think things through by myself. However, the decision you've just seen is final, and I'm about to inform Bwikov himself, who, in any case, has been urging me for a quick response because, as he says, his business can't wait and won't allow him to stay here any longer. Therefore, nothing trivial can stand in its way. Only God knows if I will be happy, but my fate is in His holy, mysterious hands, and I've made my choice. They say Bwikov is kind-hearted. He will at least respect me, and maybe I'll be able to return that respect. What more can one expect 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....
    
I have shared everything with you, Makar Alexievitch, and I’m sure you can see why I feel so down. Please, don’t try to change my mind; it won’t work. Take a moment to really think about what has brought me to this decision. At first, I was in a lot of pain, but now I’m calmer. I don’t know what’s ahead of me. What has to happen will happen, and whatever God decides....



      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!...
    
Bwikov has just arrived, so I'm leaving this letter unfinished. I had a lot more to tell you. Bwikov is right 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.
    
MY DEAR BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I’m eager to respond to you—I want to express my shock.... By the way, we buried poor Gorshkov yesterday....
      Yes, Bwikov has acted nobly, and you have no choice but to accept him. Everything is in God’s hands. That’s true, and it always will be; the intentions of the Divine Creator are both good and mysterious, just like Fate, which is one with Him...
      Thedora will share in your happiness—of course, you will be happy and free from want, my darling, my dearest, sweetest angel! But why is everything happening so quickly? Oh, right—Monsieur Bwikov’s business matters. Only someone without responsibilities can afford to ignore such things. I caught a glimpse of Monsieur Bwikov as he was leaving your place. He’s a fine-looking man—very handsome; though that isn’t what I would’ve focused on if I had been feeling like myself at the time....
      In the future, can we write letters to each other? I keep wondering what made you say everything you’ve said. Just as I've finished twenty pages of my copying, THIS happens!... I guess you’ll be able to make many purchases now—to buy shoes and dresses and all sorts of things? Do you remember the shops on Gorokhovaia Street that I used to mention?...
      But no. You shouldn’t go out right now—you absolutely shouldn’t, and you won’t. Soon, you’ll be able to buy a lot of things and even have a carriage. Also, the weather is bad at the moment. It’s raining heavily, and it’s that kind of rain that could really soak you, my darling, and make you catch a cold. Why would your fear of this man lead you to take such risks when I’m here to help you? So Thedora says great happiness awaits you, does she? She’s just a gossipy old woman who clearly wants to ruin you.
      Will you be at the all-night Mass this evening, my dear? I’d love to come see you there. Yes, Bwikov was right when he said that you have virtue, intelligence, and good feelings. But I think he’d be better off marrying the merchant’s daughter. What do YOU think? Yes, that would be much better for him. As soon as it gets dark tonight, I plan to come and sit with you for an hour. It will get dark early tonight, so I’ll be with you soon. No matter what, I intend to see you for an hour. Right now, I assume you’re expecting Bwikov, but I’ll come as soon as he leaves. So please stay home until I arrive, my dearest.



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

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,
    
DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Bwikov just informed me that I need at least three dozen linen blouses, so I have to go immediately and find seamstresses to make two out of the three dozen, since time is running out. In fact, Monsieur Bwikov is quite upset about the fuss that these trivial things are causing, considering there are only five days left until the wedding, and we’re leaving the next day. He keeps running around and insisting that no time should be wasted on nonsense. I’m incredibly stressed and barely able to stay on my feet. There’s so much to do, and maybe some of it should just be left alone! Plus, I don’t have any blond or other lace, so that’s another thing I need to buy, since Bwikov insists that his bride shouldn’t look like a cook, but instead should “put the noses of the great ladies out of joint.” That’s his phrase. So, I would like you to go to Madame Chiffon’s on Gorokhovaia Street and ask her, first, to send me some seamstresses, and second, to kindly come herself, as I am too sick to go out. Our new apartment is very cold and still in a complete mess. Also, Bwikov has an elderly aunt who is gravely ill and might die before we leave. However, he insists that it’s nothing and says she’ll recover soon. He isn’t living with me yet, and I have to keep running around to find him. Only Thedora is helping me, along with Bwikov’s valet, who oversees everything but has been missing for the last three days. Every morning, Bwikov goes to work and loses his temper. Yesterday, he even had some trouble with the police because he hit the building steward... I don’t have anyone to deliver this letter, so I’m going to mail it... Oh! I almost forgot the most important thing—I want you to tell Madame Chiffon that I’d like the blond lace to be changed to match yesterday’s patterns, if she can bring a new selection. Also, mention that I’ve changed my mind about the satin; I want it to be tamboured with crochet work, and tambour should be used for monograms on the various garments. Do you understand? Tambour, not smooth work. Don’t forget that it needs to be tambour. One more thing I nearly forgot: the lappets of the fur cloak need to be raised, and the collar should be trimmed with lace. Please tell her all of this, Makar Alexievitch.—Your friend,



      B. D.
    
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.
    
P.S.—I'm really embarrassed to ask you for favors! This is the third morning you've spent running around for me. But what else can I do? Everything is a mess, and I'm not feeling well. Please don't be upset with me, Makar Alexievitch. I’m feeling really down! What’s going to happen to me, dear friend, kind old Makar Alexievitch? I dread thinking about the future. For some reason, I just feel uneasy; I'm living in a fog. But for heaven's sake, please don’t forget any of my requests. I'm worried you might make a mistake! Remember, everything needs 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). These
      observations she will soon be repeating to you in person. For myself, I
      feel absolutely exhausted, and have not been to the office today...
      Do not despair about the future, dearest. To save you trouble I would
      visit every shop in St. Petersburg. You write that you dare not look
      forward into the future. But by tonight, at seven o’clock, you will have
      learned all, for Madame Chiffon will have arrived in person to see you.
      Hope on, and everything will order itself for the best. Of course, I am
      referring only to these accursed gewgaws, to these frills and fripperies!
      Ah me, ah me, how glad I shall be to see you, my angel! Yes, how glad I
      shall be! Twice already today I have passed the gates of your abode.
      Unfortunately, this Bwikov is a man of such choler that—Well, things
      are as they are.
    
MY DEAR BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I have carefully completed your requests. Madame Chiffon mentioned that she had thought about using tambour work since it would be more suitable (although I didn’t fully grasp everything she said). She also told me that because you provided certain written directions, she has followed them (though I don’t clearly remember everything she mentioned—I just recall that she talked a great deal, as she can be quite a tiresome old woman). She will soon share these details with you in person. As for me, I feel completely drained and haven’t been to the office today... Don’t worry about the future, my dear. To save you hassle, I would visit every shop in St. Petersburg. You’ve written that you’re afraid to think about what’s ahead. But by tonight at seven o’clock, you’ll know everything, as Madame Chiffon will come to see you in person. Keep hoping, and everything will work out for the best. Of course, I’m only talking about these cursed trinkets, these decorations! Oh my, how happy I will be to see you, my angel! Yes, how happy I will be! Twice today I’ve passed by your place. Unfortunately, this Bwikov is such a hothead that—Well, things are as they are.



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      September 28th.
    



      MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—For God’s sake go to the jeweller’s,
      and tell him that, after all, he need not make the pearl and emerald
      earrings. Monsieur Bwikov says that they will cost him too much, that they
      will burn a veritable hole in his pocket. In fact, he has lost his temper
      again, and declares that he is being robbed. Yesterday he added that, had
      he but known, but foreseen, these expenses, he would never have married.
      Also, he says that, as things are, he intends only to have a plain
      wedding, and then to depart. “You must not look for any dancing or
      festivity or entertainment of guests, for our gala times are still in the
      air.” Such were his words. God knows I do not want such things, but none
      the less Bwikov has forbidden them. I made him no answer on the subject,
      for he is a man all too easily irritated. What, what is going to become of
      me?
    
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—For heaven's sake, go to the jeweler’s and tell him that he doesn’t need to make the pearl and emerald earrings after all. Monsieur Bwikov says they will cost him too much and that they’ll burn a real hole in his pocket. In fact, he’s lost his temper again and insists he’s being robbed. Yesterday, he added that if he had known about these expenses, he never would have married. He also says that given the situation, he only plans to have a simple wedding and then leave. “Don’t expect any dancing or festivities or entertaining guests, because our celebratory times are still up in the air.” Those were his words. God knows I don’t want any of those things, but Bwikov has banned them anyway. I didn’t respond to him because he’s a man who gets irritated too easily. What, what is going to happen to me?



      B. D. 
 

B. D. 
 












      September 28th.
    



      MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—All is well as regards the jeweller.
      Unfortunately, I have also to say that I myself have fallen ill, and
      cannot rise from bed. Just when so many things need to be done, I have
      gone and caught a chill, the devil take it! Also I have to tell you that,
      to complete my misfortunes, his Excellency has been pleased to become
      stricter. Today he railed at and scolded Emelia Ivanovitch until the poor
      fellow was quite put about. That is the sum of my news.
      No—there is something else concerning which I should like to write
      to you, but am afraid to obtrude upon your notice. I am a simple, dull
      fellow who writes down whatsoever first comes into his head—Your
      friend,
    
MY DEAR BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Everything is fine with the jeweller.  
      Unfortunately, I must also tell you that I’ve fallen ill and can’t get out of bed. Just when there’s so much to be done, I’ve caught a chill—damn it! Additionally, I need to mention that, to add to my troubles, his Excellency has decided to be stricter. Today, he yelled at and scolded Emelia Ivanovitch until the poor guy was really upset. That's all my news.  
      No—there's something else I want to write to you about, but I'm hesitant to bring it up. I'm just a simple, dull guy who writes whatever comes to mind—Your friend,  



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.   












      September 29th.
    



      MY OWN BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Today, dearest, I saw Thedora, who
      informed me that you are to be married tomorrow, and on the following day
      to go away—for which purpose Bwikov has ordered a post-chaise....
    
MY OWN BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Today, my dear, I saw Thedora, who told me that you are getting married tomorrow, and the day after that you will leave—for which reason Bwikov has arranged for a carriage....



      Well, of the incident of his Excellency, I have already told you. Also I
      have verified the bill from the shop in Gorokhovaia Street. It is correct,
      but very long. Why is Monsieur Bwikov so out of humour with you? Nay, but
      you must be of good cheer, my darling. I am so, and shall always be so, so
      long as you are happy. I should have come to the church tomorrow, but,
      alas, shall be prevented from doing so by the pain in my loins. Also, I
      would have written an account of the ceremony, but that there will be no
      one to report to me the details....
    
Well, I've already told you about what happened with his Excellency. I also checked the bill from the shop on Gorokhovaia Street. It's correct, but it's really long. Why is Monsieur Bwikov so upset with you? But you have to stay positive, my dear. I am, and I always will be, as long as you're happy. I was going to go to church tomorrow, but unfortunately, I won't be able to because of the pain in my back. I also wanted to write about the ceremony, but there won't be anyone to fill me in on the details...



      Yes, you have been a very good friend to Thedora, dearest. You have acted
      kindly, very kindly, towards her. For every such deed God will bless you.
      Good deeds never go unrewarded, nor does virtue ever fail to win the crown
      of divine justice, be it early or be it late. Much else should I have
      liked to write to you. Every hour, every minute I could occupy in writing.
      Indeed I could write to you forever! Only your book, “The Stories of
      Bielkin”, is left to me. Do not deprive me of it, I pray you, but suffer
      me to keep it. It is not so much because I wish to read the book for its
      own sake, as because winter is coming on, when the evenings will be long
      and dreary, and one will want to read at least SOMETHING.
    
Yes, you have been a wonderful friend to Thedora, my dear. You have treated her kindly, very kindly. For every good deed, God will bless you. Good deeds are never overlooked, and virtue always earns the reward of divine justice, whether it comes sooner or later. There’s so much more I’d like to say to you. I could spend every hour, every minute writing to you. In fact, I could write to you forever! The only thing I have left from you is your book, “The Stories of Bielkin.” Please don’t take it away from me; let me keep it. It’s not just because I want to read the book itself, but because winter is approaching, when the evenings will be long and gloomy, and one will want to read at least SOMETHING.



      Do you know, I am going to move from my present quarters into your old
      ones, which I intend to rent from Thedora; for I could never part with
      that good old woman. Moreover, she is such a splendid worker. Yesterday I
      inspected your empty room in detail, and inspected your embroidery-frame,
      with the work still hanging on it. It had been left untouched in its
      corner. Next, I inspected the work itself, of which there still remained a
      few remnants, and saw that you had used one of my letters for a spool upon
      which to wind your thread. Also, on the table I found a scrap of paper
      which had written on it, “My dearest Makar Alexievitch I hasten to—”
       that was all. Evidently, someone had interrupted you at an interesting
      point. Lastly, behind a screen there was your little bed.... Oh darling of
      darlings!!!... Well, goodbye now, goodbye now, but for God’s sake send me
      something in answer to this letter!
    
Do you know, I'm going to move from my current place into your old one, which I plan to rent from Thedora; I could never part with that wonderful woman. Plus, she's such an amazing worker. Yesterday, I checked out your empty room in detail and looked at your embroidery frame, with the work still hanging on it. It had been left untouched in its corner. Then, I examined the work itself, where a few pieces were still left, and I noticed you used one of my letters as a spool to wind your thread. Also, on the table, I found a scrap of paper that said, “My dearest Makar Alexievitch I hasten to—” that was all. Clearly, someone interrupted you at an interesting moment. Finally, behind a screen, there was your little bed... Oh darling of darlings!!!... Well, goodbye for now, but for God’s sake, send me something in response to this letter!



      MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN. 
 












      September 30th.
    



      MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—All is over! The die is cast! What my
      lot may have in store I know not, but I am submissive to the will of God.
      Tomorrow, then, we depart. For the last time, I take my leave of you, my
      friend beyond price, my benefactor, my dear one! Do not grieve for me, but
      try to live happily. Think of me sometimes, and may the blessing of
      Almighty God light upon you! For myself, I shall often have you in
      remembrance, and recall you in my prayers. Thus our time together has come
      to an end. Little comfort in my new life shall I derive from memories of
      the past. The more, therefore, shall I cherish the recollection of you,
      and the dearer will you ever be to my heart. Here, you have been my only
      friend; here, you alone have loved me. Yes, I have seen all, I have known
      all—I have throughout known how well you love me. A single smile of
      mine, a single stroke from my pen, has been able to make you happy.... But
      now you must forget me.... How lonely you will be! Why should you stay
      here at all, kind, inestimable, but solitary, friend of mine?
      To your care I entrust the book, the embroidery frame, and the letter upon
      which I had begun. When you look upon the few words which the letter
      contains you will be able mentally to read in thought all that you would
      have liked further to hear or receive from me—all that I would so
      gladly have written, but can never now write. Think sometimes of your poor
      little Barbara who loved you so well. All your letters I have left behind
      me in the top drawer of Thedora’s chest of drawers... You write that you
      are ill, but Monsieur Bwikov will not let me leave the house today; so
      that I can only write to you. Also, I will write again before long. That
      is a promise. Yet God only knows when I shall be able to do so....
      Now we must bid one another forever farewell, my friend, my beloved, my
      own! Yes, it must be forever! Ah, how at this moment I could embrace you!
      Goodbye, dear friend—goodbye, goodbye! May you ever rest well and
      happy! To the end I shall keep you in my prayers. How my heart is aching
      under its load of sorrow!... Monsieur Bwikov is just calling for me....—Your
      ever loving
    
MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—It’s all over! The decision is made! I don’t know what awaits me, but I accept God’s will. Tomorrow, we leave. For the last time, I say goodbye to you, my priceless friend, my benefactor, my beloved! Don’t mourn for me; instead, try to live happily. Think of me occasionally, and may God’s blessings be with you! I will remember you often and keep you in my prayers. So, our time together has come to an end. I won’t find much comfort in my new life from memories of the past. Therefore, I will treasure the memories of you even more, and you will always be dear to my heart. Here, you were my only friend; here, you alone loved me. Yes, I’ve seen everything, I’ve understood everything—I always knew how much you love me. Just a smile from me, just a single stroke of my pen, could make you happy.... But now you must forget me.... How lonely you will be! Why should you stay here, my kind, invaluable, but lonely friend? I leave the book, the embroidery frame, and the unfinished letter in your care. When you look at the few words in the letter, you’ll be able to imagine everything else I would have liked to say to you—all that I would have gladly written but can never write now. Think of your poor little Barbara who loved you so much. I’ve left all your letters behind in the top drawer of Thedora’s chest of drawers... You mentioned you’re not well, but Monsieur Bwikov won’t let me leave the house today; so I can only write to you. I will write again soon. That’s a promise. But only God knows when I’ll be able to do so.... Now we must say goodbye forever, my friend, my beloved, my own! Yes, it must be forever! Oh, how I wish I could embrace you right now! Goodbye, dear friend—goodbye, goodbye! May you always find peace and happiness! Until the end, I will keep you in my prayers. My heart aches under its burden of sorrow!... Monsieur Bwikov is calling for me....—Your ever loving



      B.
    
B.



      P.S.—My heart is full! It is full to bursting of tears! Sorrow has
      me in its grip, and is tearing me to pieces. Goodbye. My God, what grief!
      Do not, do not forget your poor Barbara!
    
P.S.—My heart is so full! It's overflowing with tears! Sorrow has a hold on me and is tearing me apart. Goodbye. My God, what a pain! Please, please don't forget your poor Barbara!



      BELOVED BARBARA—MY JEWEL, MY PRICELESS ONE,—You are now almost
      en route, you are now just about to depart! Would that they had torn my
      heart out of my breast rather than have taken you away from me! How could
      you allow it? You weep, yet you go! And only this moment I have received
      from you a letter stained with your tears! It must be that you are
      departing unwillingly; it must be that you are being abducted against your
      will; it must be that you are sorry for me; it must be that—that you
      LOVE me!...
      Yet how will it fare with you now? Your heart will soon have become
      chilled and sick and depressed. Grief will soon have sucked away its life;
      grief will soon have rent it in twain! Yes, you will die where you be, and
      be laid to rest in the cold, moist earth where there is no one to bewail
      you. Monsieur Bwikov will only be hunting hares!...
      Ah, my darling, my darling! WHY did you come to this decision? How could
      you bring yourself to take such a step? What have you done, have you done,
      have you done? Soon they will be carrying you away to the tomb; soon your
      beauty will have become defiled, my angel. Ah, dearest one, you are as
      weak as a feather. And where have I been all this time? What have I been
      thinking of? I have treated you merely as a forward child whose head was
      aching. Fool that I was, I neither saw nor understood. I have behaved as
      though, right or wrong, the matter was in no way my concern. Yes, I have
      been running about after fripperies!... Ah, but I WILL leave my bed.
      Tomorrow I WILL rise sound and well, and be once more myself....
      Dearest, I could throw myself under the wheels of a passing vehicle rather
      than that you should go like this. By what right is it being done?... I
      will go with you; I will run behind your carriage if you will not take me—yes,
      I will run, and run so long as the power is in me, and until my breath
      shall have failed. Do you know whither you are going? Perhaps you will not
      know, and will have to ask me? Before you there lie the Steppes, my
      darling—only the Steppes, the naked Steppes, the Steppes that are as
      bare as the palm of my hand. THERE there live only heartless old women and
      rude peasants and drunkards. THERE the trees have already shed their
      leaves. THERE there abide but rain and cold. Why should you go thither?
      True, Monsieur Bwikov will have his diversions in that country—he
      will be able to hunt the hare; but what of yourself? Do you wish to become
      a mere estate lady? Nay; look at yourself, my seraph of heaven. Are you in
      any way fitted for such a role? How could you play it? To whom should I
      write letters? To whom should I send these missives? Whom should I call
      “my darling”? To whom should I apply that name of endearment? Where, too,
      could I find you?
      When you are gone, Barbara, I shall die—for certain I shall die, for
      my heart cannot bear this misery. I love you as I love the light of God; I
      love you as my own daughter; to you I have devoted my love in its
      entirety; only for you have I lived at all; only because you were near me
      have I worked and copied manuscripts and committed my views to paper under
      the guise of friendly letters.
      Perhaps you did not know all this, but it has been so. How, then, my
      beloved, could you bring yourself to leave me? Nay, you MUST not go—it
      is impossible, it is sheerly, it is utterly, impossible. The rain will
      fall upon you, and you are weak, and will catch cold. The floods will stop
      your carriage. No sooner will it have passed the city barriers than it
      will break down, purposely break down. Here, in St. Petersburg, they are
      bad builders of carriages. Yes, I know well these carriage-builders. They
      are jerry-builders who can fashion a toy, but nothing that is durable.
      Yes, I swear they can make nothing that is durable.... All that I can do
      is to go upon my knees before Monsieur Bwikov, and to tell him all, to
      tell him all. Do you also tell him all, dearest, and reason with him. Tell
      him that you MUST remain here, and must not go. Ah, why did he not marry
      that merchant’s daughter in Moscow? Let him go and marry her now. She
      would suit him far better and for reasons which I well know. Then I could
      keep you. For what is he to you, this Monsieur Bwikov? Why has he suddenly
      become so dear to your heart? Is it because he can buy you gewgaws? What
      are THEY? What use are THEY? They are so much rubbish. One should consider
      human life rather than mere finery.
      Nevertheless, as soon as I have received my next instalment of salary I
      mean to buy you a new cloak. I mean to buy it at a shop with which I am
      acquainted. Only, you must wait until my next installment is due, my angel
      of a Barbara. Ah, God, my God! To think that you are going away into the
      Steppes with Monsieur Bwikov—that you are going away never to
      return!... Nay, nay, but you SHALL write to me. You SHALL write me a
      letter as soon as you have started, even if it be your last letter of all,
      my dearest. Yet will it be your last letter? How has it come about so
      suddenly, so irrevocably, that this letter should be your last? Nay, nay;
      I will write, and you shall write—yes, NOW, when at length I am
      beginning to improve my style. Style? I do not know what I am writing. I
      never do know what I am writing. I could not possibly know, for I never
      read over what I have written, nor correct its orthography. At the present
      moment, I am writing merely for the sake of writing, and to put as much as
      possible into this last letter of mine....
    
BELOVED BARBARA—MY GEM, MY TREASURE,—You are almost on your way now, about to leave! I wish they had ripped my heart out rather than take you from me! How could you let this happen? You cry, yet you still go! Just now, I received a letter from you, stained with your tears! You must be leaving against your will; you must feel sorry for me; you must—YOU LOVE me!...

But what will happen to you now? Your heart will soon feel cold and sick and heavy. Grief will drain the life from it; grief will tear it apart! Yes, you will perish where you are, buried in the cold, damp earth, with no one to mourn you. Monsieur Bwikov will just be out hunting hares!...

Ah, my love, my love! WHY did you make this choice? How could you decide to take this step? What have you done, what have you done? Soon they will carry you away to the grave; soon your beauty will be tarnished, my angel. Ah, dear one, you are as fragile as a feather. And where have I been all this time? What was I thinking? I treated you like a brat with a headache. Fool that I was, I didn’t see or understand. I acted as if, whether right or wrong, it was none of my business. Yes, I was just chasing after trivial things!... Ah, but I WILL get out of bed. Tomorrow I WILL rise healthy and well, and be myself again....

Beloved, I would throw myself under a passing vehicle rather than see you leave like this. By what right is this happening?... I will go with you; I will run behind your carriage if you won’t take me—yes, I will run, as long as I can, until I can’t breathe anymore. Do you know where you are going? Maybe you won’t know and will need to ask me? Ahead of you lies the Steppes, my darling—just the Steppes, the empty Steppes, as bare as the palm of my hand. THERE, only heartless old women and rude peasants and drunks live. THERE, the trees have already lost their leaves. THERE, it rains and is cold. Why would you want to go there? Sure, Monsieur Bwikov will find his fun there—he’ll be able to hunt hares; but what about you? Do you want to become just a lady of the estate? No; look at yourself, my heavenly seraph. Are you even remotely suited for that role? How would you handle it? To whom would I write letters? To whom would I send these messages? Whom would I call “my darling”? Who would receive that endearing name? And where could I find you?

When you leave, Barbara, I will die—for sure I will die, because my heart can’t take this pain. I love you like I love the light of God; I love you like my own child; I have poured all my love into you; I have only lived because you were near me; it was only because of you that I have worked and copied manuscripts and shared my thoughts in letters disguised as friendly notes.

Maybe you didn’t know all this, but it’s true. How, then, my beloved, could you bring yourself to leave me? No, you MUST not go—it’s impossible, absolutely impossible. The rain will fall on you, and you are weak—you’ll catch a cold. The floods will obstruct your carriage. No sooner will it go beyond the city limits than it will break down, purposely break down. Here in St. Petersburg, they don’t build carriages well. Yes, I know these carriage-makers. They can make toy carriages, but nothing lasting. Yes, I swear they can’t create anything durable.... All I can do is kneel before Monsieur Bwikov and tell him everything, to tell him everything. You, too, tell him everything, my dear, and reason with him. Tell him that you MUST stay here and must not leave. Ah, why didn’t he marry that merchant’s daughter in Moscow? Let him go and marry her now. She would be far better suited for him, and for reasons I know well. Then I could keep you. What is he to you, this Monsieur Bwikov? Why has he suddenly become so dear to you? Is it because he can buy you trinkets? What are THEY? What good are THEY? They are just useless junk. One should value human life over mere finery.

Still, as soon as I receive my next paycheck, I plan to buy you a new cloak. I want to buy it from a store I know. Just wait until my next paycheck comes in, my angel Barbara. Ah, God, my God! To think you are going away into the Steppes with Monsieur Bwikov—going away never to return!... No, no, but you SHALL write to me. You SHALL send me a letter as soon as you start, even if it’s your last letter ever, my dearest. But will it really be your last letter? How did it suddenly come to be that this letter would be the final one? No, no; I will write, and you will write—yes, NOW that I am finally starting to improve my style. Style? I don’t even know what I’m writing. I never know what I’m writing. I can’t possibly know, because I never read over what I’ve written or correct my spelling. Right now, I’m just writing for the sake of writing, putting as much as possible into this last letter of mine....



      Ah, dearest, my pet, my own darling!...
    
Ah, my dear, my love, my own darling!...
















        
        
    

    
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