I
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,
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.
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?
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:
"Why am I not a bird free to seek its quest?"
And he has written much else, God 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 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.
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,
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.
II
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Do you know, 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!
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!
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.
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!
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,
BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.
III
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.
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,
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."
