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Title: Poor Folk

Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translator: C. J. Hogarth

Release date: August 1, 2000 [eBook #2302]
Most recently updated: February 26, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2302

Credits: Produced by Martin Adamson and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POOR FOLK ***

POOR FOLK

By Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translated by C. J. Hogarth

CONTENTS

April 8th
April 8th
April 8th
April 9th
April 12th
April 25th
May 20th
June 1st
June 11th
June 12th.
June 20th.
June 21st.

June 22nd.
June 25th.
June 26th.
June 27th.
June 28th.
July 1st.
July 7th.
July 8th.
July 27th.
July 28th.
July 28th.
July 29th.
August 1st.
August 2nd.
August 3rd.
August 4th.
August 4th.
August 5th.
August 5th.
August 11th.
August 13th.
August 14th.
August 19th.

August 21st.
September 3rd.
September 5th.
September 9th.
September 10th.
September 11th.
September 15th.
September 18th.
September 19th.
September 23rd.
September 23rd.
September 27th.
September 27th.
September 28th.
September 28th.
September 29th.
September 30th.

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.
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.

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!
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.

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.
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.”

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.
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!
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,
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, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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!
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.
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,
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.

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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!”
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.
“You need not, you need not!” he went on. “You would have done far
better not to have entered without an invitation.”
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:
“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.”
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.
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.

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.
I remember that I was in his arms when I recovered my senses. Carefully
seating me on a bench, he handed me a glass of water, and then asked me a
few questions—though how I answered them I do not know. “You yourself
are ill,” he said as he took my hand. “You yourself are VERY ill. You are
feverish, and I can see that you are knocking yourself out through your
neglect of your own health. Take a little rest. Lie down and go to sleep. Yes,
lie down, lie down,” he continued without giving me time to protest.
Indeed, fatigue had so exhausted my strength that my eyes were closing
from very weakness. So I lay down on the bench with the intention of
sleeping for half an hour only; but, I slept till morning. Pokrovski then
awoke me, saying that it was time for me to go and give my mother her
medicine.
When the next evening, about eight o’clock, I had rested a little and was
preparing to spend the night in a chair beside my mother (fixedly meaning
not to go to sleep this time), Pokrovski suddenly knocked at the door. I
opened it, and he informed me that, since, possibly, I might find the time

wearisome, he had brought me a few books to read. I accepted the books,
but do not, even now, know what books they were, nor whether I looked
into them, despite the fact that I never closed my eyes the whole night long.
The truth was that a strange feeling of excitement was preventing me from
sleeping, and I could not rest long in any one spot, but had to keep rising
from my chair, and walking about the room. Throughout my whole being
there seemed to be diffused a kind of elation—of elation at Pokrovski’s
attentions, at the thought that he was anxious and uneasy about me. Until
dawn I pondered and dreamed; and though I felt sure Pokrovski would not
again visit us that night, I gave myself up to fancies concerning what he
might do the following evening.
That evening, when everyone else in the house had retired to rest,
Pokrovski opened his door, and opened a conversation from the threshold of
his room. Although, at this distance of time, I cannot remember a word of
what we said to one another, I remember that I blushed, grew confused, felt
vexed with myself, and awaited with impatience the end of the conversation
although I myself had been longing for the meeting to take place, and had
spent the day in dreaming of it, and devising a string of suitable questions
and replies. Yes, that evening saw the first strand in our friendship knitted;
and each subsequent night of my mother’s illness we spent several hours
together. Little by little I overcame his reserve, but found that each of these
conversations left me filled with a sense of vexation at myself. At the same
time, I could see with secret joy and a sense of proud elation that I was
leading him to forget his tiresome books. At last the conversation turned
jestingly upon the upsetting of the shelf. The moment was a peculiar one,
for it came upon me just when I was in the right mood for self-revelation
and candour. In my ardour, my curious phase of exaltation, I found myself
led to make a full confession of the fact that I had become wishful to learn,
to KNOW, something, since I had felt hurt at being taken for a chit, a mere
baby.... I repeat that that night I was in a very strange frame of mind. My
heart was inclined to be tender, and there were tears standing in my eyes.
Nothing did I conceal as I told him about my friendship for him, about my
desire to love him, about my scheme for living in sympathy with him and
comforting him, and making his life easier. In return he threw me a look of
confusion mingled with astonishment, and said nothing. Then suddenly I
began to feel terribly pained and disappointed, for I conceived that he had
failed to understand me, or even that he might be laughing at me. Bursting

into tears like a child, I sobbed, and could not stop myself, for I had fallen
into a kind of fit; whereupon he seized my hand, kissed it, and clasped it to
his breast—saying various things, meanwhile, to comfort me, for he was
labouring under a strong emotion. Exactly what he said I do not remember
—I merely wept and laughed by turns, and blushed, and found myself
unable to speak a word for joy. Yet, for all my agitation, I noticed that about
him there still lingered an air of constraint and uneasiness. Evidently, he
was lost in wonder at my enthusiasm and raptures—at my curiously ardent,
unexpected, consuming friendship. It may be that at first he was amazed,
but that afterwards he accepted my devotion and words of invitation and
expressions of interest with the same simple frankness as I had offered
them, and responded to them with an interest, a friendliness, a devotion
equal to my own, even as a friend or a brother would do. How happy, how
warm was the feeling in my heart! Nothing had I concealed or repressed.
No, I had bared all to his sight, and each day would see him draw nearer to
me.
Truly I could not say what we did not talk about during those painful, yet
rapturous, hours when, by the trembling light of a lamp, and almost at the
very bedside of my poor sick mother, we kept midnight tryst. Whatsoever
first came into our heads we spoke of—whatsoever came riven from our
hearts, whatsoever seemed to call for utterance, found voice. And almost
always we were happy. What a grievous, yet joyous, period it was—a
period grievous and joyous at the same time! To this day it both hurts and
delights me to recall it. Joyous or bitter though it was, its memories are yet
painful. At least they seem so to me, though a certain sweetness assuaged
the pain. So, whenever I am feeling heartsick and oppressed and jaded and
sad those memories return to freshen and revive me, even as drops of
evening dew return to freshen and revive, after a sultry day, the poor faded
flower which has long been drooping in the noontide heat.
My mother grew better, but still I continued to spend the nights on a chair
by her bedside. Often, too, Pokrovski would give me books. At first I read
them merely so as to avoid going to sleep, but afterwards I examined them
with more attention, and subsequently with actual avidity, for they opened
up to me a new, an unexpected, an unknown, an unfamiliar world. New
thoughts, added to new impressions, would come pouring into my heart in a
rich flood; and the more emotion, the more pain and labour, it cost me to
assimilate these new impressions, the dearer did they become to me, and the

more gratefully did they stir my soul to its very depths. Crowding into my
heart without giving it time even to breathe, they would cause my whole
being to become lost in a wondrous chaos. Yet this spiritual ferment was not
sufficiently strong wholly to undo me. For that I was too fanciful, and the
fact saved me.
With the passing of my mother’s illness the midnight meetings and long
conversations between myself and Pokrovski came to an end. Only
occasionally did we exchange a few words with one another—words, for
the most part, that were of little purport or substance, yet words to which it
delighted me to apportion their several meanings, their peculiar secret
values. My life had now become full—I was happy; I was quietly, restfully
happy. Thus did several weeks elapse....
One day the elder Pokrovski came to see us, and chattered in a brisk,
cheerful, garrulous sort of way. He laughed, launched out into witticisms,
and, finally, resolved the riddle of his transports by informing us that in a
week’s time it would be his Petinka’s birthday, when, in honour of the
occasion, he (the father) meant to don a new jacket (as well as new shoes
which his wife was going to buy for him), and to come and pay a visit to his
son. In short, the old man was perfectly happy, and gossiped about
whatsoever first entered his head.
My lover’s birthday! Thenceforward, I could not rest by night or day.
Whatever might happen, it was my fixed intention to remind Pokrovski of
our friendship by giving him a present. But what sort of present? Finally, I
decided to give him books. I knew that he had long wanted to possess a
complete set of Pushkin’s works, in the latest edition; so, I decided to buy
Pushkin. My private fund consisted of thirty roubles, earned by handiwork,
and designed eventually to procure me a new dress, but at once I dispatched
our cook, old Matrena, to ascertain the price of such an edition. Horrors!
The price of the eleven volumes, added to extra outlay upon the binding,
would amount to at least SIXTY roubles! Where was the money to come
from? I thought and thought, yet could not decide. I did not like to resort to
my mother. Of course she would help me, but in that case every one in the
house would become aware of my gift, and the gift itself would assume the
guise of a recompense—of payment for Pokrovski’s labours on my behalf
during the past year; whereas, I wished to present the gift ALONE, and
without the knowledge of anyone. For the trouble that he had taken with me

I wished to be his perpetual debtor—to make him no payment at all save
my friendship. At length, I thought of a way out of the difficulty.
I knew that of the hucksters in the Gostinni Dvor one could sometimes
buy a book—even one that had been little used and was almost entirely new
—for a half of its price, provided that one haggled sufficiently over it;
wherefore I determined to repair thither. It so happened that, next day, both
Anna Thedorovna and ourselves were in want of sundry articles; and since
my mother was unwell and Anna lazy, the execution of the commissions
devolved upon me, and I set forth with Matrena.
Luckily, I soon chanced upon a set of Pushkin, handsomely bound, and
set myself to bargain for it. At first more was demanded than would have
been asked of me in a shop; but afterwards—though not without a great
deal of trouble on my part, and several feints at departing—I induced the
dealer to lower his price, and to limit his demands to ten roubles in silver.
How I rejoiced that I had engaged in this bargaining! Poor Matrena could
not imagine what had come to me, nor why I so desired to buy books. But,
oh horror of horrors! As soon as ever the dealer caught sight of my capital
of thirty roubles in notes, he refused to let the Pushkin go for less than the
sum he had first named; and though, in answer to my prayers and
protestations, he eventually yielded a little, he did so only to the tune of
two-and-a-half roubles more than I possessed, while swearing that he was
making the concession for my sake alone, since I was “a sweet young lady,”
and that he would have done so for no one else in the world. To think that
only two-and-a-half roubles should still be wanting! I could have wept with
vexation. Suddenly an unlooked-for circumstance occurred to help me in
my distress.
Not far away, near another table that was heaped with books, I perceived
the elder Pokrovski, and a crowd of four or five hucksters plaguing him
nearly out of his senses. Each of these fellows was proffering the old man
his own particular wares; and while there was nothing that they did not
submit for his approval, there was nothing that he wished to buy. The poor
old fellow had the air of a man who is receiving a thrashing. What to make
of what he was being offered him he did not know. Approaching him, I
inquired what he happened to be doing there; whereat the old man was
delighted, since he liked me (it may be) no less than he did Petinka.

“I am buying some books, Barbara Alexievna,” said he, “I am buying
them for my Petinka. It will be his birthday soon, and since he likes books I
thought I would get him some.”
The old man always expressed himself in a very roundabout sort of
fashion, and on the present occasion he was doubly, terribly confused. Of
no matter what book he asked the price, it was sure to be one, two, or three
roubles. The larger books he could not afford at all; he could only look at
them wistfully, fumble their leaves with his finger, turn over the volumes in
his hands, and then replace them. “No, no, that is too dear,” he would
mutter under his breath. “I must go and try somewhere else.” Then again he
would fall to examining copy-books, collections of poems, and almanacs of
the cheaper order.
“Why should you buy things like those?” I asked him. “They are such
rubbish!”
“No, no!” he replied. “See what nice books they are! Yes, they ARE nice
books!” Yet these last words he uttered so lingeringly that I could see he
was ready to weep with vexation at finding the better sorts of books so
expensive. Already a little tear was trickling down his pale cheeks and red
nose. I inquired whether he had much money on him; whereupon the poor
old fellow pulled out his entire stock, wrapped in a piece of dirty
newspaper, and consisting of a few small silver coins, with twenty kopecks
in copper. At once I seized the lot, and, dragging him off to my huckster,
said: “Look here. These eleven volumes of Pushkin are priced at thirty-two-
and-a-half roubles, and I have only thirty roubles. Let us add to them these
two-and-a-half roubles of yours, and buy the books together, and make
them our joint gift.” The old man was overjoyed, and pulled out his money
en masse; whereupon the huckster loaded him with our common library.
Stuffing it into his pockets, as well as filling both arms with it, he departed
homewards with his prize, after giving me his word to bring me the books
privately on the morrow.
Next day the old man came to see his son, and sat with him, as usual, for
about an hour; after which he visited ourselves, wearing on his face the
most comical, the most mysterious expression conceivable. Smiling broadly
with satisfaction at the thought that he was the possessor of a secret, he
informed me that he had stealthily brought the books to our rooms, and
hidden them in a corner of the kitchen, under Matrena’s care. Next, by a

natural transition, the conversation passed to the coming 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.
“Listen, Barbara Alexievna,” he said timidly. “Listen to what I have got
to say to you. When his birthday is come, do you take TEN of the books,
and give them to him yourself—that is, FOR yourself, as being YOUR
share of the gift. Then I will take the eleventh book, and give it to him
MYSELF, as being my gift. If we do that, you will have a present for him
and I shall have one—both of us alike.”
“Why do you not want us to present our gifts together, Zachar
Petrovitch?” I asked him.
“Oh, very well,” he replied. “Very well, Barbara Alexievna. Only—only,
I thought that—”
The old man broke off in confusion, while his face flushed with the
exertion of thus expressing himself. For a moment or two he sat glued to his
seat.
“You see,” he went on, “I play the fool too much. I am forever playing
the fool, and cannot help myself, though I know that it is wrong to do so. At
home it is often cold, and sometimes there are other troubles as well, and it
all makes me depressed. Well, whenever that happens, I indulge a little, and
occasionally drink too much. Now, Petinka does not like that; he loses his
temper about it, Barbara Alexievna, and scolds me, and reads me lectures.
So I want by my gift to show him that I am mending my ways, and
beginning to conduct myself better. For a long time past, I have been saving
up to buy him a book—yes, for a long time past I have been saving up for
it, since it is seldom that I have any money, unless Petinka happens to give
me some. He knows that, and, consequently, as soon as ever he perceives
the use to which I have put his money, he will understand that it is for his
sake alone that I have acted.”

My heart ached for the old man. Seeing him looking at me with such
anxiety, I made up my mind without delay.
“I tell you what,” I said. “Do you give him all the books.”
“ALL?” he ejaculated. “ALL the books?”
“Yes, all of them.”
“As my own gift?”
“Yes, as your own gift.”
“As my gift alone?”
“Yes, as your gift alone.”
Surely I had spoken clearly enough, yet the old man seemed hardly to
understand me.
“Well,” said he after reflection, “that certainly would be splendid—
certainly it would be most splendid. But what about yourself, Barbara
Alexievna?”
“Oh, I shall give your son nothing.”
“What?” he cried in dismay. “Are you going to give Petinka nothing—do
you WISH to give him nothing?” So put about was the old fellow with what
I had said, that he seemed almost ready to renounce his own proposal if
only I would give his son something. What a kind heart he had! I hastened
to assure him that I should certainly have a gift of some sort ready, since my
one wish was to avoid spoiling his pleasure.
“Provided that your son is pleased,” I added, “and that you are pleased, I
shall be equally pleased, for in my secret heart I shall feel as though I had
presented the gift.”
This fully reassured the old man. He stopped with us another couple of
hours, yet could not sit still for a moment, but kept jumping up from his
seat, laughing, cracking jokes with Sasha, bestowing stealthy kisses upon
myself, pinching my hands, and making silent grimaces at Anna
Thedorovna. At length, she turned him out of the house. In short, his
transports of joy exceeded anything that I had yet beheld.
On the festal day he arrived exactly at eleven o’clock, direct from Mass.
He was dressed in a carefully mended frockcoat, a new waistcoat, and a pair
of new shoes, while in his arms he carried our pile of books. Next we all sat
down to coffee (the day being Sunday) in Anna Thedorovna’s parlour. The

old man led off the meal by saying that Pushkin was a magnificent poet.
Thereafter, with a return to shamefacedness and confusion, he passed
suddenly to the statement that a man ought to conduct himself properly;
that, should he not do so, it might be taken as a sign that he was in some
way overindulging himself; and that evil tendencies of this sort led to the
man’s ruin and degradation. Then the orator sketched for our benefit some
terrible instances of such incontinence, and concluded by informing us that
for some time past he had been mending his own ways, and conducting
himself in exemplary fashion, for the reason that he had perceived the
justice of his son’s precepts, and had laid them to heart so well that he, the
father, had really changed for the better: in proof whereof, he now begged
to present to the said son some books for which he had long been setting
aside his savings.
As I listened to the old man I could not help laughing and crying in a
breath. Certainly he knew how to lie when the occasion required! The
books were transferred to his son’s room, and arranged upon a shelf, where
Pokrovski at once guessed the truth about them. Then the old man was
invited to dinner and we all spent a merry day together at cards and forfeits.
Sasha was full of life, and I rivalled her, while Pokrovski paid me numerous
attentions, and kept seeking an occasion to speak to me alone. But to allow
this to happen I refused. Yes, taken all in all, it was the happiest day that I
had known for four years.
But now only grievous, painful memories come to my recollection, for I
must enter upon the story of my darker experiences. It may be that that is
why my pen begins to move more slowly, and seems as though it were
going altogether to refuse to write. The same reason may account for my
having undertaken so lovingly and enthusiastically a recounting of even the
smallest details of my younger, happier days. But alas! those days did not
last long, and were succeeded by a period of black sorrow which will close
only God knows when!
My misfortunes began with the illness and death of Pokrovski, who was
taken worse two months after what I have last recorded in these memoirs.
During those two months he worked hard to procure himself a livelihood
since hitherto he had had no assured position. Like all consumptives, he
never—not even up to his last moment—altogether abandoned the hope of
being able to enjoy a long life. A post as tutor fell in his way, but he had

never liked the profession; while for him to become a civil servant was out
of the question, owing to his weak state of health. Moreover, in the latter
capacity he would have had to have waited a long time for his first
instalment of salary. Again, he always looked at the darker side of things,
for his character was gradually being warped, and his health undermined by
his illness, though he never noticed it. Then autumn came on, and daily he
went out to business—that is to say, to apply for and to canvass for posts—
clad only in a light jacket; with the result that, after repeated soakings with
rain, he had to take to his bed, and never again left it. He died in mid-
autumn at the close of the month of October.
Throughout his illness I scarcely ever left his room, but waited on him
hand and foot. Often he could not sleep for several nights at a time. Often,
too, he was unconscious, or else in a delirium; and at such times he would
talk of all sorts of things—of his work, of his books, of his father, of
myself. At such times I learned much which I had not hitherto known or
divined about his affairs. During the early part of his illness everyone in the
house looked askance at me, and Anna Thedorovna would nod her head in a
meaning manner; but, I always looked them straight in the face, and
gradually they ceased to take any notice of my concern for Pokrovski. At all
events my mother ceased to trouble her head about it.
Sometimes Pokrovski would know who I was, but not often, for more
usually he was unconscious. Sometimes, too, he would talk all night with
some unknown person, in dim, mysterious language that caused his gasping
voice to echo hoarsely through the narrow room as through a sepulchre; and
at such times, I found the situation a strange one. During his last night he
was especially lightheaded, for then he was in terrible agony, and kept
rambling in his speech until my soul was torn with pity. Everyone in the
house was alarmed, and Anna Thedorovna fell to praying that God might
soon take him. When the doctor had been summoned, the verdict was that
the patient would die with the morning.
That night the elder Pokrovski spent in the corridor, at the door of his
son’s room. Though given a mattress to lie upon, he spent his time in
running in and out of the apartment. So broken with grief was he that he
presented a dreadful spectacle, and appeared to have lost both perception
and feeling. His head trembled with agony, and his body quivered from
head to foot as at times he murmured to himself something which he

appeared to be debating. Every moment I expected to see him go out of his
mind. Just before dawn he succumbed to the stress of mental agony, and fell
asleep on his mattress like a man who has been beaten; but by eight o’clock
the son was at the point of death, and I ran to wake the father. The dying
man was quite conscious, and bid us all farewell. Somehow I could not
weep, though my heart seemed to be breaking.
The last moments were the most harassing and heartbreaking of all. For
some time past Pokrovski had been asking for something with his failing
tongue, but I had been unable to distinguish his words. Yet my heart had
been bursting with grief. Then for an hour he had lain quieter, except that he
had looked sadly in my direction, and striven to make some sign with his
death-cold hands. At last he again essayed his piteous request in a hoarse,
deep voice, but the words issued in so many inarticulate sounds, and once
more I failed to divine his meaning. By turns I brought each member of the
household to his bedside, and gave him something to drink, but he only
shook his head sorrowfully. Finally, I understood what it was he wanted. He
was asking me to draw aside the curtain from the window, and to open the
casements. Probably he wished to take his last look at the daylight and the
sun and all God’s world. I pulled back the curtain, but the opening day was
as dull and mournful—looking as though it had been the fast-flickering life
of the poor invalid. Of sunshine there was none. Clouds overlaid the sky as
with a shroud of mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening
under a fine drizzle which was beating against the window-panes, and
streaking their dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold, dirty moisture. Only
a scanty modicum of daylight entered to war with the trembling rays of the
ikon lamp. The dying man threw me a wistful look, and nodded. The next
moment he had passed away.
The funeral was arranged for by Anna Thedorovna. A plain coffin was
bought, and a broken-down hearse hired; while, as security for this outlay,
she seized the dead man’s books and other articles. Nevertheless, the old
man disputed the books with her, and, raising an uproar, carried off as many
of them as he could—stuffing his pockets full, and even filling his hat.
Indeed, he spent the next three days with them thus, and refused to let them
leave his sight even when it was time for him to go to church. Throughout
he acted like a man bereft of sense and memory. With quaint assiduity he
busied himself about the bier—now straightening the candlestick on the
dead man’s breast, now snuffing and lighting the other candles. Clearly his

thoughts were powerless to remain long fixed on any subject. Neither my
mother nor Anna Thedorovna were present at the requiem, for the former
was ill and the latter was at loggerheads with the old man. Only myself and
the father were there. During the service a sort of panic, a sort of
premonition of the future, came over me, and I could hardly hold myself
upright. At length the coffin had received its burden and was screwed down;
after which the bearers placed it upon a bier, and set out. I accompanied the
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....

June 11th
How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar
Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was everything!
And I had not seen anything green for such a long time! During my illness I
used to think that I should never get better, that I was certainly going to die.
Judge, then, how I felt yesterday! True, I may have seemed to you a little
sad, and you must not be angry with me for that. Happy and light-hearted
though I was, there were moments, even at the height of my felicity, when,
for some unknown reason, depression came sweeping over my soul. I kept
weeping about trifles, yet could not say why I was grieved. The truth is that
I am unwell—so much so, that I look at everything from the gloomy point
of view. The pale, clear sky, the setting sun, the evening stillness—ah,
somehow I felt disposed to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart
seemed to be over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it. But why
should I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart to express itself; still
more difficult for it to forego self-expression. Yet possibly you may
understand me. Tears and laughter!... How good you are, Makar
Alexievitch! Yesterday you looked into my eyes as though you could read
in them all that I was feeling—as though you were rejoicing at my
happiness. Whether it were a group of shrubs or an alleyway or a vista of
water that we were passing, you would halt before me, and stand gazing at
my face as though you were showing me possessions of your own. It told
me how kind is your nature, and I love you for it. Today I am again unwell,
for yesterday I wetted my feet, and took a chill. Thedora also is unwell;
both of us are ailing. Do not forget me. Come and see me as often as you
can.—Your own,
BARBARA ALEXIEVNA.

June 12th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA—I had supposed that you
meant to describe our doings of the other day in verse; yet from you there
has arrived only a single sheet of writing. Nevertheless, I must say that,
little though you have put into your letter, that little is not expressed with
rare beauty and grace. Nature, your descriptions of rural scenes, your
analysis of your own feelings—the whole is beautifully written. Alas, I have
no such talent! Though I may fill a score of pages, nothing comes of it—I
might as well never have put pen to paper. Yes, this I know from
experience.
You say, my darling, that I am kind and good, that I could not harm my
fellow-men, that I have power to comprehend the goodness of God (as
expressed in nature’s handiwork), and so on. It may all be so, my dearest
one—it may all be exactly as you say. Indeed, I think that you are right. But
if so, the reason is that when one reads such a letter as you have just sent
me, one’s heart involuntarily softens, and affords entrance to thoughts of a
graver and weightier order. Listen, my darling; I have something to tell you,
my beloved one.
I will begin from the time when I was seventeen years old and first
entered the service—though I shall soon have completed my thirtieth year
of official activity. I may say that at first I was much pleased with my new
uniform; and, as I grew older, I grew in mind, and fell to studying my
fellow-men. Likewise I may say that I lived an upright life—so much so
that at last I incurred persecution. This you may not believe, but it is true.
To think that men so cruel should exist! For though, dearest one, I am dull
and of no account, I have feelings like everyone else. Consequently, would
you believe it, Barbara, when I tell you what these cruel fellows did to me?
I feel ashamed to tell it you—and all because I was of a quiet, peaceful,
good-natured disposition! Things began with “this or that, Makar
Alexievitch, is your fault.” Then it went on to “I need hardly say that the
fault is wholly Makar Alexievitch’s.” Finally it became “OF COURSE
Makar Alexievitch is to blame.” Do you see the sequence of things, my
darling? Every mistake was attributed to me, until “Makar Alexievitch”

became a byword in our department. Also, while making of me a proverb,
these fellows could not give me a smile or a civil word. They found fault
with my boots, with my uniform, with my hair, with my figure. None of
these things were to their taste: everything had to be changed. And so it has
been from that day to this. True, I have now grown used to it, for I can grow
accustomed to anything (being, as you know, a man of peaceable
disposition, like all men of small stature)—yet why should these things be?
Whom have I harmed? Whom have I ever supplanted? Whom have I ever
traduced to his superiors? No, the fault is that more than once I have asked
for an increase of salary. But have I ever CABALLED for it? No, you
would be wrong in thinking so, my dearest one. HOW could I ever have
done so? You yourself have had many opportunities of seeing how
incapable I am of deceit or chicanery. Why then, should this have fallen to
my lot?... However, since you think me worthy of respect, my darling, I do
not care, for you are far and away the best person in the world.... What do
you consider to be the greatest social virtue? In private conversation Evstafi
Ivanovitch once told me that the greatest social virtue might be considered
to be an ability to get money to spend. Also, my comrades used jestingly
(yes, I know only jestingly) to propound the ethical maxim that a man ought
never to let himself become a burden upon anyone. Well, I am a burden
upon no one. It is my own crust of bread that I eat; and though that crust is
but a poor one, and sometimes actually a maggoty one, it has at least been
EARNED, and therefore, is being put to a right and lawful use. What
therefore, ought I to do? I know that I can earn but little by my labours as a
copyist; yet even of that little I am proud, for it has entailed WORK, and
has wrung sweat from my brow. What harm is there in being a copyist? “He
is only an amanuensis,” people say of me. But what is there so disgraceful
in that? My writing is at least legible, neat, and pleasant to look upon—and
his Excellency is satisfied with it. Indeed, I transcribe many important
documents. At the same time, I know that my writing lacks STYLE, which
is why I have never risen in the service. Even to you, my dear one, I write
simply and without tricks, but just as a thought may happen to enter my
head. Yes, I know all this; but if everyone were to become a fine writer, who
would there be left to act as copyists?... Whatsoever questions I may put to
you in my letters, dearest, I pray you to answer them. I am sure that you
need me, that I can be of use to you; and, since that is so, I must not allow
myself to be distracted by any trifle. Even if I be likened to a rat, I do not

care, provided that that particular rat be wanted by you, and be of use in the
world, and be retained in its position, and receive its reward. But what a rat
it is!
Enough of this, dearest one. I ought not to have spoken of it, but I lost my
temper. Still, it is pleasant to speak the truth sometimes. Goodbye, my own,
my darling, my sweet little comforter! I will come to you soon—yes, I will
certainly come to you. Until I do so, do not fret yourself. With me I shall be
bringing a book. Once more goodbye.—Your heartfelt well-wisher,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

June 20th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH—I am writing to you post-
haste—I am hurrying my utmost to get my work finished in time. What do
you suppose is the reason for this? It is because an opportunity has occurred
for you to make a splendid purchase. Thedora tells me that a retired civil
servant of her acquaintance has a uniform to sell—one cut to regulation
pattern and in good repair, as well as likely to go very cheap. Now, DO not
tell me that you have not got the money, for I know from your own lips that
you HAVE. Use that money, I pray you, and do not hoard it. See what
terrible garments you walk about in! They are shameful—they are patched
all over! In fact, you have nothing new whatever. That this is so, I know for
certain, and I care not WHAT you tell me about it. So listen to me for once,
and buy this uniform. Do it for MY sake. Do it to show that you really love
me.
You have sent me some linen as a gift. But listen to me, Makar
Alexievitch. You are simply ruining yourself. Is it a jest that you should
spend so much money, such a terrible amount of money, upon me? How
you love to play the spendthrift! I tell you that I do not need it, that such
expenditure is unnecessary. I know, I am CERTAIN, that you love me—
therefore, it is useless to remind me of the fact with gifts. Nor do I like
receiving them, since I know how much they must have cost you. No—put
your money to a better use. I beg, I beseech of you, to do so. Also, you ask
me to send you a continuation of my memoirs—to conclude them. But I
know not how I contrived even to write as much of them as I did; and now I
have not the strength to write further of my past, nor the desire to give it a
single thought. Such recollections are terrible to me. Most difficult of all is
it for me to speak of my poor mother, who left her destitute daughter a prey
to villains. My heart runs blood whenever I think of it; it is so fresh in my
memory that I cannot dismiss it from my thoughts, nor rest for its
insistence, although a year has now elapsed since the events took place. But
all this you know.
Also, I have told you what Anna Thedorovna is now intending. She
accuses me of ingratitude, and denies the accusations made against herself

with regard to Monsieur Bwikov. Also, she keeps sending for me, and
telling me that I have taken to evil courses, but that if I will return to her,
she will smooth over matters with Bwikov, and force him to confess his
fault. Also, she says that he desires to give me a dowry. Away with them all!
I am quite happy here with you and good Thedora, whose devotion to me
reminds me of my old nurse, long since dead. 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!
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,
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
“Vladimir started, for in his veins the lust of passion had welled until it
had reached 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!’
“‘Vladimir!’ she whispered, almost beside herself, as she sank upon his
bosom.
“‘My Zinaida!’ cried the enraptured 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.
“‘Vladimir!’ again she whispered in her intoxication, while her bosom
heaved, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes flashed fire.
“Thus was a new and dread union consummated.
“Half an hour later the aged Count entered his wife’s boudoir.
“‘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.”
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:
“‘You love me, Zuleika? Say again that you love me, you love me!’
“‘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!’
“‘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.’
“‘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.”
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?
“‘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!’”
Then Ermak, unable to survive the loss of his Zuleika, throws himself
into the Irtisch, and the tale comes to an end.
Here, again, is another short extract—this time written in a more comical
vein, to 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.”
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, 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!
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,
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.
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
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.
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.

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.
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,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
P.S—Thank you so much for the book, darling! I will read it through, this
volume of Pushkin, and tonight come to you.
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,
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.
I have spoken of Rataziaev’s “The Station Overseer”. However, the
author has told me that the work is old-fashioned, since, nowadays, books
are issued with illustrations and embellishments of different sorts (though I
could not make out all that he said). Pushkin he adjudges a splendid poet,
and one who has done honour to Holy Russia. Read your book again,
Barbara, and follow my advice, and make an old man happy. The Lord God
Himself will reward you. Yes, He will surely reward you.—Your faithful
friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Today Thedora came to me
with fifteen roubles in silver. How glad was the poor woman when I gave
her three of them! I am writing to you in great haste, for I am busy cutting
out a waistcoat to send to you—buff, with a pattern of flowers. Also I am
sending you a book of stories; some of which I have read myself,
particularly one called “The Cloak.” ... You invite me to go to the theatre
with you. But will it not cost too much? Of course we might sit in the
gallery. It is a long time (indeed I cannot remember when I last did so) since
I visited a theatre! Yet I cannot help fearing that such an amusement is
beyond our means. Thedora keeps nodding her head, and saying that you
have taken to living above your income. I myself divine the same thing by
the amount which you have spent upon me. Take care, dear friend, that
misfortune does not come of it, for Thedora has also informed me of certain
rumours concerning your inability to meet your landlady’s bills. In fact, I
am very anxious about you. Now, goodbye, for I must hasten away to see
about another matter—about the changing of the ribands on my bonnet.
P.S.—Do you know, if we go to the theatre, I think that I shall wear my
new hat and black mantilla. Will that not look nice?

July 7th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA—SO much for yesterday!
Yes, dearest, we have both been caught playing the fool, for I have become
thoroughly bitten with the actress of whom I spoke. Last night I listened to
her with all my ears, although, strangely enough, it was practically my first
sight of her, seeing that only once before had I been to the theatre. In those
days I lived cheek by jowl with a party of five young men—a most noisy
crew—and one night I accompanied them, willy-nilly, to the theatre, though
I held myself decently aloof from their doings, and only assisted them for
company’s sake. How those fellows talked to me of this actress! Every
night when the theatre was open, the entire band of them (they always
seemed to possess the requisite money) would betake themselves to that
place of entertainment, where they ascended to the gallery, and clapped
their hands, and repeatedly recalled the actress in question. In fact, they
went simply mad over her. Even after we had returned home they would
give me no rest, but would go on talking about her all night, and calling her
their Glasha, and declaring themselves to be in love with “the canary-bird
of their hearts.” My defenseless self, too, they would plague about the
woman, for I was as young as they. What a figure I must have cut with them
on the fourth tier of the gallery! Yet, I never got a sight of more than just a
corner of the curtain, but had to content myself with listening. She had a
fine, resounding, mellow voice like a nightingale’s, and we all of us used to
clap our hands loudly, and to shout at the top of our lungs. In short, we
came very near to being ejected. On the first occasion I went home walking
as in a mist, with a single rouble left in my pocket, and an interval of ten
clear days confronting me before next pay-day. Yet, what think you,
dearest? The very next day, before going to work, I called at a French
perfumer’s, and spent my whole remaining capital on some eau-de-Cologne
and scented soap! Why I did so I do not know. Nor did I dine at home that
day, but kept walking and walking past her windows (she lived in a fourth-
storey flat on the Nevski Prospect). At length I returned to my own lodging,
but only to rest a short hour before again setting off to the Nevski Prospect
and resuming my vigil before her windows. For a month and a half I kept

this up—dangling in her train. Sometimes I would hire cabs, and discharge
them in view of her abode; until at length I had entirely ruined myself, and
got into debt. Then I fell out of love with her—I grew weary of the
pursuit.... You see, therefore, to what depths an actress can reduce a decent
man. In those days I was young. Yes, in those days I was VERY young.
M. D.

July 8th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—The book which I received
from you on the 6th of this month I now hasten to return, while at the same
time hastening also to explain matters to you in this accompanying letter.
What a misfortune, my beloved, that you should have brought me to such a
pass! Our lots in life are apportioned by the Almighty according to our
human deserts. To such a one He assigns a life in a general’s epaulets or as
a privy councillor—to such a one, I say, He assigns a life of command;
whereas to another one, He allots only a life of unmurmuring toil and
suffering. These things are calculated according to a man’s CAPACITY.
One man may be capable of one thing, and another of another, and their
several capacities are ordered by the Lord God himself. I have now been
thirty years in the public service, and have fulfilled my duties
irreproachably, remained abstemious, and never been detected in any
unbecoming behaviour. As a citizen, I may confess—I confess it freely—I
have been guilty of certain shortcomings; yet those shortcomings have been
combined with certain virtues. I am respected by my superiors, and even his
Excellency has had no fault to find with me; and though I have never been
shown any special marks of favour, I know that every one finds me at least
satisfactory. Also, my writing is sufficiently legible and clear. Neither too
rounded nor too fine, it is a running hand, yet always suitable. Of our staff
only Ivan Prokofievitch writes a similar hand. Thus have I lived till the grey
hairs of my old age; yet I can think of no serious fault committed. Of
course, no one is free from MINOR faults. Everyone has some of them, and
you among the rest, my beloved. But in grave or in audacious offences
never have I been detected, nor in infringements of regulations, nor in
breaches of the public peace. No, never! This you surely know, even as the
author of your book must have known it. Yes, he also must have known it
when he sat down to write. I had not expected this of you, my Barbara. I
should never have expected it.
What? In future I am not to go on living peacefully in my little corner,
poor though that corner be I am not to go on living, as the proverb has it,
without muddying the water, or hurting any one, or forgetting the fear of the

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

new pair of shoes? No, Barbara. Men only read the documents, and then
require me to write more. Sometimes a man will hide himself away, and not
show his face abroad, for the mere reason that, though he has done nothing
to be ashamed of, he dreads the gossip and slandering which are
everywhere to be encountered. If his civic and family life have to do with
literature, everything will be printed and read and laughed over and
discussed; until at length, he hardly dare show his face in the street at all,
seeing that he will have been described by report as recognisable through
his gait alone! Then, when he has amended his ways, and grown gentler
(even though he still continues to be loaded with official work), he will
come to be accounted a virtuous, decent citizen who has deserved well of
his comrades, rendered obedience to his superiors, wished 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,
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.
Write to me quite frankly. Tell me how you came to embark upon such a
course of conduct. Comfort, oh, comfort me if you can. It is not self-love
that prompts me to speak of my own comforting, but my friendship and
love for you, which will never fade from my heart. Goodbye. I await your
answer with impatience. You have thought but poorly of me, Makar
Alexievitch.—Your friend and lover,
BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.

July 28th.
MY PRICELESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—What am I to say to you,
now that all is over, and we are gradually returning to our old position? You
say that you are anxious as to what will be thought of me. Let me tell you
that the dearest thing in life to me is my self-respect; wherefore, in
informing you of my misfortunes and misconduct, I would add that none of
my superiors know of my doings, nor ever will know of them, and that
therefore, I still enjoy a measure of respect in that quarter. Only one thing
do I fear—I fear gossip. Garrulous though my landlady be, she said but
little when, with the aid of your ten roubles, I today paid her part of her
account; and as for the rest of my companions, they do not matter at all. So
long as I have not borrowed money from them, I need pay them no
attention. To conclude my explanations, let me tell you that I value your
respect for me above everything in the world, and have found it my greatest
comfort during this temporary distress of mine. Thank God, the first shock
of things has abated, now that you have agreed not to look upon me as
faithless and an egotist simply because I have deceived you. I wish to hold
you to myself, for the reason that I cannot bear to part with you, and love
you as my guardian angel.... I have now returned to work, and am applying
myself diligently to my duties. Also, yesterday Evstafi Ivanovitch
exchanged a word or two with me. Yet I will not conceal from you the fact
that my debts are crushing me down, and that my wardrobe is in a sorry
state. At the same time, these things do not REALLY matter and I would bid
you not despair about them. Send me, however, another half-rouble if you
can (though that half-rouble will stab me to the heart—stab me with the
thought that it is not I who am helping you, but YOU who are helping ME).
Thedora has done well to get those fifteen roubles for you. At the moment,
fool of an old man that I am, I have no hope of acquiring any more money;
but as soon as ever I do so, I will write to you and let you know all about it.
What chiefly worries me is the fear of gossip. Goodbye, little angel. I kiss
your hands, and beseech you to regain your health. If this is not a detailed
letter, the reason is that I must soon be starting for the office, in order that,
by strict application to duty, I may make amends for the past. Further

information concerning my doings (as well as concerning that affair with
the officers) must be deferred until tonight.—Your affectionate and
respectful friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

July 28th.
DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,—It is YOU who have committed a
fault—and one which must weigh heavily upon your conscience. Indeed,
your last letter has amazed and confounded me,—so much so that, on once
more looking into the recesses of my heart, I perceive that I was perfectly
right in what I did. Of course I am not now referring to my debauch (no,
indeed!), but to the fact that I love you, and to the fact that it is unwise of
me to love you—very unwise. You know not how matters stand, my
darling. You know not why I am BOUND to love you. Otherwise you
would not say all that you do. Yet I am persuaded that it is your head rather
than your heart that is speaking. I am certain that your heart thinks very
differently.
What occurred that night between myself and those officers I scarcely
know, I scarcely remember. You must bear in mind that for some time past I
have been in terrible distress—that for a whole month I have been, so to
speak, hanging by a single thread. Indeed, my position has been most
pitiable. Though I hid myself from you, my landlady was forever shouting
and railing at me. This would not have mattered a jot—the horrible old
woman might have shouted as much as she pleased—had it not been that, in
the first place, there was the disgrace of it, and, in the second place, she had
somehow learned of our connection, and kept proclaiming it to the
household until I felt perfectly deafened, and had to stop my ears. The
point, however, is that other people did not stop their ears, but, on the
contrary, pricked them. Indeed, I am at a loss what to do.
Really this wretched rabble has driven me to extremities. It all began
with my hearing a strange rumour from Thedora—namely, that an unworthy
suitor had been to visit you, and had insulted you with an improper
proposal. That he had insulted you deeply I knew from my own feelings, for
I felt insulted in an equal degree. Upon that, my angel, I went to pieces,
and, losing all self-control, plunged headlong. Bursting into an unspeakable
frenzy, I was at once going to call upon this villain of a seducer—though
what to do next I knew not, seeing that I was fearful of giving you offence.
Ah, what a night of sorrow it was, and what a time of gloom, rain, and

sleet! Next, I was returning home, but found myself unable to stand upon
my feet. Then Emelia Ilyitch happened to come by. He also is a tchinovnik
—or rather, was a tchinovnik, since he was turned out of the service some
time ago. What he was doing there at that moment I do not know; I only
know that I went with him.... Surely it cannot give you pleasure to read of
the misfortunes of your friend—of his sorrows, and of the temptations
which he experienced?... On the evening of the third day Emelia urged me
to go and see the officer of whom I have spoken, and whose address I had
learned from our dvornik. More strictly speaking, I had noticed him when,
on a previous occasion, he had come to play cards here, and I had followed
him home. Of course I now see that I did wrong, but I felt beside myself
when I heard them telling him stories about me. Exactly what happened
next I cannot remember. I only remember that several other officers were
present as well as he. Or it may be that I saw everything double—God alone
knows. Also, I cannot exactly remember what I said. I only remember that
in my fury I said a great deal. Then they turned me out of the room, and
threw me down the staircase—pushed me down it, that is to say. How I got
home you know. That is all. Of course, later I blamed myself, and my pride
underwent a fall; but no extraneous person except yourself knows of the
affair, and in any case it does not matter. Perhaps the affair is as you
imagine it to have been, Barbara? One thing I know for certain, and that is
that last year one of our lodgers, Aksenti Osipovitch, took a similar liberty
with Peter Petrovitch, yet kept the fact secret, an absolute secret. He called
him into his room (I happened to be looking through a crack in the
partition-wall), and had an explanation with him in the way that a
gentleman should—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,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

July 29th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I have read your two
letters, and they make my heart ache. See here, dear friend of mine. You
pass over certain things in silence, and write about a PORTION only of
your misfortunes. Can it be that the letters are the outcome of a mental
disorder?... Come and see me, for God’s sake. Come today, direct from the
office, and dine with us as you have done before. As to how you are living
now, or as to what settlement you have made with your landlady, I know
not, for you write nothing concerning those two points, and seem purposely
to have left them unmentioned. Au revoir, my friend. Come to me today
without fail. You would do better ALWAYS to dine here. Thedora is an
excellent cook. Goodbye—Your own,
BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.

August 1st.
MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Thank God that He has
sent you a chance of repaying my good with good. I believe in so doing, as
well as in the sweetness of your angelic heart. Therefore, I will not reproach
you. Only I pray you, do not again blame me because in the decline of my
life I have played the spendthrift. It was such a sin, was it not?—such a
thing to do? And even if you would still have it that the sin was there,
remember, little friend, what it costs me to hear such words fall from your
lips. Do not be vexed with me for saying this, for my heart is fainting. Poor
people are subject to fancies—this is a provision of nature. I myself have
had reason to know this. The poor man is exacting. He cannot see God’s
world as it is, but eyes each passer-by askance, and looks around him
uneasily in order that he may listen to every word that is being uttered. May
not people be talking of him? How is it that he is so unsightly? What is he
feeling at all? What sort of figure is he cutting on the one side or on the
other? It is matter of common knowledge, my Barbara, that the poor man
ranks lower than a rag, and will never earn the respect of any one. Yes,
write about him as you like—let scribblers say what they choose about him
—he will ever remain as he was. And why is this? It is because, from his
very nature, the poor man has to wear his feelings on his sleeve, so that
nothing about him is sacred, and as for his self-respect—! Well, Emelia told
me the other day that once, when he had to collect subscriptions, official
sanction was demanded for every single coin, since people thought that it
would be no use paying their money to a poor man. Nowadays charity is
strangely administered. Perhaps it has always been so. Either folk do not
know how to administer it, or they are adept in the art—one of the two.
Perhaps you did not know this, so I beg to tell it you. And how comes it that
the poor man knows, is so conscious of it all? The answer is—by
experience. He knows because any day he may see a gentleman enter a
restaurant and ask himself, “What shall I have to eat today? I will have such
and such a dish,” while all the time the poor man will have nothing to eat
that day but gruel. There are men, too—wretched busybodies—who walk
about merely to see if they can find some wretched tchinovnik or broken-

down official who has got toes projecting from his boots or his hair uncut!
And when they have found such a one they make a report of the
circumstance, and their rubbish gets entered on the file.... But what does it
matter to you if my hair lacks the shears? If you will forgive me what may
seem to you a piece of rudeness, I declare that the poor man is ashamed of
such things with the sensitiveness of a young girl. YOU, for instance, would
not care (pray pardon my bluntness) to unrobe yourself before the public
eye; and in the same way, the poor man does not like to be pried at or
questioned concerning his family relations, and so forth. A man of honour
and self-respect such as I am finds it painful and grievous to have to consort
with men who would deprive him of both.
Today I sat before my colleagues like a bear’s cub or a plucked sparrow,
so that I fairly burned with shame. Yes, it hurt me terribly, Barbara.
Naturally one blushes when one can see one’s naked toes projecting through
one’s boots, and one’s buttons hanging by a single thread! As though on
purpose, I seemed, on this occasion, to be peculiarly dishevelled. No
wonder that my spirits fell. When I was talking on business matters to
Stepan Karlovitch, he suddenly exclaimed, for no apparent reason, “Ah,
poor old Makar Alexievitch!” and then left the rest unfinished. But I knew
what he had in his mind, and blushed so hotly that even the bald patch on
my head grew red. Of course the whole thing is nothing, but it worries me,
and leads to anxious thoughts. What can these fellows know about me? God
send that they know nothing! But I confess that I suspect, I strongly suspect,
one of my colleagues. Let them only betray me! They would betray one’s
private life for a groat, for they hold nothing sacred.
I have an idea who is at the bottom of it all. It is Rataziaev. Probably he
knows someone in our department to whom he has recounted the story with
additions. Or perhaps he has spread it abroad in his own department, and
thence, it has crept and crawled into ours. Everyone here knows it, down to
the last detail, for I have seen them point at you with their fingers through
the window. Oh yes, I have seen them do it. Yesterday, when I stepped
across to dine with you, the whole crew were hanging out of the window to
watch me, and the landlady exclaimed that the devil was in young people,
and called you certain unbecoming names. But this is as nothing compared
with Rataziaev’s foul intention to place us in his books, and to describe us
in a satire. He himself has declared that he is going to do so, and other
people say the same. In fact, I know not what to think, nor what to decide. It

is no use concealing the fact that you and I have sinned against the Lord
God.... You were going to send me a book of some sort, to divert my mind
—were you not, dearest? What book, though, could now divert me? Only
such books as have never existed on earth. Novels are rubbish, and written
for fools and for the idle. Believe me, dearest, I know it through long
experience. Even should they vaunt Shakespeare to you, I tell you that
Shakespeare is rubbish, and proper only for lampoons—Your own,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

August 2nd.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Do not disquiet yourself.
God will grant that all shall turn out well. Thedora has obtained a quantity
of work, both for me and herself, and we are setting about it with a will.
Perhaps it will put us straight again. Thedora suspects my late misfortunes
to be connected with Anna Thedorovna; but I do not care—I feel
extraordinarily cheerful today. So you are thinking of borrowing more
money? If so, may God preserve you, for you will assuredly be ruined when
the time comes for repayment! You had far better come and live with us
here for a little while. Yes, come and take up your abode here, and pay no
attention whatever to what your landlady says. As for the rest of your
enemies and ill-wishers, I am certain that it is with vain imaginings that you
are vexing yourself.... In passing, let me tell you that your style differs
greatly from letter to letter. Goodbye until we meet again. I await your
coming with impatience—Your own,
B. D.

August 3rd.
MY ANGEL, BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I hasten to inform you, Oh
light of my life, that my hopes are rising again. But, little daughter of mine
—do you really mean it when you say that I am to indulge in no more
borrowings? Why, I could not do without them. Things would go badly with
us both if I did so. You are ailing. Consequently, I tell you roundly that I
MUST borrow, and that I must continue to do so.
Also, I may tell you that my seat in the office is now next to that of a
certain Emelia Ivanovitch. He is not the Emelia whom you know, but a man
who, like myself, is a privy councillor, as well as represents, with myself,
the senior and oldest official in our department. Likewise he is a good,
disinterested soul, and one that is not over-talkative, though a true bear in
appearance and demeanour. Industrious, and possessed of a handwriting
purely English, his caligraphy is, it must be confessed, even worse than my
own. Yes, he is a good soul. At the same time, we have never been intimate
with one another. We have done no more than exchange greetings on
meeting or parting, borrow one another’s penknife if we needed one, and, in
short, observe such bare civilities as convention demands. Well, today he
said to me, “Makar Alexievitch, what makes you look so thoughtful?” and
inasmuch as I could see that he wished me well, I told him all—or, rather, I
did not tell him EVERYTHING, for that I do to no man (I have not the
heart to do it); I told him just a few scattered details concerning my
financial straits. “Then you ought to borrow,” said he. “You ought to obtain
a loan of Peter Petrovitch, who does a little in that way. I myself once
borrowed some money of him, and he charged me fair and light interest.”
Well, Barbara, my heart leapt within me at these words. I kept thinking and
thinking,—if only God would put it into the mind of Peter Petrovitch to be
my benefactor by advancing me a loan! I calculated that with its aid I might
both repay my landlady and assist yourself and get rid of my surroundings
(where I can hardly sit down to table without the rascals making jokes about
me). Sometimes his Excellency passes our desk in the office. He glances at
me, and cannot but perceive how poorly I am dressed. Now, neatness and
cleanliness are two of his strongest points. Even though he says nothing, I

feel ready to die with shame when he approaches. Well, hardening my heart,
and putting my diffidence into my ragged pocket, I approached Peter
Petrovitch, and halted before him more dead than alive. Yet I was hopeful,
and though, as it turned out, he was busily engaged in talking to Thedosei
Ivanovitch, I walked up to him from behind, and plucked at his sleeve. He
looked away from me, but I recited my speech about thirty roubles, et
cetera, et cetera, of which, at first, he failed to catch the meaning. Even
when I had explained matters to him more fully, he only burst out laughing,
and said nothing. Again I addressed to him my request; whereupon, asking
me what security I could give, he again buried himself in his papers, and
went on writing without deigning me even a second glance. Dismay seized
me. “Peter Petrovitch,” I said, “I can offer you no security,” but to this I
added an explanation that some salary would, in time, be due to me, which I
would make over to him, and account the loan my first debt. At that
moment someone called him away, and I had to wait a little. On returning,
he began to mend his pen as though he had not even noticed that I was
there. But I was for myself this time. “Peter Petrovitch,” I continued, “can
you not do ANYTHING?” Still he maintained silence, and seemed not to
have heard me. 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!
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?
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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.

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

September 10th.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I am unspeakably rejoiced
at your good fortune, and fully appreciate the kindness of your superior.
Now, take a rest from your cares. Only do not AGAIN spend money to no
advantage. Live as quietly and as frugally as possible, and from today begin
always to set aside something, lest misfortune again overtake you. Do not,
for God’s sake, worry yourself—Thedora and I will get on somehow. Why
have you sent me so much money? I really do not need it—what I had
already would have been quite sufficient. True, I shall soon be needing
further funds if I am to leave these lodgings, but Thedora is hoping before
long to receive repayment of an old debt. Of course, at least TWENTY
roubles will have to be set aside for indispensable requirements, but the
remainder shall be returned to you. Pray take care of it, Makar Alexievitch.
Now, goodbye. May your life continue peacefully, and may you preserve
your health and spirits. I would have written to you at greater length had I
not felt so terribly weary. Yesterday I never left my bed. I am glad that you
have promised to come and see me. Yes, you MUST pay me a visit.
B. D.

September 11th.
MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I implore you not to leave
me now that I am once more happy and contented. Disregard what Thedora
says, and I will do anything in the world for you. I will behave myself
better, even if only out of respect for his Excellency, and guard my every
action. Once more we will exchange cheerful letters with one another, and
make mutual confidence of our thoughts and joys and sorrows (if so be that
we shall know any more sorrows?). Yes, we will live twice as happily and
comfortably as of old. Also, we will exchange books.... Angel of my heart, a
great change has taken place in my fortunes—a change very much for the
better. My landlady has become more accommodating; Theresa has
recovered her senses; even Phaldoni springs to do my bidding. Likewise, I
have made my peace with Rataziaev. He came to see me of his own accord,
the moment that he heard the glad tidings. There can be no doubt that he is
a good fellow, that there is no truth in the slanders that one hears of him.
For one thing, I have discovered that he never had any intention of putting
me and yourself into a book. This he told me himself, and then read to me
his latest work. As for his calling me “Lovelace,” he had intended no
rudeness or indecency thereby. The term is merely one of foreign
derivation, meaning a clever fellow, or, in more literary and elegant
language, a gentleman with whom one must reckon. That is all; it was a
mere harmless jest, my beloved. Only ignorance made me lose my temper,
and I have expressed to him my regret.... How beautiful is the weather
today, my little Barbara! True, there was a slight frost in the early morning,
as though scattered through a sieve, but it was nothing, and the breeze soon
freshened the air. I went out to buy some shoes, and obtained a splendid
pair. Then, after a stroll along the Nevski Prospect, I read “The Daily Bee”.
This reminds me that I have forgotten to tell you the most important thing
of all. It happened like this:
This morning I had a talk with Emelia Ivanovitch and Aksenti
Michaelovitch concerning his Excellency. Apparently, I am not the only
person to whom he has acted kindly and been charitable, for he is known to
the whole world for his goodness of heart. In many quarters his praises are

to be heard; in many quarters he has called forth tears of gratitude. Among
other things, he undertook the care of an orphaned girl, and married her to
an official, the son of a poor widow, and found this man place in a certain
chancellory, and in other ways benefited him. Well, dearest, I considered it
to be my duty to add my mite by publishing abroad the story of his
Excellency’s gracious treatment of myself. Accordingly, I related the whole
occurrence to my interlocutors, and concealed not a single detail. In fact, I
put my pride into my pocket—though why should I feel ashamed of having
been elated by such an occurrence? “Let it only be noised afield,” said I to
myself, and it will resound greatly to his Excellency’s credit.—So I
expressed myself enthusiastically on the subject and never faltered. On the
contrary, I felt proud to have such a story to tell. I referred to every one
concerned (except to yourself, of course, dearest)—to my landlady, to
Phaldoni, to Rataziaev, to Markov. I even mentioned the matter of my
shoes! Some of those standing by laughed—in fact every one present did
so, but probably it was my own figure or the incident of my shoes—more
particularly the latter—that excited merriment, for I am sure it was not
meant ill-naturedly. My hearers may have been young men, or well off;
certainly they cannot have been laughing with evil intent at what I had said.
Anything against his Excellency CANNOT have been in their thoughts. Eh,
Barbara?
Even now I cannot wholly collect my faculties, so upset am I by recent
events.... Have you any fuel to go on with, Barbara? You must not expose
yourself to cold. Also, you have depressed my spirits with your fears for the
future. Daily I pray to God on your behalf. Ah, HOW I pray to Him!...
Likewise, have you any woollen stockings to wear, and warm clothes
generally? Mind you, if there is anything you need, you must not hurt an
old man’s feelings by failing to apply to him for what you require. The bad
times are gone now, and the future is looking bright and fair.
But what bad times they were, Barbara, even though they be gone, and
can no longer matter! As the years pass on we shall gradually recover
ourselves. How clearly I remember my youth! In those days I never had a
kopeck to spare. Yet, cold and hungry though I was, I was always light-
hearted. In the morning I would walk the Nevski Prospect, and meet nice-
looking people, and be happy all day. Yes, it was a glorious, a glorious time!
It was good to be alive, especially in St. Petersburg. Yet it is but yesterday
that I was beseeching God with tears to pardon me my sins during the late

sorrowful period—to pardon me my murmurings and evil thoughts and
gambling and drunkenness. And you I remembered in my prayers, for you
alone have encouraged and comforted me, you alone have given me advice
and instruction. I shall never forget that, dearest. Today I gave each one of
your letters a kiss.... Goodbye, beloved. I have been told that there is going
to be a sale of clothing somewhere in this neighbourhood. Once more
goodbye, goodbye, my angel—Yours in heart and soul,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

September 15th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I am in terrible distress. I
feel sure that something is about to happen. The matter, my beloved friend,
is that Monsieur Bwikov is again in St. Petersburg, for Thedora has met
him. He was driving along in a drozhki, but, on meeting Thedora, he
ordered the coachman to stop, sprang out, and inquired of her where she
was living; but this she would not tell him. Next, he said with a smile that
he knew quite well who was living with her (evidently Anna Thedorovna
had told him); whereupon Thedora could hold out no longer, but then and
there, in the street, railed at and abused him—telling him that he was an
immoral man, and the cause of all my misfortunes. To this he replied that a
person who did not possess a groat must surely be rather badly off; to which
Thedora retorted that I could always either live by the labour of my hands
or marry—that it was not so much a question of my losing posts as of my
losing my happiness, the ruin of which had led almost to my death. In reply
he observed that, though I was still quite young, I seemed to have lost my
wits, and that my “virtue appeared to be under a cloud” (I quote his exact
words). Both I and Thedora had thought that he does not know where I live;
but, last night, just as I had left the house to make a few purchases in the
Gostinni Dvor, he appeared at our rooms (evidently he had not wanted to
find me at home), and put many questions to Thedora concerning our way
of living. Then, after inspecting my work, he wound up with: “Who is this
tchinovnik friend of yours?” At the moment you happened to be passing
through the courtyard, so Thedora pointed you out, and the man peered at
you, and laughed. Thedora next asked him to depart—telling him that I was
still ill from grief, and that it would give me great pain to see him there; to
which, after a pause, he replied that he had come because he had had
nothing better to do. Also, he was for giving Thedora twenty-five roubles,
but, of course, she declined them. What does it all mean? Why has he paid
this visit? I cannot understand his getting to know about me. I am lost in
conjecture. Thedora, however, says that Aksinia, her sister-in-law (who
sometimes comes to see her), is acquainted with a laundress named
Nastasia, and that this woman has a cousin in the position of watchman to a

department of which a certain friend of Anna Thedorovna’s nephew forms
one of the staff. Can it be, therefore, that an intrigue has been hatched
through THIS channel? But Thedora may be entirely mistaken. We hardly
know what to think. What if he should come again? The very thought
terrifies me. When Thedora told me of this last night such terror seized
upon me that I almost swooned away. What can the man be wanting? At all
events, I refuse to know such people. What have they to do with my
wretched self? Ah, how I am haunted with anxiety, for every moment I keep
thinking that Bwikov is at hand! WHAT will become of me? WHAT MORE
has fate in store for me? For Christ’s sake come and see me, Makar
Alexievitch! For Christ’s sake come and see me soon!

September 18th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—Today there took place in
this house a most lamentable, a most mysterious, a most unlooked-for
occurrence. First of all, let me tell you that poor Gorshkov has been entirely
absolved of guilt. The decision has been long in coming, but this morning
he went to hear the final resolution read. It was entirely in his favour. Any
culpability which had been imputed to him for negligence and irregularity
was removed by the resolution. Likewise, he was authorised to recover of
the merchant a large sum of money. Thus, he stands entirely justified, and
has had his character cleansed from all stain. In short, he could not have
wished for a more complete vindication. When he arrived home at three
o’clock he was looking as white as a sheet, and his lips were quivering. Yet
there was a smile on his face as he embraced his wife and children. In a
body the rest of us ran to congratulate him, and he was greatly moved by
the act. Bowing to us, he pressed our hands in turn. As he did so I thought,
somehow, that he seemed to have grown taller and straighter, and that the
pus-drops seemed to have disappeared from his eyelashes. Yet how agitated
he was, poor fellow! He could not rest quietly for two minutes together, but
kept picking up and then dropping whatsoever came to his hand, and
bowing and smiling without intermission, and sitting down and getting up,
and again sitting down, and chattering God only knows what about his
honour and his good name and his little ones. How he did talk—yes, and
weep too! Indeed, few of ourselves could refrain from tears; although
Rataziaev remarked (probably to encourage Gorshkov) that honour
mattered nothing when one had nothing to eat, and that money was the
chief thing in the world, and that for it alone ought God to be thanked. Then
he slapped Gorshkov on the shoulder, but I thought that Gorshkov somehow
seemed hurt at this. He did not express any open displeasure, but threw
Rataziaev a curious look, and removed his hand from his shoulder. ONCE
upon a time he would not have acted thus; but characters differ. For
example, I myself should have hesitated, at such a season of rejoicing, to
seem proud, even though excessive deference and civility at such a moment
might have been construed as a lapse both of moral courage and of mental

vigour. However, this is none of my business. All that Gorshkov said was:
“Yes, money IS a good thing, glory be to God!” In fact, the whole time that
we remained in his room he kept repeating to himself: “Glory be to God,
glory be to God!” His wife ordered a richer and more delicate meal than
usual, and the landlady herself cooked it, for at heart she is not a bad
woman. But until the meal was served Gorshkov could not remain still. He
kept entering everyone’s room in turn (whether invited thither or not), and,
seating himself smilingly upon a chair, would sometimes say something,
and sometimes not utter a word, but get up and go out again. In the naval
officer’s room he even took a pack of playing-cards into his hand, and was
thereupon invited to make a fourth in a game; but after losing a few times,
as well as making several blunders in his play, he abandoned the pursuit.
“No,” said he, “that is the sort of man that I am—that is all that I am good
for,” and departed. Next, encountering myself in the corridor, he took my
hands in his, and gazed into my face with a rather curious air. Then he
pressed my hands again, and moved away still smiling, smiling, but in an
odd, weary sort of manner, much as a corpse might smile. Meanwhile his
wife was weeping for joy, and everything in their room was decked in
holiday guise. Presently dinner was served, and after they had dined
Gorshkov said to his wife: “See now, dearest, I am going to rest a little
while;” and with that went to bed. Presently he called his little daughter to
his side, and, laying his hand upon the child’s head, lay a long while
looking at her. Then he turned to his wife again, and asked her: “What of
Petinka? Where is our Petinka?” whereupon his wife crossed herself, and
replied: “Why, our Petinka is dead!” “Yes, yes, I know—of course,” said
her husband. “Petinka is now in the Kingdom of Heaven.” This showed his
wife that her husband was not quite in his right senses—that the recent
occurrence had upset him; so she said: “My dearest, you must sleep
awhile.” “I will do so,” he replied, “—at once—I am rather—” And he
turned over, and lay silent for a time. Then again he turned round and tried
to say something, but his wife could not hear what it was. “What do you
say?” she inquired, but he made no reply. Then again she waited a few
moments until she thought to herself, “He has gone to sleep,” and departed
to spend an hour with the landlady. At the end of that hour she returned—
only to find that her husband had not yet awoken, but was still lying
motionless. “He is sleeping very soundly,” she reflected as she sat down
and began to work at something or other. Since then she has told us that

when half an hour or so had elapsed she fell into a reverie. What she was
thinking of she cannot remember, save that she had forgotten altogether
about her husband. Then she awoke with a curious sort of sensation at her
heart. The first thing that struck her was the deathlike stillness of the room.
Glancing at the bed, she perceived her husband to be lying in the same
position as before. Thereupon she approached him, turned the coverlet
back, and saw that he was stiff and cold—that he had died suddenly, as
though smitten with a stroke. But of what precisely he died God only
knows. The affair has so terribly impressed me that even now I cannot fully
collect my thoughts. It would scarcely be believed that a human being could
die so simply—and he such a poor, needy wretch, this Gorshkov! What a
fate, what a fate, to be sure! His wife is plunged in tears and panic-stricken,
while his little daughter has run away somewhere to hide herself. In their
room, however, all is bustle and confusion, for the doctors are about to
make an autopsy on the corpse. But I cannot tell you things for certain; I
only know that I am most grieved, most grieved. How sad to think that one
never knows what even a day, what even an hour, may bring forth! One
seems to die to so little purpose!...—Your own
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

September 19th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I hasten to let you know
that Rataziaev has found me some work to do for a certain writer—the latter
having submitted to him a large manuscript. Glory be to God, for this
means a large amount of work to do. Yet, though the copy is wanted in
haste, the original is so carelessly written that I hardly know how to set
about my task. Indeed, certain parts of the manuscript are almost
undecipherable. I have agreed to do the work for forty kopecks a sheet. You
see therefore (and this is my true reason for writing to you), that we shall
soon be receiving money from an extraneous source. Goodbye now, as I
must begin upon my labours.—Your sincere friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

September 23rd.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—I have not written to you
these three days past for the reason that I have been so worried and alarmed.
Three days ago Bwikov came again to see me. At the time I was alone,
for Thedora had gone out somewhere. As soon as I opened the door the
sight of him so terrified me that I stood rooted to the spot, and could feel
myself turning pale. Entering with his usual loud laugh, he took a chair, and
sat down. For a long while I could not collect my thoughts; I just sat where
I was, and went on with my work. Soon his smile faded, for my appearance
seemed somehow to have struck him. You see, of late I have grown thin,
and my eyes and cheeks have fallen in, and my face has become as white as
a sheet; so that anyone who knew me a year ago would scarcely recognise
me now. After a prolonged inspection, Bwikov seemed to recover his
spirits, for he said something to which I duly replied. Then again he
laughed. Thus he sat for a whole hour—talking to me the while, and asking
me questions about one thing and another. At length, just before he rose to
depart, he took me by the hand, and said (to quote his exact words):
“Between ourselves, Barbara Alexievna, that kinswoman of yours and my
good friend and acquaintance—I refer to Anna Thedorovna—is a very bad
woman,” (he also added a grosser term of opprobrium). “First of all she led
your cousin astray, and then she ruined yourself. I also have behaved like a
villain, but such is the way of the world.” Again he laughed. Next, having
remarked that, though not a master of eloquence, he had always considered
that obligations of gentility obliged him to have with me a clear and
outspoken explanation, he went on to say that he sought my hand in
marriage; that he looked upon it as a duty to restore to me my honour; that
he could offer me riches; that, after marriage, he would take me to his
country seat in the Steppes, where we would hunt hares; that he intended
never to visit St. Petersburg again, since everything there was horrible, and
he had to entertain a worthless nephew whom he had sworn to disinherit in
favour of a legal heir; and, finally, that it was to obtain such a legal heir that
he was seeking my hand in marriage. Lastly, he remarked that I seemed to
be living in very poor circumstances (which was not surprising, said he, in

view of the kennel that I inhabited); that I should die if I remained a month
longer in that den; that all lodgings in St. Petersburg were detestable; and
that he would be glad to know if I was in want of anything.
So thunderstruck was I with the proposal that I could only burst into
tears. These tears he interpreted as a sign of gratitude, for he told me that he
had always felt assured of my good sense, cleverness, and sensibility, but
that hitherto he had hesitated to take this step until he should have learned
precisely how I was getting on. Next he asked me some questions about
YOU; saying that he had heard of you as a man of good principle, and that
since he was unwilling to remain your debtor, would a sum of five hundred
roubles repay you for all you had done for me? To this I replied that your
services to myself had been such as could never be requited with money;
whereupon, he exclaimed that I was talking rubbish and nonsense; that
evidently I was still young enough to read poetry; that romances of this kind
were the undoing of young girls, that books only corrupted morality, and
that, for his part, he could not abide them. “You ought to live as long as I
have done,” he added, “and THEN you will see what men can be.” With
that he requested me to give his proposal my favourable consideration—
saying that he would not like me to take such an important step
unguardedly, since want of thought and impetuosity often spelt ruin to
youthful inexperience, but that he hoped to receive an answer in the
affirmative. “Otherwise,” said he, “I shall have no choice but to marry a
certain merchant’s daughter in Moscow, in order that I may keep my vow to
deprive my nephew of the inheritance.”—Then he pressed five hundred
roubles into my hand—to buy myself some bonbons, as he phrased it—and
wound up by saying that in the country I should grow as fat as a doughnut
or a cheese rolled in butter; that at the present moment he was extremely
busy; and that, deeply engaged in business though he had been all day, he
had snatched the present opportunity of paying me a visit. At length he
departed. For a long time I sat plunged in reflection. Great though my
distress of mind was, I soon arrived at a decision.... My friend, I am going
to marry this man; I have no choice but to accept his proposal. If anyone
could save me from this squalor, and restore to me my good name, and
avert from me future poverty and want and misfortune, he is the man to do
it. What else have I to look for from the future? What more am I to ask of
fate? Thedora declares that one need NEVER lose one’s happiness; but
what, I ask HER, can be called happiness under such circumstances as

mine? At all events I see no other road open, dear friend. I see nothing else
to be done. I have worked until I have ruined my health. I cannot go on
working forever. Shall I go out into the world? Nay; I am worn to a shadow
with grief, and become good for nothing. Sickly by nature, I should merely
be a burden upon other folks. Of course this marriage will not bring me
paradise, but what else does there remain, my friend—what else does there
remain? What other choice is left?
I had not asked your advice earlier for the reason that I wanted to think
the matter over alone. However, the decision which you have just read is
unalterable, and I am about to announce it to Bwikov himself, who in any
case has pressed me for a speedy reply, owing to the fact (so he says) that
his business will not wait nor allow him to remain here longer, and that
therefore, no trifle must be allowed to stand in its way. God alone knows
whether I shall be happy, but my fate is in His holy, His inscrutable hand,
and I have so decided. Bwikov is said to be kind-hearted. He will at least
respect me, and perhaps I shall be able to return that respect. What more
could be looked for from such a marriage?
I have now told you all, Makar Alexievitch, and feel sure that you will
understand my despondency. Do not, however, try to divert me from my
intention, for all your efforts will be in vain. Think for a moment; weigh in
your heart for a moment all that has led me to take this step. At first my
anguish was extreme, but now I am quieter. What awaits me I know not.
What must be must be, and as God may send....
Bwikov has just arrived, so I am leaving this letter unfinished. Otherwise
I had much else to say to you. Bwikov is even now at the door!...

September 23rd.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I hasten to reply to you—I
hasten to express to you my extreme astonishment.... In passing, I may
mention that yesterday we buried poor Gorshkov.... Yes, Bwikov has acted
nobly, and you have no choice but to accept him. All things are in God’s
hands. This is so, and must always be so; and the purposes of the Divine
Creator are at once good and inscrutable, as also is Fate, which is one with
Him... Thedora will share your happiness—for, of course, you will be
happy, and free from want, darling, dearest, sweetest of angels! But why
should the matter be so hurried? Oh, of course—Monsieur Bwikov’s
business affairs. Only a man who has no affairs to see to can afford to
disregard such things. I got a glimpse of Monsieur Bwikov as he was
leaving your door. He is a fine-looking man—a very fine-looking man;
though that is not the point that I should most have noticed had I been quite
myself at the time.... In the future shall we be able to write letters to one
another? I keep wondering and wondering what has led you to say all that
you have said. To think that just when twenty pages of my copying are
completed THIS has happened!... I suppose you will be able to make many
purchases now—to buy shoes and dresses and all sorts of things? Do you
remember the shops in Gorokhovaia Street of which I used to speak?... But
no. You ought not to go out at present—you simply ought not to, and shall
not. Presently, you will he able to buy many, many things, and to, keep a
carriage. Also, at present the weather is bad. Rain is descending in pailfuls,
and it is such a soaking kind of rain that—that you might catch cold from it,
my darling, and the chill might go to your heart. Why should your fear of
this man lead you to take such risks when all the time I am here to do your
bidding? So Thedora declares great happiness to be awaiting you, does she?
She is a gossiping old woman, and evidently desires to ruin you. Shall you
be at the all-night Mass this evening, dearest? I should like to come and see
you there. Yes, Bwikov spoke but the truth when he said that you are a
woman of virtue, wit, and good feeling. Yet I think he would do far better to
marry the merchant’s daughter. What think YOU about it? Yes, ‘twould be
far better for him. As soon as it grows dark tonight I mean to come and sit

with you for an hour. Tonight twilight will close in early, so I shall soon be
with you. Yes, come what may, I mean to see you for an hour. At present, I
suppose, you are expecting Bwikov, but I will come as soon as he has gone.
So stay at home until I have arrived, dearest.
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

September 27th.
DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,—Bwikov has just informed me that I
must have at least three dozen linen blouses; so I must go at once and look
for sempstresses to make two out of the three dozen, since time presses.
Indeed, Monsieur Bwikov is quite angry about the fuss which these
fripperies are entailing, seeing that there remain but five days before the
wedding, and we are to depart on the following day. He keeps rushing about
and declaring that no time ought to be wasted on trifles. I am terribly
worried, and scarcely able to stand on my feet. There is so much to do, and,
perhaps, so much that were better left undone! Moreover, I have no blond or
other lace; so THERE is another item to be purchased, since Bwikov
declares that he cannot have his bride look like a cook, but, on the contrary,
she must “put the noses of the great ladies out of joint.” That is his
expression. I wish, therefore, that you would go to Madame Chiffon’s, in
Gorokhovaia Street, and ask her, in the first place, to send me some
sempstresses, and, in the second place, to give herself the trouble of coming
in person, as I am too ill to go out. Our new flat is very cold, and still in
great disorder. Also, Bwikov has an aunt who is at her last gasp through old
age, and may die before our departure. He himself, however, declares this to
be nothing, and says that she will soon recover. He is not yet living with
me, and I have to go running hither and thither to find him. Only Thedora is
acting as my servant, together with Bwikov’s valet, who oversees
everything, but has been absent for the past three days. Each morning
Bwikov goes to business, and loses his temper. Yesterday he even had some
trouble with the police because of his thrashing the steward of these
buildings... I have no one to send with this letter so I am going to post it...
Ah! I had almost forgotten the most important point—which is that I should
like you to go and tell Madame Chiffon that I wish the blond lace to be
changed in conformity with yesterday’s patterns, if she will be good enough
to bring with her a new assortment. Also say that I have altered my mind
about the satin, which I wish to be tamboured with crochet-work; also, that
tambour is to be used with monograms on the various garments. Do you
hear? Tambour, not smooth work. Do not forget that it is to be tambour.

Another thing I had almost forgotten, which is that the lappets of the fur
cloak must be raised, and the collar bound with lace. Please tell her these
things, Makar Alexievitch.—Your friend,
B. D.
P.S.—I am so ashamed to trouble you with my commissions! This is the
third morning that you will have spent in running about for my sake. But
what else am I to do? The whole place is in disorder, and I myself am ill.
Do not be vexed with me, Makar Alexievitch. I am feeling so depressed!
What is going to become of me, dear friend, dear, kind, old Makar
Alexievitch? I dread to look forward into the future. Somehow I feel
apprehensive; I am living, as it were, in a mist. Yet, for God’s sake, forget
none of my commissions. I am so afraid lest you should make a mistake!
Remember that everything is to be tambour work, not smooth.

September 27th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,—I have carefully fulfilled
your commissions. Madame Chiffon informs me that she herself had
thought of using tambour work as being more suitable (though I did not
quite take in all she said). Also, she has informed me that, since you have
given certain directions in writing, she has followed them (though again I
do not clearly remember all that she said—I only remember that she said a
very great deal, for she is a most tiresome old woman). 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.
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?
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,
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....
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....
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.
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!
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
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!
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....
Ah, dearest, my pet, my own darling!...

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