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,