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,