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,