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,