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,