July 1st.
Rubbish, rubbish, Barbara!--What you say is sheer rubbish. Stay here,
rather, and put such thoughts out of your head. None of what you suppose
is true. I can see for myself that it is not. Whatsoever you lack here,
you have but to ask me for it. Here you love and are loved, and we might
easily be happy and contented together. What could you want more? What
have you to do with strangers? You cannot possibly know what strangers
are like. I know it, though, and could have told you if you had asked
me. There is a stranger whom I know, and whose bread I have eaten. He
is a cruel man, Barbara--a man so bad that he would be unworthy of your
little heart, and would soon tear it to pieces with his railings and
reproaches and black looks. On the other hand, you are safe and well
here--you are as safe as though you were sheltered in a nest. Besides,
you would, as it were, leave me with my head gone. For what should I
have to do when you were gone? What could I, an old man, find to do? Are
you not necessary to me? Are you not useful to me? Eh? Surely you do not
think that you are not useful? You are of great use to me, Barbara, for
you exercise a beneficial influence upon my life. Even at this moment,
as I think of you, I feel cheered, for always I can write letters to
you, and put into them what I am feeling, and receive from you detailed
answers.... I have bought you a wardrobe, and also procured you a
bonnet; so you see that you have only to give me a commission for it to
be executed.... No--in what way are you not useful? What should I do
if I were deserted in my old age? What would become of me? Perhaps you
never thought of that, Barbara--perhaps you never said to yourself, “How
could HE get on without me?” You see, I have grown so accustomed to you.
What else would it end in, if you were to go away? Why, in my hiking to
the Neva’s bank and doing away with myself. Ah, Barbara, darling, I
can see that you want me to be taken away to the Volkovo Cemetery in
a broken-down old hearse, with some poor outcast of the streets to
accompany my coffin as chief mourner, and the gravediggers to heap my
body with clay, and depart and leave me there. How wrong of you, how
wrong of you, my beloved! Yes, by heavens, how wrong of you! I am
returning you your book, little friend; and, if you were to ask of me
my opinion of it, I should say that never before in my life had I read
a book so splendid. I keep wondering how I have hitherto contrived to
remain such an owl. For what have I ever done? From what wilds did
I spring into existence? I KNOW nothing--I know simply NOTHING. My
ignorance is complete. Frankly, I am not an educated man, for until now
I have read scarcely a single book--only “A Portrait of Man” (a clever
enough work in its way), “The Boy Who Could Play Many Tunes Upon Bells”,
and “Ivik’s Storks”. That is all. But now I have also read “The Station
Overseer” in your little volume; and it is wonderful to think that one
may live and yet be ignorant of the fact that under one’s very nose
there may be a book in which one’s whole life is described as in a
picture. Never should I have guessed that, as soon as ever one begins to
read such a book, it sets one on both to remember and to consider and to
foretell events. Another reason why I liked this book so much is that,
though, in the case of other works (however clever they be), one may
read them, yet remember not a word of them (for I am a man naturally
dull of comprehension, and unable to read works of any great
importance),--although, as I say, one may read such works, one reads
such a book as YOURS as easily as though it had been written by oneself,
and had taken possession of one’s heart, and turned it inside out for
inspection, and were describing it in detail as a matter of perfect
simplicity. Why, I might almost have written the book myself! Why not,
indeed? I can feel just as the people in the book do, and find myself
in positions precisely similar to those of, say, the character Samson
Virin. In fact, how many good-hearted wretches like Virin are there not
walking about amongst us? How easily, too, it is all described! I assure
you, my darling, that I almost shed tears when I read that Virin so took
to drink as to lose his memory, become morose, and spend whole days over
his liquor; as also that he choked with grief and wept bitterly when,
rubbing his eyes with his dirty hand, he bethought him of his wandering
lamb, his daughter Dunasha! How natural, how natural! You should read
the book for yourself. The thing is actually alive. Even I can see that;
even I can realise that it is a picture cut from the very life around
me. In it I see our own Theresa (to go no further) and the poor
tchinovnik--who is just such a man as this Samson Virin, except for
his surname of Gorshkov. The book describes just what might happen to
ourselves--to myself in particular. Even a count who lives in the Nevski
Prospect or in Naberezhnaia Street might have a similar experience,
though he might APPEAR to be different, owing to the fact that his life
is cast on a higher plane. Yes, just the same things might happen to
him--just the same things.... Here you are wishing to go away and leave
us; yet, be careful lest it would not be I who had to pay the penalty of
your doing so. For you might ruin both yourself and me. For the love of
God, put away these thoughts from you, my darling, and do not torture me
in vain. How could you, my poor little unfledged nestling, find yourself
food, and defend yourself from misfortune, and ward off the wiles of
evil men? Think better of it, Barbara, and pay no more heed to
foolish advice and calumny, but read your book again, and read it with
attention. It may do you much good.
I have spoken of Rataziaev’s “The Station Overseer”. However, the author
has told me that the work is old-fashioned, since, nowadays, books are
issued with illustrations and embellishments of different sorts (though
I could not make out all that he said). Pushkin he adjudges a splendid
poet, and one who has done honour to Holy Russia. Read your book again,
Barbara, and follow my advice, and make an old man happy. The Lord God
Himself will reward you. Yes, He will surely reward you.--Your faithful
friend,