P.S.--My heart is full! It is full to bursting of tears! Sorrow has me
in its grip, and is tearing me to pieces. Goodbye. My God, what grief!
Do not, do not forget your poor Barbara!
BELOVED BARBARA--MY JEWEL, MY PRICELESS ONE,--You are now almost en
route, you are now just about to depart! Would that they had torn my
heart out of my breast rather than have taken you away from me! How
could you allow it? You weep, yet you go! And only this moment I have
received from you a letter stained with your tears! It must be that
you are departing unwillingly; it must be that you are being abducted
against your will; it must be that you are sorry for me; it must be
that--that you LOVE me!... Yet how will it fare with you now? Your heart
will soon have become chilled and sick and depressed. Grief will soon
have sucked away its life; grief will soon have rent it in twain! Yes,
you will die where you be, and be laid to rest in the cold, moist earth
where there is no one to bewail you. Monsieur Bwikov will only be
hunting hares!... Ah, my darling, my darling! WHY did you come to this
decision? How could you bring yourself to take such a step? What have
you done, have you done, have you done? Soon they will be carrying you
away to the tomb; soon your beauty will have become defiled, my angel.
Ah, dearest one, you are as weak as a feather. And where have I been all
this time? What have I been thinking of? I have treated you merely as a
forward child whose head was aching. Fool that I was, I neither saw nor
understood. I have behaved as though, right or wrong, the matter was in
no way my concern. Yes, I have been running about after fripperies!...
Ah, but I WILL leave my bed. Tomorrow I WILL rise sound and well, and be
once more myself.... Dearest, I could throw myself under the wheels of a
passing vehicle rather than that you should go like this. By what right
is it being done?... I will go with you; I will run behind your carriage
if you will not take me--yes, I will run, and run so long as the power
is in me, and until my breath shall have failed. Do you know whither you
are going? Perhaps you will not know, and will have to ask me? Before
you there lie the Steppes, my darling--only the Steppes, the naked
Steppes, the Steppes that are as bare as the palm of my hand. THERE
there live only heartless old women and rude peasants and drunkards.
THERE the trees have already shed their leaves. THERE there abide but
rain and cold. Why should you go thither? True, Monsieur Bwikov will
have his diversions in that country--he will be able to hunt the hare;
but what of yourself? Do you wish to become a mere estate lady? Nay;
look at yourself, my seraph of heaven. Are you in any way fitted for
such a role? How could you play it? To whom should I write letters? To
whom should I send these missives? Whom should I call “my darling”? To
whom should I apply that name of endearment? Where, too, could I find
you? When you are gone, Barbara, I shall die--for certain I shall die,
for my heart cannot bear this misery. I love you as I love the light of
God; I love you as my own daughter; to you I have devoted my love in its
entirety; only for you have I lived at all; only because you were near
me have I worked and copied manuscripts and committed my views to paper
under the guise of friendly letters. Perhaps you did not know all this,
but it has been so. How, then, my beloved, could you bring yourself to
leave me? Nay, you MUST not go--it is impossible, it is sheerly, it is
utterly, impossible. The rain will fall upon you, and you are weak, and
will catch cold. The floods will stop your carriage. No sooner will it
have passed the city barriers than it will break down, purposely break
down. Here, in St. Petersburg, they are bad builders of carriages. Yes,
I know well these carriage-builders. They are jerry-builders who can
fashion a toy, but nothing that is durable. Yes, I swear they can make
nothing that is durable.... All that I can do is to go upon my knees
before Monsieur Bwikov, and to tell him all, to tell him all. Do you
also tell him all, dearest, and reason with him. Tell him that you MUST
remain here, and must not go. Ah, why did he not marry that merchant’s
daughter in Moscow? Let him go and marry her now. She would suit him far
better and for reasons which I well know. Then I could keep you. For
what is he to you, this Monsieur Bwikov? Why has he suddenly become so
dear to your heart? Is it because he can buy you gewgaws? What are THEY?
What use are THEY? They are so much rubbish. One should consider human
life rather than mere finery. Nevertheless, as soon as I have received
my next instalment of salary I mean to buy you a new cloak. I mean to
buy it at a shop with which I am acquainted. Only, you must wait until
my next installment is due, my angel of a Barbara. Ah, God, my God! To
think that you are going away into the Steppes with Monsieur Bwikov--
that you are going away never to return!... Nay, nay, but you SHALL
write to me. You SHALL write me a letter as soon as you have started,
even if it be your last letter of all, my dearest. Yet will it be your
last letter? How has it come about so suddenly, so irrevocably, that
this letter should be your last? Nay, nay; I will write, and you shall
write--yes, NOW, when at length I am beginning to improve my style.
Style? I do not know what I am writing. I never do know what I am
writing. I could not possibly know, for I never read over what I have
written, nor correct its orthography. At the present moment, I am
writing merely for the sake of writing, and to put as much as possible
into this last letter of mine....
Ah, dearest, my pet, my own darling!...