my beloved barbara alexievna,—these unlooked-for blows have shaken me terribly, and these strange calamities have quite broken my spirit. not content with trying to bring you to a bed of sickness, these lickspittles and pestilent old men are trying to bring me to the same. and i assure you that they are succeeding—i assure you that they are. yet i would rather die than not help you. if i cannot help you i shall die; but, to enable me to help you, you must flee like a bird out of the nest where these owls, these birds of prey, are seeking to peck you to death. how distressed i feel, my dearest! yet how cruel you yourself are! although you are enduring pain and insult, although you, little nestling, are in agony of spirit, you actually tell me that it grieves you to disturb me, and that you will work off your debt to me with the labour of your own hands! in other words, you, with your weak health, are proposing to kill yourself in order to relieve me to term of my financial embarrassments! stop a moment, and think what you are saying. why should you sew, and work, and torture your poor head with anxiety, and spoil your beautiful eyes, and ruin your health? why, indeed? ah, little barbara, little barbara! do you not see that i shall never be any good to you, never any good to you? at all events, i myself see it. yet i will help you in your distress. i will overcome every difficulty, i will get extra work to do, i will copy out manuscripts for authors, i will go to the latter and force them to employ me, i will so apply myself to the work that they shall see that i am a good copyist (and good copyists, i know, are always in demand). thus there will be no need for you to exhaust your strength, nor will i allow you to do so—i will not have you carry out your disastrous intention... yes, little angel, i will certainly borrow some money. i would rather die than not do so. merely tell me, my own darling, that i am not to shrink from heavy interest, and i will not shrink from it, i will not shrink from it—nay, i will shrink from nothing. i will ask for forty roubles, to begin with. that will not be much, will it, little barbara? yet will any one trust me even with that sum at the first asking? do you think that i am capable of inspiring confidence at the first glance? would the mere sight of my face lead any one to form of me a favourable opinion? have i ever been able, remember you, to appear to anyone in a favourable light? what think you? personally, i see difficulties in the way, and feel sick at heart at the mere prospect. however, of those forty roubles i mean to set aside twenty-five for yourself, two for my landlady, and the remainder for my own spending. of course, i ought to give more than two to my landlady, but you must remember my necessities, and see for yourself that that is the most that can be assigned to her. we need say no more about it. for one rouble i shall buy me a new pair of shoes, for i scarcely know whether my old ones will take me to the office tomorrow morning. also, a new neck-scarf is indispensable, seeing that the old one has now passed its first year; but, since you have promised to make of your old apron not only a scarf, but also a shirt-front, i need think no more of the article in question. so much for shoes and scarves. next, for buttons. you yourself will agree that i cannot do without buttons; nor is there on my garments a single hem unfrayed. i tremble when i think that some day his excellency may perceive my untidiness, and say—well, what will he not say? yet i shall never hear what he says, for i shall have expired where i sit—expired of mere shame at the thought of having been thus exposed. ah, dearest!... well, my various necessities will have left me three roubles to go on with. part of this sum i shall expend upon a half-pound of tobacco—for i cannot live without tobacco, and it is nine days since i last put a pipe into my mouth. to tell the truth, i shall buy the tobacco without acquainting you with the fact, although i ought not so to do. the pity of it all is that, while you are depriving yourself of everything, i keep solacing myself with various amenities—which is why i am telling you this, that the pangs of conscience may not torment me. frankly, i confess that i am in desperate straits—in such straits as i have never yet known. my landlady flouts me, and i enjoy the respect of no one; my arrears and debts are terrible; and in the office, though never have i found the place exactly a paradise, no one has a single word to say to me. yet i hide, i carefully hide, this from every one. i would hide my person in the same way, were it not that daily i have to attend the office where i have to be constantly on my guard against my fellows. nevertheless, merely to be able to confess this to you renews my spiritual strength. we must not think of these things, barbara, lest the thought of them break our courage. i write them down merely to warn you not to think of them, nor to torture yourself with bitter imaginings. yet, my god, what is to become of us? stay where you are until i can come to you; after which i shall not return hither, but simply disappear. now i have finished my letter, and must go and shave myself, inasmuch as, when that is done, one always feels more decent, as well as consorts more easily with decency. god speed me! one prayer to him, and i must be off.
m. dievushkin.
