mind and went back. I staked that gulden on manque (that time it was on manqtie), and there really is something peculiar in the feeling when, alone in a strange land, far from home and from friends, not knowing whether you will have anything to eat
that day— you stake your last gulden, your very last! I won, and twenty minutes later I went out of the Casino, having a hundred and seventy gulden in my pocket. That's a fact! That's what the last gulden can sometimes do! And what if I had lost heart then? What if I had not dared to risk it? ... To-morrow, to-morrow it will all be over 1
POOR PEOPLE
A NOVEL
Ah, these story tellersl If only they would write anything useful, pleasant, soothing, but they will unearth all sorts of hidden things! ... I would prohibit their writingi Why, it is beyond everything; you read .. . and you can't help t hinkin g—and then all sorts of foolishness comes into your head; I would really prohibit their writing; I would simply prohibit it altogether.
Prince V. F. Odobvsky.
April 8.
My precious Varvara Alexyevna,
I was happy yesterday, inunensely happy, impossibly happy! For once in your hfe, you obstinate person, you obeyed me. At eight o'clock in the evening I woke up (you know, Uttle mother, that I love a little nap of an hour or two when my work is over). I got out a candle, I got paper ready, was mending a pen when suddenly I chanced to raise my eyes —^upon my word it set my heart dancing! So you understood what I wanted, what was my heart's desire! I saw a tiny comer of your window-curtain twitched back and caught against the pot of balsams, just exactly as I hinted that day. TTien I fancied I caught a glimpse of your little face at the window, that you were looking at me from your little room, that you were thinking of me. And how vexed I was, my darling, that I could not make out your charming Uttle face distinctly! There was a time when we, too, could see clearly, dearie. It is poor fim being old, my own! Nowadays everything seems sort of spotty before my eyes; if one works a little in the evening, writes something, one's eyes are so red and tearful in the morning that one is really ashamed before strangers. In my imagination, though, your smile was beaming, my little angel, your kind friendly Uttle smile; and I had just the same sensation in my heart as when I kissed you, Varinka, do you remember, Uttle angel? Do you know, my darUng, I even fancied that you shook your little finger at me? Did you, you naughty girl? You must be sure to describe all that fully in your letter.
Come, what do you think of our little plan about your curtain, Varinka? It is delightful, isn't it? Whether I am
sitting at work, or lying down for a nap, or waking up, I know that you are thinking about me over liiere, you are remembering me and that you are well and cheerful. You drop the curtain—^it means 'Good-bye, Makax Alexyevitch, it's bedtime!' You draw it up—'Good morning, Makar Alexyevitch, how have you slept or are you quite well, Makar Alexyevitch? As for me, thank God, I am well and aU right!' You see, my darling, what a clever idea; there is no need of letters! It's cunning, isn't it? And you know it was my idea. What do you say to me now, Varvara Alevyevna?
I beg to inform you, Varvara Alexyevna, my dear, that I slept last night excellently, contrary to my expectations, at which I am very much pleased; though in new lodgings, after moving, it is always difficult to sleep; there is always some little tiling amiss.
I got up this morning as gay as a lark! What a fine morning it was, my darling! Our window was opened; the sun shone so brightly; the birds were chirping; the air was full of the scents of spring and all nature seemed coming back to life— and ever3H±iing else was to correspond; everything was right, to fit the spring. I even had rather pleasant dreams to-day, and my dreams were all of you, Varinka. I compared you with a bird of the air created for the delight of men and the adornment of nature. Then I thought, Varinka, that we men, living in care and anxiety, must envy the careless and innocent happiness of the birds of the air—and more of the same sort, like that; that is, I went on making such far-fetched comparisons. I have a book, Varinka, and there is the same thought in it, all very exactly described. I write this, my darling, because one has all sorts of dreams, you know. And now it's spring-time, so one's thoughts are always so pleasant; witty, amusing, and tender dreams visit one; everything is in a rosy light. That is why I have written all this; though, indeed, I took it all out of the book. The author there expresses the same desire in verse and writes:
'Why am I not a bird, a bird of prey!'
And so on, and so on. There are all sorts of thoughts in it, but never mind them now!
Oh, where were you going this morning, Varvara Alexyevna? Before I had begun to get ready for the office, you flew out of your room exactly like a bird of the air and crossed the yard,
looking so gay. How glad it made me to look at you! Ah, Varinka, Varinka!—You must not be sad; tears are no help to sorrow; I know that, my dear, I know it from experience. Now you are so comfortable and you are getting a little stronger, too.
.Well, how is your Fedora? Ah, what a good-natured woman she is! You must write and teU me, Varinka, how you get on with her now and whether you are satisfied with everything. Fedora is rather a grumbler; but you must not mind that, Varinka. God bless her 1 She has such a good heart. I have written to you already about Teresa here—She, too, is a good-natured and trustworthy woman. And how uneasy I was about our letters! How were they to be delivered? And behold the Lord sent us Teresa to make us happy. She is a good-natured woman, mild and long-suffering. But our landlady is simply merciless. She squeezes her at work like a rag.
Well, what a hole I have got into, Varvara Alexyevna! It is a lodging! I used to live like a bird in the woods, as you know yourself—^it was so quiet and still that if a fly flew across the room you could hear it. Here it is all noise, shouting, uproar! But of course you don't know how it is all arranged here. Imagine a long passage, absolutely dark and very dirty. On the right hand there is a blank wall, and on the left, doors and doors, like the rooms in a hotel, in a long row. Well, these are lodgings and there is one room in each; there are people living by twos and by threes in one room. It is no use expecting order—^it is a regular Noah's ark! They seem good sort of people, though, all so well educated and learned. One is in the service, a weU-read man (he is somewhere in the literary department): he talks about Homer and Brambeus and authors of all sorts: he talks about everything; a very intelligent man! There are two officers who do nothing but play cards. There is a naval man; and an English teacher.
Wait a bit, I will divert you, my darling; I will describe them satirically in my next letter; that is, I will tell you what they are like in full detail. Our landlady is a very untidy little old woman, she goes about all day long in slippers and a dressing-gown, and all day long she is scolding at Teresa. I live in the kitchen, or rather, to be more accurate, there is a room near the kitchen (and our kitchen, I ought to tell you, is clean, light and very nice), a httle room, a modest comer ... or ra&er the kitchen is a big room of three windows so I have a partition running along the inside wall, so that it makes as it were
another room, an extra lodging; it is roomy and comfortable, and there is a window and all—^in fact, every convenience. Well, so that is my little comer. So don't you imagine, my darling, there is anythiag else about it, any mysterious significance in it; 'here he is living in the kitchen!' you'll say. Well, if you like, I really am living in the kitchen, behind tte partition, but that is nothing; I am quite private, apart from everyone, quiet and snug. I have put in a bed, a table, a chest of drawers and a couple of chairs, and I have hung up the ikon. It is true there are better lodgings—perhaps there may be much better, but convenience is the great thing; I have arranged it aJI for my own convenience, you know, and you must not imagine it is for anything else. Your Uttle window is opposite, across the yard; and the yard is narrow, one catches glimpses of you passing—^it is more cheerful for a j)oor, lonely feUow like me, and cheaper, too. The very cheapest room here with board costs thirty-five roubles in paper: beyond my means; but my lodging costs me seven roubles in paper and my board five in silver—that is, twenty-four and a half, and before I used to pay thirty and make it up by going without a great many things. I (?d not always have tea, but now I can spare enough for tea and sugar, too. And you know, my dear, one is ashamed as it were not to drink tea; here they are all well-to-do people so one feels ashamed. One drinks it, Varinka, for the sake of the other people, for the look of the thing; for m3rself I don't care, I am not particular. Think, too, of pocket-money—one must have a certain amount—then some sort of boots and clothes—is there much left? My salary is all I have. I am content and don't repine. It is sufficient. It has been sufficient for several years; there are extras, too.
Well, good-bye, my angel. I have bought a couple of pots of balsam and geranium—quite cheap—but perhaps you love mignonette? Well, there is mignonette, too, you vraite and tell me; be sure to write me everything as fully as possible, you know. Don't you imagine anything, though, or have any doubts about my having taken such a room,
