Between four and five this morning Gorshkov's little boy died. I don't know what he died of. It seemed to be a sort of scarlatina, God only knows! I went to see these Gorshkovs. Oh, my dear sOul, how poor they are! And what disorder! And no wonder; the whole family lives in one room, only divided by a screen for decency. There was a little cof&n standing in the room already—a simple Uttle coffin, but rather pretty; they bought it ready-made; the boy was nine years old, he was a promising boy, they say. But it was pitiful to look at them, Varinka! The mother did not cry, but she was so sad, so poor. And perhaps it will make it easier for them to have got one off their shoulders; but there are still two left, a baby, and a little girl, not much more than six. There's not much comfort really in seeing a child suffer, especially one's own little child, and having no means of helping himl The father was sitting in a greasy old dress suit on a broken chair. The tears were flowing from his eyes, but perhaps not from grief, but just the usual thing—^his eyes are inflamed. He's such a strange fellow! He always turns red when you speak to him, gets confused and does not know what to answer. The little girl, their daughter, stood leaning against the coffin, such a poor little, sad, brooding child I And Varinka, my darling, I don't Uke it when children brood; it's painful to see! A doll made of rags was lying on the floor beside her; she did not play with it, she held her finger on her lips; she stood, without stirring. The landlady gave her a sweetmeat; she took it but did not eat it. It was sad, Varinka, wasn't it?
Makar Dyevushkin.
Jutie 25. Dear Makar Alexyevitch,
I am sending you back your book. A wretched, worthless little book not fit to touch! Where did you ferret out such a treasure? Joking apart, can you really like such a book, Makar Alexyevitch? I was promised the other day something to read. I will share it with you, if you like. And now goodbye. I reedlv have not time to write more.
V. D.
Jwm 25. Dear Varinka,
The fact is that I really had not read that horrid book, my dear girl. It is true, I looked through it and saw it was nonsense, just written to be funny, to make people laugh; well, I thought, it really is amusing; maybe Varinka will lie it, so I sent it you.
Now, Ratazyaev has promised to give me some real literature to read, so you will have some books, my darling. Ratazyaev knows, he's a connoisseur; he writes himself, ough, how he writes! His pen is so bold and he has a wonderful style, that is, there is no end to what there is in every word-in the most foolish ordinary vulgar word such as I might say sometimes to Faldoni or Teresa, even in such he has style. I go to his evenings. We smoke and he reads to us, he reads five hours at a stretch and we Usten all the time. It's a perfect feast. Such charm, such flowers, simply flowers, you can gather a bouquet from each page 1 He is so affable, so kindly and friendly. Why, what am I beside him? What am I? Nothing. He is a man with a reputation, and what am I? I simply don't exist, yet he is cordial even to me. I am copying something for him. Only don't you imagine, Varinka, that liiere is something amiss in that, that he is friendly to me just because I cim copying for him; don't you believe tittle-tattle, my dear girl, don't you believe worthless tittle-tattle. No, I am doing it of myself, of my own accord for his pleasure. I understand refinement of manners, my love; he is a kind, very kind man, and an incomparable writer.
Literature is a fine thing, Varinka, a very fine thing. I leamt that from them the day before yesterday. A profound thing, strengthening men's hearts, instructing them; there are sJl sorts of things written about that in their book. Very well written! Literature is a picture, that is, in a certain sense, a picture and a mirror: it's the passions, the expression, the subtlest criticism, edifying instruction and a document. I gathered all that from them. I tell you frankly, my darling, that one sits with them, one Ustens (one smokes a pipe like them, too, if you please), and when they begin to discuss and dispute about all sorts of matters, then I simply sit dumb; then, my dear soul, you and I can do nothing else but sit dumb. I am simply a blockhead, it seems. I am ashamed of myself, so that I try all the evening how to put in half a word in the general conversation, but there, as ill-luck would have it, I can't find
that half word! And one is sony for oneself, Varinka, that one is not this thing, nor that thing, that, as the sajdng is, 'A man one is grown, but no mind of one's own.' Why, what do I do in my free time now? I sleep like a fool! While instead of useless sleep I might have been busy in useful occupation; I might have sat down and written something that would have been of use to oneself and pleasant to others. Why, my dearie, you should only see what they get for it, God forgive them! Take Ratazyaev, for instance, what he gets. What is it for him to write a chapter? Why, sometimes he writes five in a day and he gets three hundred roubles a chapter. Some little anecdote, something curious—^five hundred 1 take it or leave it, give it or be damned! Or another time, we'll put a thousand in our pocket! What do you say to that, Varvara Alexyevna? Why, he's got a Uttle book of poems—such short poems—^he's asking seven thousand, my dear girl, he's asking seven thousand; think of it! Why, it's real estate, it's house property! He says that they wUl give him five thousand, but he won't take it. I reasoned with him. I said, 'Take five thousand for them, sir, and don't mind them. Why, five thousand's money!' 'No,' said he, 'they'll give me seven, the swindlers!' He's a cunning fellow, really.
Well, my love, since we are talking of it I will copy a passage from the IMicm Passions for you. That's the name of his book. Here, read it, Varinka, and judge for yourself. . . .
'Vladimir shuddered and his passion gurgled up furiously within him and his blood boiled. . . .
' 'Countess,' he cried. 'Countess! Do you know how awful is this passion, how boundless this madness? No, my dreams did not deceive me! I love, I love ecstatically, furiously, madly! All your husband's blood would not quench the frantic surging ecstasy of my soul! A trivial obstacle cannot check the aU-destroying, hellish fire that harrows my exhausted breast. Oh, Zinaida, Zinaida!' . . .
' 'Vladimir,' whispered the countess, beside herself, leaning on his shoulder. . . .
' 'Zinaida!' cried the enraptured Smyelsky.
'His bosom exhaled a sigh. The fire flamed brightly on the altar of love and consumed the heart of the unhappy victims.
' 'Vladimir,' the countess whispered, intoxicated. Her bosom heaved, her cheeks glowed crimson, her eyes glowed. , . .
'A new, terrible union was accomplished!
'Half an hour later the old count went into his wife's boudoir.
' 'Well, my love, should we not order the samovar for oui welcome guest?' he said, patting his wife on the cheek.'
Well, I ask you, my dear soul, what do you think of it after that? It's true, it's a little free, there's no disputing that, but Still it is fine. What is fine is fine I And now, if you will allow me, I will copy you another Uttle bit from the novel Yermak and Zuteika.
You must imagine, my precious, that the Cossack, Yermak, the fierce and savage conqueror of Siberia, is in love with the daughter of Kutchum, the Tsar of Siberia, the Princess Zuleika, who has been taken captive by him. An episode straight from the times of Ivan the Terrible, as you see. Here is the conversation of Yermak and Zuleika.
' 'You love me, Zuleika! Oh, repeat it, repeat itl' . . .
' 'I love you, Yermak,' whispered Zuleika.
' 'Heaven and earth, I thank you! I am happy! . . . You have given me everything, everything, for which my turbulent soul has striven from my boyhood's years. So it was to this thou hast led me, my guiding star, so it was for this thou hast led me here, beyond tiie Belt of Stone! I will show to all the world my Zuleika, and men, the frantic monsters, will not dare to blame me! Ah, if they could understand the secret sufferings of her tender soul, if they could see a whole poem in a tear of my Zuleika! Oh, let me dry that tear with kisses, let me drink it up, that heavenly tear . . . unearthly one!'
' 'Yermak,' said Zuleika, 'the world is wicked, men are unjust! They will persecute us, they will condemn us, my sweet Yermak! What is the poor maiden, nurtured amid the snows of Siberia in her father's ywta. to do in your cold, icy, soulless, selfish world? People will not understand me, my desired one, my beloved one.'
' 'Then wiU the Cossack's sabre rise up hissing about them.' '
And now, what do you say to Yermak, Varinka, when he finds out that his Zuleika has been murdered? . . . The blind old man, Kutchum, imder cover of night steals into Yermak's tent in his absence and slays Zuleika, intending to deal a mortal blow at Yermak, who has robbed him of his sceptre and his crown.
' 'Sweet is it to me to rasp the iron against the stone,'
shouted Yermak in wild frenzy, whetting his knife of Dameiscus steel upon the magic stone; 'I'll have their blood, their blood! I will hack them! hack them! hack them to pieces! 1!' '
And, after all that, Yermak, unable to survive his Zuleika, throws himself into the Irtish, and so it all
