Chapter 1 - Page 2

last night I slept
better and more soundly than I had ever hoped to do, and that I
am the more delighted at the fact in that, as you know, I had
just settled into a new lodging--a circumstance only too apt to
keep one from sleeping! This morning, too, I arose (joyous and
full of love) at cockcrow. How good seemed everything at that
hour, my darling! When I opened my window I could see the sun
shining, and hear the birds singing, and smell the air laden with
scents of spring. In short, all nature was awaking to life again.
Everything was in consonance with my mood; everything seemed fair
and spring-like. Moreover, I had a fancy that I should fare well
today. But my whole thoughts were bent upon you. "Surely,"
thought I, "we mortals who dwell in pain and sorrow might with
reason envy the birds of heaven which know not either!" And my
other thoughts were similar to these. In short, I gave myself up
to fantastic comparisons. A little book which I have says the
same kind of thing in a variety of ways. For instance, it says
that one may have many, many fancies, my Barbara--that as soon as
the spring comes on, one's thoughts become uniformly pleasant and
sportive and witty, for the reason that, at that season, the mind
inclines readily to tenderness, and the world takes on a more
roseate hue. From that little book of mine I have culled the
following passage, and written it down for you to see. In
particular does the author express a longing similar to my own,
where he writes:

"Why am I not a bird free to seek its quest?"

And he has written much else, God bless him!

But tell me, my love--where did you go for your walk this
morning? Even before I had started for the office you had taken
flight from your room, and passed through the courtyard--yes,
looking as vernal-like as a bird in spring. What rapture it gave
me to see you! Ah, little Barbara, little Barbara, you must never
give way to grief, for tears are of no avail, nor sorrow. I know
this well--I know it of my own experience. So do you rest quietly
until you have regained your health a little. But how is our good
Thedora? What a kind heart she has! You write that she is now
living with you, and that you are satisfied with what she does.
True, you say that she is inclined to grumble, but do not mind
that, Barbara. God bless her, for she is an excellent soul!

But what sort of an abode have I lighted upon, Barbara Alexievna?
What sort of a tenement, do you think, is this? Formerly, as you
know, I used to live in absolute stillness--so much so that if a
fly took wing it could plainly be heard buzzing. Here, however,
all is turmoil and shouting and clatter. The PLAN of the tenement
you know already. Imagine a long corridor,