Chapter 7

May 20th

MY DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,--I am sending you a few grapes, which
are good for a convalescent person, and strongly recommended by
doctors for the allayment of fever. Also, you were saying the
other day that you would like some roses; wherefore, I now send
you a bunch. Are you at all able to eat, my darling?--for that is
the chief point which ought to be seen to. Let us thank God that
the past and all its unhappiness are gone! Yes, let us give
thanks to Heaven for that much! As for books, I cannot get hold
of any, except for a book which, written in excellent style, is,
I believe, to be had here. At all events, people keep praising it
very much, and I have begged the loan of it for myself. Should
you too like to read it? In this respect, indeed, I feel nervous,
for the reason that it is so difficult to divine what your taste
in books may be, despite my knowledge of your character. Probably
you would like poetry--the poetry of sentiment and of love
making? Well, I will send you a book of MY OWN poems. Already I
have copied out part of the manuscript.

Everything with me is going well; so pray do not be anxious on my
account, beloved. What Thedora told you about me was sheer
rubbish. Tell her from me that she has not been speaking the
truth. Yes, do not fail to give this mischief-maker my message.
It is not the case that I have gone and sold a new uniform. Why
should I do so, seeing that I have forty roubles of salary still
to come to me? Do not be uneasy, my darling. Thedora is a
vindictive woman--merely a vindictive woman. We shall yet see
better days. Only do you get well, my angel--only do you get
well, for the love of God, lest you grieve an old man. Also, who
told you that I was looking thin? Slanders again--nothing but
slanders! I am as healthy as could be, and have grown so fat that
I am ashamed to be so sleek of paunch. Would that you were
equally healthy! . . . Now goodbye, my angel. I kiss every one of
your tiny fingers, and remain ever your constant friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

P.S.--But what is this, dearest one, that you have written to me?
Why do you place me upon such a pedestal? Moreover, how could I
come and visit you frequently? How, I repeat? Of course, I might
avail myself of the cover of night; but, alas! the season of the
year is what it is, and includes no night time to speak of. In
fact, although, throughout your illness and delirium, I scarcely
left your side for a moment, I cannot think how I contrived to do
the many things that I did. Later, I ceased to visit you at all,
for the reason that people were beginning to notice things, and
to ask me questions. Yet, even so, a scandal has arisen. Theresa
I trust thoroughly, for she is not a