Chapter 17 - Page 2

he
writes magnificently. I do not agree with you about his works,
and never shall. He writes too ornately, too laconically, with
too great a wealth of imagery and imagination. Perhaps you have
read him without insight, Barbara? Or perhaps you were out of
spirits at the time, or angry with Thedora about something, or
worried about some mischance? Ah, but you should read him
sympathetically, and, best of all, at a time when you are feeling
happy and contented and pleasantly disposed-- for instance, when
you have a bonbon or two in your mouth. Yes, that is the way to
read Rataziaev. I do not dispute (indeed, who would do so?) that
better writers than he exist--even far better; but they are good,
and he is good too--they write well, and he writes well. It is
chiefly for his own sake that he writes, and he is to be approved
for so doing.

Now goodbye, dearest. More I cannot write, for I must hurry away
to business. Be of good cheer, and the Lord God watch over you!--
Your faithful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

P.S--Thank you so much for the book, darling! I will read it
through, this volume of Pushkin, and tonight come to you.

MY DEAR MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--No, no, my friend, I must not go on
living near you. I have been thinking the matter over, and come
to the conclusion that I should be doing very wrong to refuse so
good a post. I should at least have an assured crust of bread; I
might at least set to work to earn my employers' favour, and even
try to change my character if required to do so. Of course it is
a sad and sorry thing to have to live among strangers, and to be
forced to seek their patronage, and to conceal and constrain
one's own personality-- but God will help me. I must not remain
forever a recluse, for similar chances have come my way before. I
remember how, when a little girl at school, I used to go home on
Sundays and spend the time in frisking and dancing about.
Sometimes my mother would chide me for so doing, but I did not
care, for my heart was too joyous, and my spirits too buoyant,
for that. Yet as the evening of Sunday came on, a sadness as of
death would overtake me, for at nine o'clock I had to return to
school, where everything was cold and strange and severe--where
the governesses, on Mondays, lost their tempers, and nipped my
ears, and made me cry. On such occasions I would retire to a
corner and weep alone; concealing my tears lest I should be
called lazy. Yet it was not because I had to study that I used to
weep, and in time I grew more used to things, and, after my
schooldays were over, shed tears only when I was parting with
friends. . . .

It is not right for me to live in dependence upon you. The
thought tortures me. I tell you