Poor Folk
year of official activity. I may say that at first I was much pleased
with my new uniform; and, as I grew older, I grew in mind, and fell
to studying my fellow-men. Likewise I may say that I lived an upright
life--so much so that at last I incurred persecution. This you may not
believe, but it is true. To think that men so cruel should exist! For
though, dearest one, I am dull and of no account, I have feelings like
everyone else. Consequently, would you believe it, Barbara, when I
tell you what these cruel fellows did to me? I feel ashamed to tell
it you--and all because I was of a quiet, peaceful, good-natured
disposition! Things began with “this or that, Makar Alexievitch, is your
fault.” Then it went on to “I need hardly say that the fault is wholly Makar
Alexievitch’s.” Finally it became “OF COURSE Makar Alexievitch is to
blame.” Do you see the sequence of things, my darling? Every mistake
was attributed to me, until “Makar Alexievitch” became a byword in our
department. Also, while making of me a proverb, these fellows could not
give me a smile or a civil word. They found fault with my boots, with
my uniform, with my hair, with my figure. None of these things were to
their taste: everything had to be changed. And so it has been from
that day to this. True, I have now grown used to it, for I can
grow accustomed to anything (being, as you know, a man of peaceable
disposition, like all men of small stature)--yet why should these things
be? Whom have I harmed? Whom have I ever supplanted? Whom have I ever
traduced to his superiors? No, the fault is that more than once I have
asked for an increase of salary. But have I ever CABALLED for it? No,
you would be wrong in thinking so, my dearest one. HOW could I ever
have done so? You yourself have had many opportunities of seeing how
incapable I am of deceit or chicanery. Why then, should this have fallen
to my lot?... However, since you think me worthy of respect, my darling,
I do not care, for you are far and away the best person in the world....
What do you consider to be the greatest social virtue? In private
conversation Evstafi Ivanovitch once told me that the greatest social
virtue might be considered to be an ability to get money to spend. Also,
my comrades used jestingly (yes, I know only jestingly) to propound the
ethical maxim that a man ought never to let himself become a burden upon
anyone. Well, I am a burden upon no one. It is my own crust of bread
that I eat; and though that crust is but a poor one, and sometimes
actually a maggoty one, it has at least been EARNED, and therefore, is
being put to a right and lawful use. What therefore, ought I to do? I
know that I can earn but little by my labours as a copyist; yet even of
that little I am proud, for it has entailed WORK, and has wrung sweat
from my brow. What harm is there in being a copyist? “He is only an
amanuensis,” people say of me. But what is there so disgraceful in that?
My writing is at least legible, neat, and pleasant to look upon--and his
Excellency is satisfied with it. Indeed, I transcribe many important
documents. At the same time, I know that my writing lacks STYLE, which
is why I have never risen in the service. Even to you, my dear one, I
write simply and without tricks, but just as a thought may happen to
enter my head. Yes, I know all this; but if everyone were to become a
fine writer, who would there be left to act as copyists?... Whatsoever
questions I may put to you in my letters, dearest, I pray you to answer
them. I am sure that you need me, that I can be of use to you; and,
since that is so, I must not allow myself to be distracted by any
trifle. Even if I be likened to a rat, I do not care, provided that that
particular rat be wanted by you, and be of use in the world, and be
retained in its position, and receive its reward. But what a rat it is!
Enough of this, dearest one. I ought not to have spoken of it, but I
lost my temper. Still, it is pleasant to speak the truth sometimes.
Goodbye, my own, my darling, my sweet little comforter! I will come to
you soon--yes, I will certainly come to you. Until I do so, do not fret
yourself. With me I shall be bringing a book. Once more goodbye.--Your
heartfelt well-wisher,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
June 20th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I am writing to you post-haste--I am
hurrying my utmost to get my work finished in time. What do you suppose
is the reason for this? It is because an opportunity has occurred for
you to make a splendid purchase. Thedora tells me that a retired civil
servant of her acquaintance has a uniform to sell--one cut to regulation
pattern and in good repair, as well as likely to go very cheap. Now, DO
not tell me that you have not got the money, for I know from your own
lips that you HAVE. Use that money, I pray you, and do not hoard it. See
what terrible garments you walk about in! They are shameful--they are
patched all over! In fact, you have nothing new whatever. That this is
so, I know for certain, and I care not WHAT you tell me about it. So
listen to me for once, and buy this uniform. Do it for MY sake. Do it to
show that you really love me.
You have sent me some linen as a gift. But listen to me, Makar
Alexievitch. You are simply ruining yourself. Is it a jest that you
should spend so much money, such a terrible amount of money, upon me?
How you love to play the spendthrift! I tell you that I do not need it,
that such expenditure is unnecessary. I know, I am CERTAIN, that you
love me--therefore, it is useless to remind me of the fact with gifts.
Nor do I like receiving them, since I know how much they must have cost
you. No--put your money to a better use. I beg, I beseech of you, to
do so. Also, you ask me to send you a continuation of my memoirs--to
conclude them. But I know not how I contrived even to write as much of
them as I did; and now I have not the strength to write further of my
past, nor the desire to give it a single thought. Such recollections are
terrible to me. Most difficult of all is it for me to speak of my poor
mother, who left her destitute daughter a prey to villains. My heart
runs blood whenever I think of it; it is so fresh in my memory that
I cannot dismiss it from my thoughts, nor rest for its insistence,
although a year has now elapsed since the events took place. But all
this you know.
Also, I have told you what Anna Thedorovna is now intending. She accuses
me of ingratitude, and denies the accusations made against herself with
regard to Monsieur Bwikov. Also, she keeps sending for me, and telling
me that I have taken to evil courses, but that if I will return to her,
she will smooth over matters with Bwikov, and force him to confess his
fault. Also, she says that he desires to give me a dowry. Away with them
all! I am quite happy here with you and good Thedora, whose devotion to
me reminds me of my old nurse, long since dead. Distant kinsman though
you may be, I pray you always to defend my honour. Other people I do
not wish to know, and would gladly forget if I could.... What are they
wanting with me now? Thedora declares it all to be a trick, and says
that in time they will leave me alone. God grant it be so!
B. D.
June 21st.
MY OWN, MY DARLING,--I wish to write to you, yet know not where to
begin. Things are as strange as though we were actually living together.
Also I would add that never in my life have I passed such happy days as
I am spending at present. ‘Tis as though God had blessed me with a home
and a family of my own! Yes, you are my little daughter, beloved. But
why mention the four sorry roubles that I sent you? You needed them;
I know that from Thedora herself, and it will always be a particular
pleasure to me to gratify you in anything. It will always be my one
happiness in life. Pray, therefore, leave me that happiness, and do
not seek to cross me in it. Things are not as you suppose. I have now
reached the sunshine since, in the first place, I am living so close to
you as almost to be with you (which is a great consolation to my mind),
while, in the second place, a neighbour of mine named Rataziaev (the
retired official who gives the literary parties) has today invited me
to tea. This evening, therefore, there will be a gathering at which we
shall discuss literature! Think of that my darling! Well, goodbye now.
I have written this without any definite aim in my mind, but solely to
assure you of my welfare. Through Theresa I have received your message
that you need an embroidered cloak to wear, so I will go and purchase
one. Yes, tomorrow I mean to purchase that embroidered cloak, and so
give myself the pleasure of having satisfied one of your wants. I know
where to go for such a garment. For the time being I remain your sincere
friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
June 22nd.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I have to tell you that a sad event
has happened in this house--an event to excite one’s utmost pity.
This morning, about five o’clock, one of Gorshkov’s children died of
scarlatina, or something of the kind. I have been to pay the parents
a visit of condolence, and found them living in the direst poverty and
disorder. Nor is that surprising, seeing that the family lives in a
single room, with only a screen to divide it for decency’s sake. Already
the coffin was standing in their midst--a plain but decent shell which
had been bought ready-made. The child, they told me, had been a boy of
nine, and full of promise. What a pitiful spectacle! Though not weeping,
the mother, poor woman, looked broken with grief. After all, to have one
burden the less on their shoulders may prove a relief, though there are
still two children left--a babe at the breast and a little girl of six!
How painful to see these suffering children, and to be unable to help
them! The father, clad in an old, dirty frockcoat, was seated on a
dilapidated chair. Down his cheeks there were coursing tears--though
less through grief than owing to a long-standing affliction of the eyes.
He was so thin, too! Always he reddens in the face when he is addressed,
and becomes too confused to answer. A little girl, his daughter, was
leaning against the coffin--her face looking so worn and thoughtful,
poor mite! Do you know, I cannot bear to see a child look thoughtful.
On the floor there lay a rag doll, but she was not playing with it as,
motionless, she stood there with her finger to her lips. Even a bon-bon
which the landlady had given her she was not eating. Is it not all sad,
sad, Barbara?
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
June 25th.
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I return you your book. In my opinion it
is a worthless one, and I would rather not have it in my possession.
Why do you save up your money to buy such trash? Except in jest, do
such books really please you? However, you have now promised to send me
something else to read. I will share the cost of it. Now, farewell until
we meet again. I have nothing more to say.
B. D.
June 26th.
MY DEAR LITTLE BARBARA--To tell you the truth, I myself have not read
the book of which you speak. That is to say, though I began to read it,
I soon saw that it was nonsense, and written only to make people laugh.
“However,” thought I, “it is at least a CHEERFUL work, and so may please
Barbara.” That is why I sent it you.
Rataziaev has now promised to give me something really literary to read;
so you shall soon have your book, my darling. He is a man who reflects;
he is a clever fellow, as well as himself a writer--such a writer! His
pen glides along with ease, and in such a style (even when he is writing
the most ordinary, the most insignificant of articles) that I have often
remarked upon the fact, both to Phaldoni and to Theresa. Often, too, I