Poor Folk
may live and yet be ignorant of the fact that under one’s very nose
there may be a book in which one’s whole life is described as in a
picture. Never should I have guessed that, as soon as ever one begins to
read such a book, it sets one on both to remember and to consider and to
foretell events. Another reason why I liked this book so much is that,
though, in the case of other works (however clever they be), one may
read them, yet remember not a word of them (for I am a man naturally
dull of comprehension, and unable to read works of any great
importance),--although, as I say, one may read such works, one reads
such a book as YOURS as easily as though it had been written by oneself,
and had taken possession of one’s heart, and turned it inside out for
inspection, and were describing it in detail as a matter of perfect
simplicity. Why, I might almost have written the book myself! Why not,
indeed? I can feel just as the people in the book do, and find myself
in positions precisely similar to those of, say, the character Samson
Virin. In fact, how many good-hearted wretches like Virin are there not
walking about amongst us? How easily, too, it is all described! I assure
you, my darling, that I almost shed tears when I read that Virin so took
to drink as to lose his memory, become morose, and spend whole days over
his liquor; as also that he choked with grief and wept bitterly when,
rubbing his eyes with his dirty hand, he bethought him of his wandering
lamb, his daughter Dunasha! How natural, how natural! You should read
the book for yourself. The thing is actually alive. Even I can see that;
even I can realise that it is a picture cut from the very life around
me. In it I see our own Theresa (to go no further) and the poor
tchinovnik--who is just such a man as this Samson Virin, except for
his surname of Gorshkov. The book describes just what might happen to
ourselves--to myself in particular. Even a count who lives in the Nevski
Prospect or in Naberezhnaia Street might have a similar experience,
though he might APPEAR to be different, owing to the fact that his life
is cast on a higher plane. Yes, just the same things might happen to
him--just the same things.... Here you are wishing to go away and leave
us; yet, be careful lest it would not be I who had to pay the penalty of
your doing so. For you might ruin both yourself and me. For the love of
God, put away these thoughts from you, my darling, and do not torture me
in vain. How could you, my poor little unfledged nestling, find yourself
food, and defend yourself from misfortune, and ward off the wiles of
evil men? Think better of it, Barbara, and pay no more heed to
foolish advice and calumny, but read your book again, and read it with
attention. It may do you much good.
I have spoken of Rataziaev’s “The Station Overseer”. However, the author
has told me that the work is old-fashioned, since, nowadays, books are
issued with illustrations and embellishments of different sorts (though
I could not make out all that he said). Pushkin he adjudges a splendid
poet, and one who has done honour to Holy Russia. Read your book again,
Barbara, and follow my advice, and make an old man happy. The Lord God
Himself will reward you. Yes, He will surely reward you.--Your faithful
friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Today Thedora came to me with fifteen
roubles in silver. How glad was the poor woman when I gave her three of
them! I am writing to you in great haste, for I am busy cutting out a
waistcoat to send to you--buff, with a pattern of flowers. Also I
am sending you a book of stories; some of which I have read myself,
particularly one called “The Cloak.” ... You invite me to go to the
theatre with you. But will it not cost too much? Of course we might sit
in the gallery. It is a long time (indeed I cannot remember when I last
did so) since I visited a theatre! Yet I cannot help fearing that such
an amusement is beyond our means. Thedora keeps nodding her head, and
saying that you have taken to living above your income. I myself divine
the same thing by the amount which you have spent upon me. Take care,
dear friend, that misfortune does not come of it, for Thedora has also
informed me of certain rumours concerning your inability to meet your
landlady’s bills. In fact, I am very anxious about you. Now, goodbye,
for I must hasten away to see about another matter--about the changing
of the ribands on my bonnet.
P.S.--Do you know, if we go to the theatre, I think that I shall wear my
new hat and black mantilla. Will that not look nice?
July 7th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--SO much for yesterday! Yes, dearest, we
have both been caught playing the fool, for I have become thoroughly
bitten with the actress of whom I spoke. Last night I listened to her
with all my ears, although, strangely enough, it was practically my
first sight of her, seeing that only once before had I been to the
theatre. In those days I lived cheek by jowl with a party of five young
men--a most noisy crew--and one night I accompanied them, willy-nilly,
to the theatre, though I held myself decently aloof from their doings,
and only assisted them for company’s sake. How those fellows talked to
me of this actress! Every night when the theatre was open, the entire
band of them (they always seemed to possess the requisite money) would
betake themselves to that place of entertainment, where they ascended
to the gallery, and clapped their hands, and repeatedly recalled the
actress in question. In fact, they went simply mad over her. Even after
we had returned home they would give me no rest, but would go on
talking about her all night, and calling her their Glasha, and declaring
themselves to be in love with “the canary-bird of their hearts.” My
defenseless self, too, they would plague about the woman, for I was as
young as they. What a figure I must have cut with them on the fourth
tier of the gallery! Yet, I never got a sight of more than just a corner
of the curtain, but had to content myself with listening. She had a
fine, resounding, mellow voice like a nightingale’s, and we all of us
used to clap our hands loudly, and to shout at the top of our lungs. In
short, we came very near to being ejected. On the first occasion I went
home walking as in a mist, with a single rouble left in my pocket, and
an interval of ten clear days confronting me before next pay-day. Yet,
what think you, dearest? The very next day, before going to work, I
called at a French perfumer’s, and spent my whole remaining capital on
some eau-de-Cologne and scented soap! Why I did so I do not know. Nor
did I dine at home that day, but kept walking and walking past her
windows (she lived in a fourth-storey flat on the Nevski Prospect).
At length I returned to my own lodging, but only to rest a short hour
before again setting off to the Nevski Prospect and resuming my vigil
before her windows. For a month and a half I kept this up--dangling in
her train. Sometimes I would hire cabs, and discharge them in view of
her abode; until at length I had entirely ruined myself, and got into
debt. Then I fell out of love with her--I grew weary of the pursuit....
You see, therefore, to what depths an actress can reduce a decent man.
In those days I was young. Yes, in those days I was VERY young.
M. D.
July 8th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--The book which I received from you on
the 6th of this month I now hasten to return, while at the same time
hastening also to explain matters to you in this accompanying letter.
What a misfortune, my beloved, that you should have brought me to such a
pass! Our lots in life are apportioned by the Almighty according to our
human deserts. To such a one He assigns a life in a general’s epaulets
or as a privy councillor--to such a one, I say, He assigns a life of
command; whereas to another one, He allots only a life of unmurmuring
toil and suffering. These things are calculated according to a man’s
CAPACITY. One man may be capable of one thing, and another of another,
and their several capacities are ordered by the Lord God himself. I
have now been thirty years in the public service, and have fulfilled my
duties irreproachably, remained abstemious, and never been detected
in any unbecoming behaviour. As a citizen, I may confess--I confess
it freely--I have been guilty of certain shortcomings; yet those
shortcomings have been combined with certain virtues. I am respected by
my superiors, and even his Excellency has had no fault to find with me;
and though I have never been shown any special marks of favour, I know
that every one finds me at least satisfactory. Also, my writing is
sufficiently legible and clear. Neither too rounded nor too fine, it
is a running hand, yet always suitable. Of our staff only Ivan
Prokofievitch writes a similar hand. Thus have I lived till the grey
hairs of my old age; yet I can think of no serious fault committed. Of
course, no one is free from MINOR faults. Everyone has some of them, and
you among the rest, my beloved. But in grave or in audacious offences
never have I been detected, nor in infringements of regulations, nor in
breaches of the public peace. No, never! This you surely know, even as
the author of your book must have known it. Yes, he also must have
known it when he sat down to write. I had not expected this of you, my
Barbara. I should never have expected it.
What? In future I am not to go on living peacefully in my little corner,
poor though that corner be I am not to go on living, as the proverb has
it, without muddying the water, or hurting any one, or forgetting the
fear of the Lord God and of oneself? I am not to see, forsooth, that
no man does me an injury, or breaks into my home--I am not to take care
that all shall go well with me, or that I have clothes to wear, or that
my shoes do not require mending, or that I be given work to do, or
that I possess sufficient meat and drink? Is it nothing that, where
the pavement is rotten, I have to walk on tiptoe to save my boots? If I
write to you overmuch concerning myself, is it concerning ANOTHER man,
rather, that I ought to write--concerning HIS wants, concerning HIS
lack of tea to drink (and all the world needs tea)? Has it ever been
my custom to pry into other men’s mouths, to see what is being put into
them? Have I ever been known to offend any one in that respect? No, no,
beloved! Why should I desire to insult other folks when they are not
molesting ME? Let me give you an example of what I mean. A man may go on
slaving and slaving in the public service, and earn the respect of his
superiors (for what it is worth), and then, for no visible reason at
all, find himself made a fool of. Of course he may break out now and
then (I am not now referring only to drunkenness), and (for example)
buy himself a new pair of shoes, and take pleasure in seeing his feet
looking well and smartly shod. Yes, I myself have known what it is
to feel like that (I write this in good faith). Yet I am nonetheless
astonished that Thedor Thedorovitch should neglect what is being said
about him, and take no steps to defend himself. True, he is only a
subordinate official, and sometimes loves to rate and scold; yet why
should he not do so--why should he not indulge in a little vituperation
when he feels like it? Suppose it to be NECESSARY, for FORM’S sake,
to scold, and to set everyone right, and to shower around abuse (for,
between ourselves, Barbara, our friend cannot get on WITHOUT abuse--so
much so that every one humours him, and does things behind his back)?
Well, since officials differ in rank, and every official demands that
he shall be allowed to abuse his fellow officials in proportion to his
rank, it follows that the TONE also of official abuse should become