Poor Folk
divided into ranks, and thus accord with the natural order of things.
All the world is built upon the system that each one of us shall have to
yield precedence to some other one, as well as to enjoy a certain power
of abusing his fellows. Without such a provision the world could not
get on at all, and simple chaos would ensue. Yet I am surprised that our
Thedor should continue to overlook insults of the kind that he endures.
Why do I do my official work at all? Why is that necessary? Will my
doing of it lead anyone who reads it to give me a greatcoat, or to buy
me a new pair of shoes? No, Barbara. Men only read the documents, and
then require me to write more. Sometimes a man will hide himself away,
and not show his face abroad, for the mere reason that, though he has
done nothing to be ashamed of, he dreads the gossip and slandering which
are everywhere to be encountered. If his civic and family life have to
do with literature, everything will be printed and read and laughed
over and discussed; until at length, he hardly dare show his face in
the street at all, seeing that he will have been described by report as
recognisable through his gait alone! Then, when he has amended his ways,
and grown gentler (even though he still continues to be loaded with
official work), he will come to be accounted a virtuous, decent citizen
who has deserved well of his comrades, rendered obedience to his
superiors, wished no one any evil, preserved the fear of God in his
heart, and died lamented. Yet would it not be better, instead of letting
the poor fellow die, to give him a cloak while yet he is ALIVE--to give
it to this same Thedor Thedorovitch (that is to say, to myself)? Yes,
‘twere far better if, on hearing the tale of his subordinate’s virtues,
the chief of the department were to call the deserving man into his
office, and then and there to promote him, and to grant him an increase
of salary. Thus vice would be punished, virtue would prevail, and the
staff of that department would live in peace together. Here we have an
example from everyday, commonplace life. How, therefore, could you bring
yourself to send me that book, my beloved? It is a badly conceived
work, Barbara, and also unreal, for the reason that in creation such
a tchinovnik does not exist. No, again I protest against it, little
Barbara; again I protest.--Your most humble, devoted servant,
M. D.
July 27th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Your latest conduct and letters had
frightened me, and left me thunderstruck and plunged in doubt, until
what you have said about Thedor explained the situation. Why despair
and go into such frenzies, Makar Alexievitch? Your explanations only
partially satisfy me. Perhaps I did wrong to insist upon accepting
a good situation when it was offered me, seeing that from my last
experience in that way I derived a shock which was anything but a matter
for jesting. You say also that your love for me has compelled you
to hide yourself in retirement. Now, how much I am indebted to you I
realised when you told me that you were spending for my benefit the sum
which you are always reported to have laid by at your bankers; but, now
that I have learned that you never possessed such a fund, but that, on
hearing of my destitute plight, and being moved by it, you decided to
spend upon me the whole of your salary--even to forestall it--and when I
had fallen ill, actually to sell your clothes--when I learned all this
I found myself placed in the harassing position of not knowing how to
accept it all, nor what to think of it. Ah, Makar Alexievitch! You ought
to have stopped at your first acts of charity--acts inspired by sympathy
and the love of kinsfolk, rather than have continued to squander your
means upon what was unnecessary. Yes, you have betrayed our friendship,
Makar Alexievitch, in that you have not been open with me; and, now that
I see that your last coin has been spent upon dresses and bon-bons and
excursions and books and visits to the theatre for me, I weep bitter
tears for my unpardonable improvidence in having accepted these things
without giving so much as a thought to your welfare. Yes, all that you
have done to give me pleasure has become converted into a source of
grief, and left behind it only useless regret. Of late I have remarked
that you were looking depressed; and though I felt fearful that
something unfortunate was impending, what has happened would otherwise
never have entered my head. To think that your better sense should so
play you false, Makar Alexievitch! What will people think of you, and
say of you? Who will want to know you? You whom, like everyone else, I
have valued for your goodness of heart and modesty and good sense--YOU,
I say, have now given way to an unpleasant vice of which you seem never
before to have been guilty. What were my feelings when Thedora informed
me that you had been discovered drunk in the street, and taken home by
the police? Why, I felt petrified with astonishment--although, in view
of the fact that you had failed me for four days, I had been expecting
some such extraordinary occurrence. Also, have you thought what your
superiors will say of you when they come to learn the true reason of
your absence? You say that everyone is laughing at you, that every
one has learnt of the bond which exists between us, and that your
neighbours habitually refer to me with a sneer. Pay no attention to
this, Makar Alexievitch; for the love of God, be comforted. Also, the
incident between you and the officers has much alarmed me, although
I had heard certain rumours concerning it. Pray explain to me what it
means. You write, too, that you have been afraid to be open with me, for
the reason that your confessions might lose you my friendship. Also, you
say that you are in despair at the thought of being unable to help me in
my illness, owing to the fact that you have sold everything which might
have maintained me, and preserved me in sickness, as well as that you
have borrowed as much as it is possible for you to borrow, and are daily
experiencing unpleasantness with your landlady. Well, in failing to
reveal all this to me you chose the worse course. Now, however, I know
all. You have forced me to recognise that I have been the cause of your
unhappy plight, as well as that my own conduct has brought upon myself
a twofold measure of sorrow. The fact leaves me thunderstruck, Makar
Alexievitch. Ah, friend, an infectious disease is indeed a misfortune,
for now we poor and miserable folk must perforce keep apart from one
another, lest the infection be increased. Yes, I have brought upon you
calamities which never before in your humble, solitary life you had
experienced. This tortures and exhausts me more than I can tell to think
of.
Write to me quite frankly. Tell me how you came to embark upon such
a course of conduct. Comfort, oh, comfort me if you can. It is not
self-love that prompts me to speak of my own comforting, but my
friendship and love for you, which will never fade from my heart.
Goodbye. I await your answer with impatience. You have thought but
poorly of me, Makar Alexievitch.--Your friend and lover,
BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.
July 28th.
MY PRICELESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--What am I to say to you, now that all
is over, and we are gradually returning to our old position? You say
that you are anxious as to what will be thought of me. Let me tell you
that the dearest thing in life to me is my self-respect; wherefore, in
informing you of my misfortunes and misconduct, I would add that none
of my superiors know of my doings, nor ever will know of them, and that
therefore, I still enjoy a measure of respect in that quarter. Only one
thing do I fear--I fear gossip. Garrulous though my landlady be, she
said but little when, with the aid of your ten roubles, I today paid her
part of her account; and as for the rest of my companions, they do not
matter at all. So long as I have not borrowed money from them, I need
pay them no attention. To conclude my explanations, let me tell you
that I value your respect for me above everything in the world, and have
found it my greatest comfort during this temporary distress of mine.
Thank God, the first shock of things has abated, now that you have
agreed not to look upon me as faithless and an egotist simply because I
have deceived you. I wish to hold you to myself, for the reason that I
cannot bear to part with you, and love you as my guardian angel....
I have now returned to work, and am applying myself diligently to my
duties. Also, yesterday Evstafi Ivanovitch exchanged a word or two with
me. Yet I will not conceal from you the fact that my debts are crushing
me down, and that my wardrobe is in a sorry state. At the same time,
these things do not REALLY matter and I would bid you not despair about
them. Send me, however, another half-rouble if you can (though that
half-rouble will stab me to the heart--stab me with the thought that it
is not I who am helping you, but YOU who are helping ME). Thedora has
done well to get those fifteen roubles for you. At the moment, fool of
an old man that I am, I have no hope of acquiring any more money; but as
soon as ever I do so, I will write to you and let you know all about it.
What chiefly worries me is the fear of gossip. Goodbye, little angel. I
kiss your hands, and beseech you to regain your health. If this is not
a detailed letter, the reason is that I must soon be starting for the
office, in order that, by strict application to duty, I may make amends
for the past. Further information concerning my doings (as well as
concerning that affair with the officers) must be deferred until
tonight.--Your affectionate and respectful friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
July 28th.
DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,--It is YOU who have committed a fault--and one
which must weigh heavily upon your conscience. Indeed, your last letter
has amazed and confounded me,--so much so that, on once more looking
into the recesses of my heart, I perceive that I was perfectly right
in what I did. Of course I am not now referring to my debauch (no,
indeed!), but to the fact that I love you, and to the fact that it is
unwise of me to love you--very unwise. You know not how matters stand,
my darling. You know not why I am BOUND to love you. Otherwise you would
not say all that you do. Yet I am persuaded that it is your head rather
than your heart that is speaking. I am certain that your heart thinks
very differently.
What occurred that night between myself and those officers I scarcely
know, I scarcely remember. You must bear in mind that for some time past
I have been in terrible distress--that for a whole month I have been, so
to speak, hanging by a single thread. Indeed, my position has been most
pitiable. Though I hid myself from you, my landlady was forever shouting
and railing at me. This would not have mattered a jot--the horrible old
woman might have shouted as much as she pleased--had it not been that,
in the first place, there was the disgrace of it, and, in the second
place, she had somehow learned of our connection, and kept proclaiming
it to the household until I felt perfectly deafened, and had to stop my
ears. The point, however, is that other people did not stop their ears,
but, on the contrary, pricked them. Indeed, I am at a loss what to do.
Really this wretched rabble has driven me to extremities. It all began
with my hearing a strange rumour from Thedora--namely, that an unworthy
suitor had been to visit you, and had insulted you with an improper
proposal. That he had insulted you deeply I knew from my own feelings,
for I felt insulted in an equal degree. Upon that, my angel, I went to
pieces, and, losing all self-control, plunged headlong. Bursting into an