Poor Folk
unspeakable frenzy, I was at once going to call upon this villain of a
seducer--though what to do next I knew not, seeing that I was fearful of
giving you offence. Ah, what a night of sorrow it was, and what a time
of gloom, rain, and sleet! Next, I was returning home, but found myself
unable to stand upon my feet. Then Emelia Ilyitch happened to come
by. He also is a tchinovnik--or rather, was a tchinovnik, since he was
turned out of the service some time ago. What he was doing there at that
moment I do not know; I only know that I went with him.... Surely it
cannot give you pleasure to read of the misfortunes of your friend--of
his sorrows, and of the temptations which he experienced?... On the
evening of the third day Emelia urged me to go and see the officer of
whom I have spoken, and whose address I had learned from our dvornik.
More strictly speaking, I had noticed him when, on a previous occasion,
he had come to play cards here, and I had followed him home. Of course
I now see that I did wrong, but I felt beside myself when I heard
them telling him stories about me. Exactly what happened next I cannot
remember. I only remember that several other officers were present as
well as he. Or it may be that I saw everything double--God alone knows.
Also, I cannot exactly remember what I said. I only remember that in my
fury I said a great deal. Then they turned me out of the room, and threw
me down the staircase--pushed me down it, that is to say. How I got home
you know. That is all. Of course, later I blamed myself, and my pride
underwent a fall; but no extraneous person except yourself knows of the
affair, and in any case it does not matter. Perhaps the affair is as you
imagine it to have been, Barbara? One thing I know for certain, and that
is that last year one of our lodgers, Aksenti Osipovitch, took a similar
liberty with Peter Petrovitch, yet kept the fact secret, an absolute
secret. He called him into his room (I happened to be looking through a
crack in the partition-wall), and had an explanation with him in the
way that a gentleman should--no one except myself being a witness of the
scene; whereas, in my own case, I had no explanation at all. After the
scene was over, nothing further transpired between Aksenti Osipovitch
and Peter Petrovitch, for the reason that the latter was so desirous of
getting on in life that he held his tongue. As a result, they bow and
shake hands whenever they meet.... I will not dispute the fact that I
have erred most grievously--that I should never dare to dispute, or that
I have fallen greatly in my own estimation; but, I think I was fated
from birth so to do--and one cannot escape fate, my beloved. Here,
therefore, is a detailed explanation of my misfortunes and sorrows,
written for you to read whenever you may find it convenient. I am far
from well, beloved, and have lost all my gaiety of disposition, but I
send you this letter as a token of my love, devotion, and respect, Oh
dear lady of my affections.--Your humble servant,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
July 29th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I have read your two letters, and they
make my heart ache. See here, dear friend of mine. You pass over certain
things in silence, and write about a PORTION only of your misfortunes.
Can it be that the letters are the outcome of a mental disorder?... Come
and see me, for God’s sake. Come today, direct from the office, and dine
with us as you have done before. As to how you are living now, or as to
what settlement you have made with your landlady, I know not, for you
write nothing concerning those two points, and seem purposely to have
left them unmentioned. Au revoir, my friend. Come to me today without
fail. You would do better ALWAYS to dine here. Thedora is an excellent
cook. Goodbye--Your own,
BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.
August 1st.
MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Thank God that He has sent you a chance
of repaying my good with good. I believe in so doing, as well as in the
sweetness of your angelic heart. Therefore, I will not reproach you.
Only I pray you, do not again blame me because in the decline of my life
I have played the spendthrift. It was such a sin, was it not?--such a
thing to do? And even if you would still have it that the sin was there,
remember, little friend, what it costs me to hear such words fall from
your lips. Do not be vexed with me for saying this, for my heart is
fainting. Poor people are subject to fancies--this is a provision of
nature. I myself have had reason to know this. The poor man is exacting.
He cannot see God’s world as it is, but eyes each passer-by askance, and
looks around him uneasily in order that he may listen to every word that
is being uttered. May not people be talking of him? How is it that he
is so unsightly? What is he feeling at all? What sort of figure is
he cutting on the one side or on the other? It is matter of common
knowledge, my Barbara, that the poor man ranks lower than a rag, and
will never earn the respect of any one. Yes, write about him as you
like--let scribblers say what they choose about him--he will ever remain
as he was. And why is this? It is because, from his very nature, the
poor man has to wear his feelings on his sleeve, so that nothing about
him is sacred, and as for his self-respect--! Well, Emelia told me the
other day that once, when he had to collect subscriptions, official
sanction was demanded for every single coin, since people thought that
it would be no use paying their money to a poor man. Nowadays charity
is strangely administered. Perhaps it has always been so. Either folk do
not know how to administer it, or they are adept in the art--one of the
two. Perhaps you did not know this, so I beg to tell it you. And how
comes it that the poor man knows, is so conscious of it all? The answer
is--by experience. He knows because any day he may see a gentleman enter
a restaurant and ask himself, “What shall I have to eat today? I will
have such and such a dish,” while all the time the poor man will
have nothing to eat that day but gruel. There are men, too--wretched
busybodies--who walk about merely to see if they can find some wretched
tchinovnik or broken-down official who has got toes projecting from his
boots or his hair uncut! And when they have found such a one they make
a report of the circumstance, and their rubbish gets entered on the
file.... But what does it matter to you if my hair lacks the shears? If
you will forgive me what may seem to you a piece of rudeness, I declare
that the poor man is ashamed of such things with the sensitiveness of a
young girl. YOU, for instance, would not care (pray pardon my bluntness)
to unrobe yourself before the public eye; and in the same way, the poor
man does not like to be pried at or questioned concerning his family
relations, and so forth. A man of honour and self-respect such as I
am finds it painful and grievous to have to consort with men who would
deprive him of both.
Today I sat before my colleagues like a bear’s cub or a plucked sparrow,
so that I fairly burned with shame. Yes, it hurt me terribly, Barbara.
Naturally one blushes when one can see one’s naked toes projecting
through one’s boots, and one’s buttons hanging by a single thread!
As though on purpose, I seemed, on this occasion, to be peculiarly
dishevelled. No wonder that my spirits fell. When I was talking on
business matters to Stepan Karlovitch, he suddenly exclaimed, for no
apparent reason, “Ah, poor old Makar Alexievitch!” and then left the
rest unfinished. But I knew what he had in his mind, and blushed so
hotly that even the bald patch on my head grew red. Of course the whole
thing is nothing, but it worries me, and leads to anxious thoughts. What
can these fellows know about me? God send that they know nothing! But
I confess that I suspect, I strongly suspect, one of my colleagues. Let
them only betray me! They would betray one’s private life for a groat,
for they hold nothing sacred.
I have an idea who is at the bottom of it all. It is Rataziaev. Probably
he knows someone in our department to whom he has recounted the
story with additions. Or perhaps he has spread it abroad in his own
department, and thence, it has crept and crawled into ours. Everyone
here knows it, down to the last detail, for I have seen them point at
you with their fingers through the window. Oh yes, I have seen them do
it. Yesterday, when I stepped across to dine with you, the whole crew
were hanging out of the window to watch me, and the landlady exclaimed
that the devil was in young people, and called you certain unbecoming
names. But this is as nothing compared with Rataziaev’s foul intention
to place us in his books, and to describe us in a satire. He himself has
declared that he is going to do so, and other people say the same.
In fact, I know not what to think, nor what to decide. It is no use
concealing the fact that you and I have sinned against the Lord God....
You were going to send me a book of some sort, to divert my mind--were
you not, dearest? What book, though, could now divert me? Only such
books as have never existed on earth. Novels are rubbish, and written
for fools and for the idle. Believe me, dearest, I know it through long
experience. Even should they vaunt Shakespeare to you, I tell you that
Shakespeare is rubbish, and proper only for lampoons--Your own,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
August 2nd.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Do not disquiet yourself. God will grant
that all shall turn out well. Thedora has obtained a quantity of work,
both for me and herself, and we are setting about it with a will.
Perhaps it will put us straight again. Thedora suspects my late
misfortunes to be connected with Anna Thedorovna; but I do not care--I
feel extraordinarily cheerful today. So you are thinking of borrowing
more money? If so, may God preserve you, for you will assuredly be
ruined when the time comes for repayment! You had far better come and
live with us here for a little while. Yes, come and take up your abode
here, and pay no attention whatever to what your landlady says. As for
the rest of your enemies and ill-wishers, I am certain that it is with
vain imaginings that you are vexing yourself.... In passing, let me tell
you that your style differs greatly from letter to letter. Goodbye until
we meet again. I await your coming with impatience--Your own,
B. D.
August 3rd.
MY ANGEL, BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to inform you, Oh light of my
life, that my hopes are rising again. But, little daughter of mine--do
you really mean it when you say that I am to indulge in no more
borrowings? Why, I could not do without them. Things would go badly with
us both if I did so. You are ailing. Consequently, I tell you roundly
that I MUST borrow, and that I must continue to do so.
Also, I may tell you that my seat in the office is now next to that of a
certain Emelia Ivanovitch. He is not the Emelia whom you know, but a
man who, like myself, is a privy councillor, as well as represents, with
myself, the senior and oldest official in our department. Likewise he is
a good, disinterested soul, and one that is not over-talkative, though
a true bear in appearance and demeanour. Industrious, and possessed of
a handwriting purely English, his caligraphy is, it must be confessed,
even worse than my own. Yes, he is a good soul. At the same time, we
have never been intimate with one another. We have done no more than
exchange greetings on meeting or parting, borrow one another’s penknife
if we needed one, and, in short, observe such bare civilities as
convention demands. Well, today he said to me, “Makar Alexievitch,
what makes you look so thoughtful?” and inasmuch as I could see that
he wished me well, I told him all--or, rather, I did not tell him