Poor Folk
I have to be constantly on my guard against my fellows. Nevertheless,
merely to be able to CONFESS this to you renews my spiritual strength.
We must not think of these things, Barbara, lest the thought of them
break our courage. I write them down merely to warn you NOT to think of
them, nor to torture yourself with bitter imaginings. Yet, my God, what
is to become of us? Stay where you are until I can come to you; after
which I shall not return hither, but simply disappear. Now I have
finished my letter, and must go and shave myself, inasmuch as, when that
is done, one always feels more decent, as well as consorts more easily
with decency. God speed me! One prayer to Him, and I must be off.
M. DIEVUSHKIN.
August 5th.
DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--You must not despair. Away with melancholy!
I am sending you thirty kopecks in silver, and regret that I cannot send
you more. Buy yourself what you most need until tomorrow. I myself have
almost nothing left, and what I am going to do I know not. Is it not
dreadful, Makar Alexievitch? Yet do not be downcast--it is no good being
that. Thedora declares that it would not be a bad thing if we were to
remain in this tenement, since if we left it suspicions would arise, and
our enemies might take it into their heads to look for us. On the other
hand, I do not think it would be well for us to remain here. If I were
feeling less sad I would tell you my reason.
What a strange man you are, Makar Alexievitch! You take things so much
to heart that you never know what it is to be happy. I read your letters
attentively, and can see from them that, though you worry and disturb
yourself about me, you never give a thought to yourself. Yes, every
letter tells me that you have a kind heart; but I tell YOU that that
heart is overly kind. So I will give you a little friendly advice, Makar
Alexievitch. I am full of gratitude towards you--I am indeed full for
all that you have done for me, I am most sensible of your goodness;
but, to think that I should be forced to see that, in spite of your own
troubles (of which I have been the involuntary cause), you live for me
alone--you live but for MY joys and MY sorrows and MY affection! If you
take the affairs of another person so to heart, and suffer with her to
such an extent, I do not wonder that you yourself are unhappy. Today,
when you came to see me after office-work was done, I felt afraid even
to raise my eyes to yours, for you looked so pale and desperate, and
your face had so fallen in. Yes, you were dreading to have to tell me
of your failure to borrow money--you were dreading to have to grieve and
alarm me; but, when you saw that I came very near to smiling, the load
was, I know, lifted from your heart. So do not be despondent, do not
give way, but allow more rein to your better sense. I beg and implore
this of you, for it will not be long before you see things take a turn
for the better. You will but spoil your life if you constantly lament
another person’s sorrow. Goodbye, dear friend. I beseech you not to be
over-anxious about me.
B. D.
August 5th.
MY DARLING LITTLE BARBARA,--This is well, this is well, my angel! So you
are of opinion that the fact that I have failed to obtain any money does
not matter? Then I too am reassured, I too am happy on your account.
Also, I am delighted to think that you are not going to desert your old
friend, but intend to remain in your present lodgings. Indeed, my heart
was overcharged with joy when I read in your letter those kindly words
about myself, as well as a not wholly unmerited recognition of my
sentiments. I say this not out of pride, but because now I know how much
you love me to be thus solicitous for my feelings. How good to
think that I may speak to you of them! You bid me, darling, not be
faint-hearted. Indeed, there is no need for me to be so. Think, for
instance, of the pair of shoes which I shall be wearing to the office
tomorrow! The fact is that over-brooding proves the undoing of a
man--his complete undoing. What has saved me is the fact that it is not
for myself that I am grieving, that I am suffering, but for YOU. Nor
would it matter to me in the least that I should have to walk through
the bitter cold without an overcoat or boots--I could bear it, I could
well endure it, for I am a simple man in my requirements; but the point
is--what would people say, what would every envious and hostile tongue
exclaim, when I was seen without an overcoat? It is for OTHER folk that
one wears an overcoat and boots. In any case, therefore, I should have
needed boots to maintain my name and reputation; to both of which my
ragged footgear would otherwise have spelled ruin. Yes, it is so,
my beloved, and you may believe an old man who has had many years of
experience, and knows both the world and mankind, rather than a set of
scribblers and daubers.
But I have not yet told you in detail how things have gone with me
today. During the morning I suffered as much agony of spirit as might
have been experienced in a year. ‘Twas like this: First of all, I went
out to call upon the gentleman of whom I have spoken. I started very
early, before going to the office. Rain and sleet were falling, and
I hugged myself in my greatcoat as I walked along. “Lord,” thought I,
“pardon my offences, and send me fulfilment of all my desires;” and as
I passed a church I crossed myself, repented of my sins, and reminded
myself that I was unworthy to hold communication with the Lord God. Then
I retired into myself, and tried to look at nothing; and so, walking
without noticing the streets, I proceeded on my way. Everything had an
empty air, and everyone whom I met looked careworn and preoccupied, and
no wonder, for who would choose to walk abroad at such an early hour,
and in such weather? Next a band of ragged workmen met me, and jostled
me boorishly as they passed; upon which nervousness overtook me, and
I felt uneasy, and tried hard not to think of the money that was
my errand. Near the Voskresenski Bridge my feet began to ache with
weariness, until I could hardly pull myself along; until presently I met
with Ermolaev, a writer in our office, who, stepping aside, halted, and
followed me with his eyes, as though to beg of me a glass of vodka. “Ah,
friend,” thought I, “go YOU to your vodka, but what have I to do with
such stuff?” Then, sadly weary, I halted for a moment’s rest, and
thereafter dragged myself further on my way. Purposely I kept looking
about me for something upon which to fasten my thoughts, with which to
distract, to encourage myself; but there was nothing. Not a single idea
could I connect with any given object, while, in addition, my appearance
was so draggled that I felt utterly ashamed of it. At length I perceived
from afar a gabled house that was built of yellow wood. This, I thought,
must be the residence of the Monsieur Markov whom Emelia Ivanovitch had
mentioned to me as ready to lend money on interest. Half unconscious
of what I was doing, I asked a watchman if he could tell me to whom the
house belonged; whereupon grudgingly, and as though he were vexed at
something, the fellow muttered that it belonged to one Markov. Are ALL
watchmen so unfeeling? Why did this one reply as he did? In any case I
felt disagreeably impressed, for like always answers to like, and, no
matter what position one is in, things invariably appear to correspond
to it. Three times did I pass the house and walk the length of the
street; until the further I walked, the worse became my state of mind.
“No, never, never will he lend me anything!” I thought to myself, “He
does not know me, and my affairs will seem to him ridiculous, and I
shall cut a sorry figure. However, let fate decide for me. Only, let
Heaven send that I do not afterwards repent me, and eat out my heart
with remorse!” Softly I opened the wicket-gate. Horrors! A great ragged
brute of a watch-dog came flying out at me, and foaming at the mouth,
and nearly jumping out his skin! Curious is it to note what little,
trivial incidents will nearly make a man crazy, and strike terror to his
heart, and annihilate the firm purpose with which he has armed himself.
At all events, I approached the house more dead than alive, and walked
straight into another catastrophe. That is to say, not noticing the
slipperiness of the threshold, I stumbled against an old woman who
was filling milk-jugs from a pail, and sent the milk flying in every
direction! The foolish old dame gave a start and a cry, and then
demanded of me whither I had been coming, and what it was I wanted;
after which she rated me soundly for my awkwardness. Always have I found
something of the kind befall me when engaged on errands of this nature.
It seems to be my destiny invariably to run into something. Upon that,
the noise and the commotion brought out the mistress of the house--an
old beldame of mean appearance. I addressed myself directly to her:
“Does Monsieur Markov live here?” was my inquiry. “No,” she replied, and
then stood looking at me civilly enough. “But what want you with him?”
she continued; upon which I told her about Emelia Ivanovitch and
the rest of the business. As soon as I had finished, she called her
daughter--a barefooted girl in her teens--and told her to summon her
father from upstairs. Meanwhile, I was shown into a room which contained
several portraits of generals on the walls and was furnished with a
sofa, a large table, and a few pots of mignonette and balsam. “Shall I,
or shall I not (come weal, come woe) take myself off?” was my thought as
I waited there. Ah, how I longed to run away! “Yes,” I continued, “I had
better come again tomorrow, for the weather may then be better, and I
shall not have upset the milk, and these generals will not be looking at
me so fiercely.” In fact, I had actually begun to move towards the door
when Monsieur Markov entered--a grey-headed man with thievish eyes, and
clad in a dirty dressing-gown fastened with a belt. Greetings over, I
stumbled out something about Emelia Ivanovitch and forty roubles, and
then came to a dead halt, for his eyes told me that my errand had been
futile. “No.” said he, “I have no money. Moreover, what security
could you offer?” I admitted that I could offer none, but again added
something about Emelia, as well as about my pressing needs. Markov heard
me out, and then repeated that he had no money. “Ah,” thought I, “I
might have known this--I might have foreseen it!” And, to tell the
truth, Barbara, I could have wished that the earth had opened under my
feet, so chilled did I feel as he said what he did, so numbed did my
legs grow as shivers began to run down my back. Thus I remained gazing
at him while he returned my gaze with a look which said, “Well now,
my friend? Why do you not go since you have no further business to do
here?” Somehow I felt conscience-stricken. “How is it that you are in
such need of money?” was what he appeared to be asking; whereupon, I
opened my mouth (anything rather than stand there to no purpose at all!)
but found that he was not even listening. “I have no money,” again he
said, “or I would lend you some with pleasure.” Several times I repeated
that I myself possessed a little, and that I would repay any loan
from him punctually, most punctually, and that he might charge me what
interest he liked, since I would meet it without fail. Yes, at that
moment I remembered our misfortunes, our necessities, and I remembered
your half-rouble. “No,” said he, “I can lend you nothing without
security,” and clinched his assurance with an oath, the robber!
How I contrived to leave the house and, passing through Viborskaia
Street, to reach the Voskresenski Bridge I do not know. I only remember
that I felt terribly weary, cold, and starved, and that it was ten