Poor Folk
Generals would have come seeking your favour, and, instead of being
clad in a humble cotton dress, you would have been walking in silken
and golden attire. Then you would not have been thin and wan as now,
but fresh and plump and rosy-cheeked as a figure on a sugar-cake. Then
should I too have been happy--happy if only I could look at your lighted
windows from the street, and watch your shadow--happy if only I could
think that you were well and happy, my sweet little bird! Yet how are
things in reality? Not only have evil folk brought you to ruin, but
there comes also an old rascal of a libertine to insult you! Just
because he struts about in a frockcoat, and can ogle you through a
gold-mounted lorgnette, the brute thinks that everything will fall into
his hands--that you are bound to listen to his insulting condescension!
Out upon him! But why is this? It is because you are an orphan, it is
because you are unprotected, it is because you have no powerful friend
to afford you the decent support which is your due. WHAT do such facts
matter to a man or to men to whom the insulting of an orphan is an
offence allowed? Such fellows are not men at all, but mere vermin, no
matter what they think themselves to be. Of that I am certain. Why,
an organ-grinder whom I met in Gorokhovaia Street would inspire more
respect than they do, for at least he walks about all day, and suffers
hunger--at least he looks for a stray, superfluous groat to earn him
subsistence, and is, therefore, a true gentleman, in that he supports
himself. To beg alms he would be ashamed; and, moreover, he works for
the benefit of mankind just as does a factory machine. “So far as in me
lies,” says he, “I will give you pleasure.” True, he is a pauper, and
nothing but a pauper; but, at least he is an HONOURABLE pauper. Though
tired and hungry, he still goes on working--working in his own peculiar
fashion, yet still doing honest labour. Yes, many a decent fellow whose
labour may be disproportionate to its utility pulls the forelock to no
one, and begs his bread of no one. I myself resemble that organ-grinder.
That is to say, though not exactly he, I resemble him in this respect,
that I work according to my capabilities, and so far as in me lies. More
could be asked of no one; nor ought I to be adjudged to do more.
Apropos of the organ-grinder, I may tell you, dearest, that today
I experienced a double misfortune. As I was looking at the grinder,
certain thoughts entered my head and I stood wrapped in a reverie. Some
cabmen also had halted at the spot, as well as a young girl, with a
yet smaller girl who was dressed in rags and tatters. These people had
halted there to listen to the organ-grinder, who was playing in front
of some one’s windows. Next, I caught sight of a little urchin of about
ten--a boy who would have been good-looking but for the fact that his
face was pinched and sickly. Almost barefooted, and clad only in a
shirt, he was standing agape to listen to the music--a pitiful childish
figure. Nearer to the grinder a few more urchins were dancing, but
in the case of this lad his hands and feet looked numbed, and he kept
biting the end of his sleeve and shivering. Also, I noticed that in his
hands he had a paper of some sort. Presently a gentleman came by, and
tossed the grinder a small coin, which fell straight into a box adorned
with a representation of a Frenchman and some ladies. The instant he
heard the rattle of the coin, the boy started, looked timidly round, and
evidently made up his mind that I had thrown the money; whereupon, he
ran to me with his little hands all shaking, and said in a tremulous
voice as he proffered me his paper: “Pl-please sign this.” I turned over
the paper, and saw that there was written on it what is usual under
such circumstances. “Kind friends I am a sick mother with three hungry
children. Pray help me. Though soon I shall be dead, yet, if you will
not forget my little ones in this world, neither will I forget you in
the world that is to come.” The thing seemed clear enough; it was a
matter of life and death. Yet what was I to give the lad? Well, I gave
him nothing. But my heart ached for him. I am certain that, shivering
with cold though he was, and perhaps hungry, the poor lad was not lying.
No, no, he was not lying. The shameful point is that so many mothers
take no care of their children, but send them out, half-clad, into the
cold. Perhaps this lad’s mother also was a feckless old woman, and
devoid of character? Or perhaps she had no one to work for her, but was
forced to sit with her legs crossed--a veritable invalid? Or perhaps she
was just an old rogue who was in the habit of sending out pinched and
hungry boys to deceive the public? What would such a boy learn from
begging letters? His heart would soon be rendered callous, for, as he
ran about begging, people would pass him by and give him nothing. Yes,
their hearts would be as stone, and their replies rough and harsh. “Away
with you!” they would say. “You are seeking but to trick us.” He would
hear that from every one, and his heart would grow hard, and he would
shiver in vain with the cold, like some poor little fledgling that has
fallen out of the nest. His hands and feet would be freezing, and his
breath coming with difficulty; until, look you, he would begin to cough,
and disease, like an unclean parasite, would worm its way into his
breast until death itself had overtaken him--overtaken him in some
foetid corner whence there was no chance of escape. Yes, that is what
his life would become. There are many such cases. Ah, Barbara, it is
hard to hear “For Christ’s sake!” and yet pass the suppliant by and give
nothing, or say merely: “May the Lord give unto you!” Of course, SOME
supplications mean nothing (for supplications differ greatly in
character). Occasionally supplications are long, drawn-out and drawling,
stereotyped and mechanical--they are purely begging supplications.
Requests of this kind it is less hard to refuse, for they are purely
professional and of long standing. “The beggar is overdoing it,” one
thinks to oneself. “He knows the trick too well.” But there are other
supplications which voice a strange, hoarse, unaccustomed note, like
that today when I took the poor boy’s paper. He had been standing by the
kerbstone without speaking to anybody--save that at last to myself he
said, “For the love of Christ give me a groat!” in a voice so hoarse and
broken that I started, and felt a queer sensation in my heart, although
I did not give him a groat. Indeed, I had not a groat on me. Rich folk
dislike hearing poor people complain of their poverty. “They disturb
us,” they say, “and are impertinent as well. Why should poverty be so
impertinent? Why should its hungry moans prevent us from sleeping?”
To tell you the truth, my darling, I have written the foregoing not
merely to relieve my feelings, but, also, still more, to give you an
example of the excellent style in which I can write. You yourself will
recognise that my style was formed long ago, but of late such fits of
despondency have seized upon me that my style has begun to correspond
to my feelings; and though I know that such correspondence gains one
little, it at least renders one a certain justice. For not unfrequently
it happens that, for some reason or another, one feels abased, and
inclined to value oneself at nothing, and to account oneself lower than
a dishclout; but this merely arises from the fact that at the time one
is feeling harassed and depressed, like the poor boy who today asked of
me alms. Let me tell you an allegory, dearest, and do you hearken to it.
Often, as I hasten to the office in the morning, I look around me at
the city--I watch it awaking, getting out of bed, lighting its fires,
cooking its breakfast, and becoming vocal; and at the sight, I begin to
feel smaller, as though some one had dealt me a rap on my inquisitive
nose. Yes, at such times I slink along with a sense of utter humiliation
in my heart. For one would have but to see what is passing within those
great, black, grimy houses of the capital, and to penetrate within their
walls, for one at once to realise what good reason there is for self-
depredation and heart-searching. Of course, you will note that I am
speaking figuratively rather than literally. Let us look at what is
passing within those houses. In some dingy corner, perhaps, in some damp
kennel which is supposed to be a room, an artisan has just awakened from
sleep. All night he has dreamt--IF such an insignificant fellow is
capable of dreaming?--about the shoes which last night he mechanically
cut out. He is a master-shoemaker, you see, and therefore able to think
of nothing but his one subject of interest. Nearby are some squalling
children and a hungry wife. Nor is he the only man that has to greet the
day in this fashion. Indeed, the incident would be nothing--it would not
be worth writing about, save for another circumstance. In that same
house ANOTHER person--a person of great wealth--may also have been
dreaming of shoes; but, of shoes of a very different pattern and fashion
(in a manner of speaking, if you understand my metaphor, we are all of
us shoemakers). This, again, would be nothing, were it not that the rich
person has no one to whisper in his ear: “Why dost thou think of such
things? Why dost thou think of thyself alone, and live only for thyself-
-thou who art not a shoemaker? THY children are not ailing. THY wife is
not hungry. Look around thee. Can’st thou not find a subject more
fitting for thy thoughts than thy shoes?” That is what I want to say to
you in allegorical language, Barbara. Maybe it savours a little of free-
thought, dearest; but, such ideas WILL keep arising in my mind and
finding utterance in impetuous speech. Why, therefore, should one not
value oneself at a groat as one listens in fear and trembling to the
roar and turmoil of the city? Maybe you think that I am exaggerating
things--that this is a mere whim of mine, or that I am quoting from a
book? No, no, Barbara. You may rest assured that it is not so.
Exaggeration I abhor, with whims I have nothing to do, and of quotation
I am guiltless.
I arrived home today in a melancholy mood. Sitting down to the table, I
had warmed myself some tea, and was about to drink a second glass of it,
when there entered Gorshkov, the poor lodger. Already, this morning,
I had noticed that he was hovering around the other lodgers, and also
seeming to want to speak to myself. In passing I may say that his
circumstances are infinitely worse than my own; for, only think of it,
he has a wife and children! Indeed, if I were he, I do not know what
I should do. Well, he entered my room, and bowed to me with the pus
standing, as usual, in drops on his eyelashes, his feet shuffling about,
and his tongue unable, at first, to articulate a word. I motioned him to
a chair (it was a dilapidated enough one, but I had no other), and asked
him to have a glass of tea. To this he demurred--for quite a long time
he demurred, but at length he accepted the offer. Next, he was for
drinking the tea without sugar, and renewed his excuses, but upon
the sugar I insisted. After long resistance and many refusals, he DID
consent to take some, but only the smallest possible lump; after which,
he assured me that his tea was perfectly sweet. To what depths of
humility can poverty reduce a man! “Well, what is it, my good sir?” I
inquired of him; whereupon he replied: “It is this, Makar Alexievitch.
You have once before been my benefactor. Pray again show me the charity
of God, and assist my unfortunate family. My wife and children have
nothing to eat. To think that a father should have to say this!” I was
about to speak again when he interrupted me. “You see,” he continued,