Poor Folk
First of all, let me tell you that poor Gorshkov has been entirely
absolved of guilt. The decision has been long in coming, but this
morning he went to hear the final resolution read. It was entirely in
his favour. Any culpability which had been imputed to him for negligence
and irregularity was removed by the resolution. Likewise, he was
authorised to recover of the merchant a large sum of money. Thus, he
stands entirely justified, and has had his character cleansed from
all stain. In short, he could not have wished for a more complete
vindication. When he arrived home at three o’clock he was looking as
white as a sheet, and his lips were quivering. Yet there was a smile on
his face as he embraced his wife and children. In a body the rest of us
ran to congratulate him, and he was greatly moved by the act. Bowing to
us, he pressed our hands in turn. As he did so I thought, somehow, that
he seemed to have grown taller and straighter, and that the pus-drops
seemed to have disappeared from his eyelashes. Yet how agitated he was,
poor fellow! He could not rest quietly for two minutes together, but
kept picking up and then dropping whatsoever came to his hand, and
bowing and smiling without intermission, and sitting down and getting
up, and again sitting down, and chattering God only knows what about his
honour and his good name and his little ones. How he did talk--yes, and
weep too! Indeed, few of ourselves could refrain from tears; although
Rataziaev remarked (probably to encourage Gorshkov) that honour mattered
nothing when one had nothing to eat, and that money was the chief thing
in the world, and that for it alone ought God to be thanked. Then he
slapped Gorshkov on the shoulder, but I thought that Gorshkov somehow
seemed hurt at this. He did not express any open displeasure, but threw
Rataziaev a curious look, and removed his hand from his shoulder. ONCE
upon a time he would not have acted thus; but characters differ. For
example, I myself should have hesitated, at such a season of rejoicing,
to seem proud, even though excessive deference and civility at such a
moment might have been construed as a lapse both of moral courage and of
mental vigour. However, this is none of my business. All that Gorshkov
said was: “Yes, money IS a good thing, glory be to God!” In fact, the
whole time that we remained in his room he kept repeating to himself:
“Glory be to God, glory be to God!” His wife ordered a richer and more
delicate meal than usual, and the landlady herself cooked it, for at
heart she is not a bad woman. But until the meal was served Gorshkov
could not remain still. He kept entering everyone’s room in turn
(whether invited thither or not), and, seating himself smilingly upon
a chair, would sometimes say something, and sometimes not utter a word,
but get up and go out again. In the naval officer’s room he even took a
pack of playing-cards into his hand, and was thereupon invited to make
a fourth in a game; but after losing a few times, as well as making
several blunders in his play, he abandoned the pursuit. “No,” said he,
“that is the sort of man that I am--that is all that I am good for,” and
departed. Next, encountering myself in the corridor, he took my hands in
his, and gazed into my face with a rather curious air. Then he pressed
my hands again, and moved away still smiling, smiling, but in an odd,
weary sort of manner, much as a corpse might smile. Meanwhile his wife
was weeping for joy, and everything in their room was decked in holiday
guise. Presently dinner was served, and after they had dined Gorshkov
said to his wife: “See now, dearest, I am going to rest a little while;”
and with that went to bed. Presently he called his little daughter to
his side, and, laying his hand upon the child’s head, lay a long while
looking at her. Then he turned to his wife again, and asked her: “What
of Petinka? Where is our Petinka?” whereupon his wife crossed herself,
and replied: “Why, our Petinka is dead!” “Yes, yes, I know--of course,”
said her husband. “Petinka is now in the Kingdom of Heaven.” This showed
his wife that her husband was not quite in his right senses--that the
recent occurrence had upset him; so she said: “My dearest, you must
sleep awhile.” “I will do so,” he replied, “--at once--I am rather--”
And he turned over, and lay silent for a time. Then again he turned
round and tried to say something, but his wife could not hear what it
was. “What do you say?” she inquired, but he made no reply. Then again
she waited a few moments until she thought to herself, “He has gone to
sleep,” and departed to spend an hour with the landlady. At the end
of that hour she returned--only to find that her husband had not yet
awoken, but was still lying motionless. “He is sleeping very soundly,”
she reflected as she sat down and began to work at something or other.
Since then she has told us that when half an hour or so had elapsed she
fell into a reverie. What she was thinking of she cannot remember, save
that she had forgotten altogether about her husband. Then she awoke with
a curious sort of sensation at her heart. The first thing that struck
her was the deathlike stillness of the room. Glancing at the bed,
she perceived her husband to be lying in the same position as before.
Thereupon she approached him, turned the coverlet back, and saw that he
was stiff and cold--that he had died suddenly, as though smitten with a
stroke. But of what precisely he died God only knows. The affair has so
terribly impressed me that even now I cannot fully collect my
thoughts. It would scarcely be believed that a human being could die so
simply--and he such a poor, needy wretch, this Gorshkov! What a
fate, what a fate, to be sure! His wife is plunged in tears and
panic-stricken, while his little daughter has run away somewhere to hide
herself. In their room, however, all is bustle and confusion, for the
doctors are about to make an autopsy on the corpse. But I cannot
tell you things for certain; I only know that I am most grieved, most
grieved. How sad to think that one never knows what even a day,
what even an hour, may bring forth! One seems to die to so little
purpose!...--Your own
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 19th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to let you know that Rataziaev
has found me some work to do for a certain writer--the latter having
submitted to him a large manuscript. Glory be to God, for this means a
large amount of work to do. Yet, though the copy is wanted in haste, the
original is so carelessly written that I hardly know how to set about my
task. Indeed, certain parts of the manuscript are almost undecipherable.
I have agreed to do the work for forty kopecks a sheet. You see
therefore (and this is my true reason for writing to you), that we shall
soon be receiving money from an extraneous source. Goodbye now, as I
must begin upon my labours.--Your sincere friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
September 23rd.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I have not written to you these three
days past for the reason that I have been so worried and alarmed.
Three days ago Bwikov came again to see me. At the time I was alone, for
Thedora had gone out somewhere. As soon as I opened the door the sight
of him so terrified me that I stood rooted to the spot, and could feel
myself turning pale. Entering with his usual loud laugh, he took a
chair, and sat down. For a long while I could not collect my thoughts;
I just sat where I was, and went on with my work. Soon his smile faded,
for my appearance seemed somehow to have struck him. You see, of late I
have grown thin, and my eyes and cheeks have fallen in, and my face has
become as white as a sheet; so that anyone who knew me a year ago would
scarcely recognise me now. After a prolonged inspection, Bwikov seemed
to recover his spirits, for he said something to which I duly replied.
Then again he laughed. Thus he sat for a whole hour--talking to me the
while, and asking me questions about one thing and another. At length,
just before he rose to depart, he took me by the hand, and said (to
quote his exact words): “Between ourselves, Barbara Alexievna, that
kinswoman of yours and my good friend and acquaintance--I refer to
Anna Thedorovna--is a very bad woman,” (he also added a grosser term
of opprobrium). “First of all she led your cousin astray, and then she
ruined yourself. I also have behaved like a villain, but such is the way
of the world.” Again he laughed. Next, having remarked that, though
not a master of eloquence, he had always considered that obligations of
gentility obliged him to have with me a clear and outspoken explanation,
he went on to say that he sought my hand in marriage; that he looked
upon it as a duty to restore to me my honour; that he could offer me
riches; that, after marriage, he would take me to his country seat in
the Steppes, where we would hunt hares; that he intended never to visit
St. Petersburg again, since everything there was horrible, and he had to
entertain a worthless nephew whom he had sworn to disinherit in favour
of a legal heir; and, finally, that it was to obtain such a legal heir
that he was seeking my hand in marriage. Lastly, he remarked that
I seemed to be living in very poor circumstances (which was not
surprising, said he, in view of the kennel that I inhabited); that I
should die if I remained a month longer in that den; that all lodgings
in St. Petersburg were detestable; and that he would be glad to know if
I was in want of anything.
So thunderstruck was I with the proposal that I could only burst into
tears. These tears he interpreted as a sign of gratitude, for he told
me that he had always felt assured of my good sense, cleverness, and
sensibility, but that hitherto he had hesitated to take this step until
he should have learned precisely how I was getting on. Next he asked me
some questions about YOU; saying that he had heard of you as a man of
good principle, and that since he was unwilling to remain your debtor,
would a sum of five hundred roubles repay you for all you had done for
me? To this I replied that your services to myself had been such as
could never be requited with money; whereupon, he exclaimed that I was
talking rubbish and nonsense; that evidently I was still young enough to
read poetry; that romances of this kind were the undoing of young girls,
that books only corrupted morality, and that, for his part, he could not
abide them. “You ought to live as long as I have done,” he added, “and
THEN you will see what men can be.” With that he requested me to give
his proposal my favourable consideration--saying that he would not like
me to take such an important step unguardedly, since want of thought and
impetuosity often spelt ruin to youthful inexperience, but that he hoped
to receive an answer in the affirmative. “Otherwise,” said he, “I shall
have no choice but to marry a certain merchant’s daughter in Moscow, in
order that I may keep my vow to deprive my nephew of the inheritance.”--
Then he pressed five hundred roubles into my hand--to buy myself some
bonbons, as he phrased it--and wound up by saying that in the country I
should grow as fat as a doughnut or a cheese rolled in butter; that at
the present moment he was extremely busy; and that, deeply engaged in
business though he had been all day, he had snatched the present
opportunity of paying me a visit. At length he departed.
For a long time I sat plunged in reflection. Great though my distress
of mind was, I soon arrived at a decision.... My friend, I am going to
marry this man; I have no choice but to accept his proposal. If anyone
could save me from this squalor, and restore to me my good name, and
avert from me future poverty and want and misfortune, he is the man to