Poor Folk
than Zapolski’s; that a great deal of money had been squandered upon me;
that it was clear that I was wasting my time in repeating dialogues
and vocabularies; that I alone was at fault, and that I must answer for
everything. Yet this did not arise from any WANT OF LOVE for me on the
part of my father, but rather from the fact that he was incapable of
putting himself in my own and my mother’s place. It came of a defect of
character.
All these cares and worries and disappointments tortured my poor father
until he became moody and distrustful. Next he began to neglect his
health, with the result that, catching a chill, he died, after a short
illness, so suddenly and unexpectedly that for a few days we were almost
beside ourselves with the shock--my mother, in particular, lying for
a while in such a state of torpor that I had fears for her reason. The
instant my father was dead creditors seemed to spring up out of the
ground, and to assail us en masse. Everything that we possessed had to
be surrendered to them, including a little house which my father had
bought six months after our arrival in St. Petersburg. How matters
were finally settled I do not know, but we found ourselves roofless,
shelterless, and without a copper. My mother was grievously ill, and
of means of subsistence we had none. Before us there loomed only ruin,
sheer ruin. At the time I was fourteen years old. Soon afterwards Anna
Thedorovna came to see us, saying that she was a lady of property and
our relative; and this my mother confirmed--though, true, she added that
Anna was only a very DISTANT relative. Anna had never taken the least
notice of us during my father’s lifetime, yet now she entered our
presence with tears in her eyes, and an assurance that she meant to
better our fortunes. Having condoled with us on our loss and destitute
position, she added that my father had been to blame for everything, in
that he had lived beyond his means, and taken upon himself more than he
was able to perform. Also, she expressed a wish to draw closer to us,
and to forget old scores; and when my mother explained that, for her own
part, she harboured no resentment against Anna, the latter burst into
tears, and, hurrying my mother away to church, then and there ordered
Mass to be said for the “dear departed,” as she called my father. In
this manner she effected a solemn reconciliation with my mother.
Next, after long negotiations and vacillations, coupled with much
vivid description of our destitute position, our desolation, and our
helplessness, Anna invited us to pay her (as she expressed it) a
“return visit.” For this my mother duly thanked her, and considered the
invitation for a while; after which, seeing that there was nothing
else to be done, she informed Anna Thedorovna that she was prepared,
gratefully, to accept her offer. Ah, how I remember the morning when we
removed to Vassilievski Island! [A quarter of St. Petersburg.] It was a
clear, dry, frosty morning in autumn. My mother could not restrain
her tears, and I too felt depressed. Nay, my very heart seemed to be
breaking under a strange, undefined load of sorrow. How terrible it all
seemed!...
II
AT first--that is to say, until my mother and myself grew used to
our new abode--we found living at Anna Thedorovna’s both strange and
disagreeable. The house was her own, and contained five rooms, three of
which she shared with my orphaned cousin, Sasha (whom she had brought up
from babyhood); a fourth was occupied by my mother and myself; and the
fifth was rented of Anna by a poor student named Pokrovski. Although
Anna lived in good style--in far better style than might have been
expected--her means and her avocation were conjectural. Never was she
at rest; never was she not busy with some mysterious something or other.
Also, she possessed a wide and varied circle of friends. The stream of
callers was perpetual--although God only knows who they were, or what
their business was. No sooner did my mother hear the door-bell ring than
off she would carry me to our own apartment. This greatly displeased
Anna, who used again and again to assure my mother that we were too
proud for our station in life. In fact, she would sulk for hours about
it. At the time I could not understand these reproaches, and it was
not until long afterwards that I learned--or rather, I guessed--why
eventually my mother declared that she could not go on living with Anna.
Yes, Anna was a bad woman. Never did she let us alone. As to the exact
motive why she had asked us to come and share her house with her I am
still in the dark. At first she was not altogether unkind to us but,
later, she revealed to us her real character--as soon, that is to say,
as she saw that we were at her mercy, and had nowhere else to go.
Yes, in early days she was quite kind to me--even offensively so, but
afterwards, I had to suffer as much as my mother. Constantly did Anna
reproach us; constantly did she remind us of her benefactions, and
introduce us to her friends as poor relatives of hers whom, out of
goodness of heart and for the love of Christ, she had received into her
bosom. At table, also, she would watch every mouthful that we took;
and, if our appetite failed, immediately she would begin as before, and
reiterate that we were over-dainty, that we must not assume that riches
would mean happiness, and that we had better go and live by ourselves.
Moreover, she never ceased to inveigh against my father--saying that
he had sought to be better than other people, and thereby had brought
himself to a bad end; that he had left his wife and daughter destitute;
and that, but for the fact that we had happened to meet with a kind and
sympathetic Christian soul, God alone knew where we should have laid our
heads, save in the street. What did that woman not say? To hear her was
not so much galling as disgusting. From time to time my mother would
burst into tears, her health grew worse from day to day, and her body
was becoming sheer skin and bone. All the while, too, we had to work--to
work from morning till night, for we had contrived to obtain some
employment as occasional sempstresses. This, however, did not please
Anna, who used to tell us that there was no room in her house for a
modiste’s establishment. Yet we had to get clothes to wear, to provide
for unforeseen expenses, and to have a little money at our disposal in
case we should some day wish to remove elsewhere. Unfortunately, the
strain undermined my mother’s health, and she became gradually weaker.
Sickness, like a cankerworm, was gnawing at her life, and dragging her
towards the tomb. Well could I see what she was enduring, what she was
suffering. Yes, it all lay open to my eyes.
Day succeeded day, and each day was like the last one. We lived a life
as quiet as though we had been in the country. Anna herself grew quieter
in proportion as she came to realise the extent of her power over us.
In nothing did we dare to thwart her. From her portion of the house
our apartment was divided by a corridor, while next to us (as mentioned
above) dwelt a certain Pokrovski, who was engaged in teaching Sasha the
French and German languages, as well as history and geography--“all the
sciences,” as Anna used to say. In return for these services he received
free board and lodging. As for Sasha, she was a clever, but rude and
uncouth, girl of thirteen. On one occasion Anna remarked to my mother
that it might be as well if I also were to take some lessons, seeing
that my education had been neglected at school; and, my mother joyfully
assenting, I joined Sasha for a year in studying under this Pokrovski.
The latter was a poor--a very poor--young man whose health would not
permit of his undertaking the regular university course. Indeed, it was
only for form’s sake that we called him “The Student.” He lived in such
a quiet, humble, retiring fashion that never a sound reached us from his
room. Also, his exterior was peculiar--he moved and walked awkwardly,
and uttered his words in such a strange manner that at first I could
never look at him without laughing. Sasha was for ever playing tricks
upon him--more especially when he was giving us our lessons. But
unfortunately, he was of a temperament as excitable as herself. Indeed,
he was so irritable that the least trifle would send him into a frenzy,
and set him shouting at us, and complaining of our conduct. Sometimes he
would even rush away to his room before school hours were over, and sit
there for days over his books, of which he had a store that was
both rare and valuable. In addition, he acted as teacher at another
establishment, and received payment for his services there; and,
whenever he had received his fees for this extra work, he would hasten
off and purchase more books.
In time I got to know and like him better, for in reality he was a good,
worthy fellow--more so than any of the people with whom we otherwise
came in contact. My mother in particular had a great respect for him,
and, after herself, he was my best friend. But at first I was just an
overgrown hoyden, and joined Sasha in playing the fool. For hours we
would devise tricks to anger and distract him, for he looked extremely
ridiculous when he was angry, and so diverted us the more (ashamed
though I am now to admit it). But once, when we had driven him nearly
to tears, I heard him say to himself under his breath, “What cruel
children!” and instantly I repented--I began to feel sad and ashamed and
sorry for him. I reddened to my ears, and begged him, almost with tears,
not to mind us, nor to take offence at our stupid jests. Nevertheless,
without finishing the lesson, he closed his book, and departed to his
own room. All that day I felt torn with remorse. To think that we two
children had forced him, the poor, the unhappy one, to remember his hard
lot! And at night I could not sleep for grief and regret. Remorse is
said to bring relief to the soul, but it is not so. How far my grief was
internally connected with my conceit I do not know, but at least I did
not wish him to think me a baby, seeing that I had now reached the age
of fifteen years. Therefore, from that day onwards I began to torture
my imagination with devising a thousand schemes which should compel
Pokrovski to alter his opinion of me. At the same time, being yet shy
and reserved by nature, I ended by finding that, in my present position,
I could make up my mind to nothing but vague dreams (and such dreams
I had). However, I ceased to join Sasha in playing the fool, while
Pokrovski, for his part, ceased to lose his temper with us so much.
Unfortunately this was not enough to satisfy my self-esteem.
At this point, I must say a few words about the strangest, the most
interesting, the most pitiable human being that I have ever come across.
I speak of him now--at this particular point in these memoirs--for the
reason that hitherto I had paid him no attention whatever, and began to
do so now only because everything connected with Pokrovski had suddenly
become of absorbing interest in my eyes.
Sometimes there came to the house a ragged, poorly-dressed, grey-headed,
awkward, amorphous--in short, a very strange-looking--little old man. At
first glance it might have been thought that he was perpetually ashamed
of something--that he had on his conscience something which always made
him, as it were, bristle up and then shrink into himself. Such curious
starts and grimaces did he indulge in that one was forced to conclude
that he was scarcely in his right mind. On arriving, he would halt for
a while by the window in the hall, as though afraid to enter; until,
should any one happen to pass in or out of the door--whether Sasha or
myself or one of the servants (to the latter he always resorted the most