Poor Folk
readily, as being the most nearly akin to his own class)--he would begin
to gesticulate and to beckon to that person, and to make various signs.
Then, should the person in question nod to him, or call him by name (the
recognised token that no other visitor was present, and that he
might enter freely), he would open the door gently, give a smile of
satisfaction as he rubbed his hands together, and proceed on tiptoe to
young Pokrovski’s room. This old fellow was none other than Pokrovski’s
father.
Later I came to know his story in detail. Formerly a civil servant, he
had possessed no additional means, and so had occupied a very low
and insignificant position in the service. Then, after his first wife
(mother of the younger Pokrovski) had died, the widower bethought him of
marrying a second time, and took to himself a tradesman’s daughter, who
soon assumed the reins over everything, and brought the home to rack and
ruin, so that the old man was worse off than before. But to the younger
Pokrovski, fate proved kinder, for a landowner named Bwikov, who had
formerly known the lad’s father and been his benefactor, took the boy
under his protection, and sent him to school. Another reason why this
Bwikov took an interest in young Pokrovski was that he had known the
lad’s dead mother, who, while still a serving-maid, had been befriended
by Anna Thedorovna, and subsequently married to the elder Pokrovski. At
the wedding Bwikov, actuated by his friendship for Anna, conferred upon
the young bride a dowry of five thousand roubles; but whither that money
had since disappeared I cannot say. It was from Anna’s lips that I heard
the story, for the student Pokrovski was never prone to talk about his
family affairs. His mother was said to have been very good-looking;
wherefore, it is the more mysterious why she should have made so poor a
match. She died when young--only four years after her espousal.
From school the young Pokrovski advanced to a gymnasium, [Secondary
school.] and thence to the University, where Bwikov, who frequently
visited the capital, continued to accord the youth his protection.
Gradually, however, ill health put an end to the young man’s university
course; whereupon Bwikov introduced and personally recommended him to
Anna Thedorovna, and he came to lodge with her on condition that he
taught Sasha whatever might be required of him.
Grief at the harshness of his wife led the elder Pokrovski to plunge
into dissipation, and to remain in an almost permanent condition of
drunkenness. Constantly his wife beat him, or sent him to sit in the
kitchen--with the result that in time, he became so inured to blows
and neglect, that he ceased to complain. Still not greatly advanced
in years, he had nevertheless endangered his reason through evil
courses--his only sign of decent human feeling being his love for his
son. The latter was said to resemble his dead mother as one pea may
resemble another. What recollections, therefore, of the kind helpmeet of
former days may not have moved the breast of the poor broken old man to
this boundless affection for the boy? Of naught else could the father
ever speak but of his son, and never did he fail to visit him twice a
week. To come oftener he did not dare, for the reason that the younger
Pokrovski did not like these visits of his father’s. In fact, there
can be no doubt that the youth’s greatest fault was his lack of filial
respect. Yet the father was certainly rather a difficult person to deal
with, for, in the first place, he was extremely inquisitive, while, in
the second place, his long-winded conversation and questions--questions
of the most vapid and senseless order conceivable--always prevented
the son from working. Likewise, the old man occasionally arrived there
drunk. Gradually, however, the son was weaning his parent from his
vicious ways and everlasting inquisitiveness, and teaching the old man
to look upon him, his son, as an oracle, and never to speak without that
son’s permission.
On the subject of his Petinka, as he called him, the poor old man could
never sufficiently rhapsodise and dilate. Yet when he arrived to see his
son he almost invariably had on his face a downcast, timid expression
that was probably due to uncertainty concerning the way in which he
would be received. For a long time he would hesitate to enter, and if I
happened to be there he would question me for twenty minutes or so as to
whether his Petinka was in good health, as well as to the sort of
mood he was in, whether he was engaged on matters of importance, what
precisely he was doing (writing or meditating), and so on. Then, when I
had sufficiently encouraged and reassured the old man, he would make up
his mind to enter, and quietly and cautiously open the door. Next, he
would protrude his head through the chink, and if he saw that his son
was not angry, but threw him a nod, he would glide noiselessly into the
room, take off his scarf, and hang up his hat (the latter perennially
in a bad state of repair, full of holes, and with a smashed brim)--the
whole being done without a word or a sound of any kind. Next, the old
man would seat himself warily on a chair, and, never removing his eyes
from his son, follow his every movement, as though seeking to gauge
Petinka’s state of mind. On the other hand, if the son was not in good
spirits, the father would make a note of the fact, and at once get up,
saying that he had “only called for a minute or two,” that, “having been
out for a long walk, and happening at the moment to be passing,” he had
“looked in for a moment’s rest.” Then silently and humbly the old man
would resume his hat and scarf; softly he would open the door, and
noiselessly depart with a forced smile on his face--the better to bear
the disappointment which was seething in his breast, the better to help
him not to show it to his son.
On the other hand, whenever the son received his father civilly the old
man would be struck dumb with joy. Satisfaction would beam in his face,
in his every gesture, in his every movement. And if the son deigned to
engage in conversation with him, the old man always rose a little from
his chair, and answered softly, sympathetically, with something like
reverence, while strenuously endeavouring to make use of the most
recherche (that is to say, the most ridiculous) expressions. But, alas!
He had not the gift of words. Always he grew confused, and turned red in
the face; never did he know what to do with his hands or with himself.
Likewise, whenever he had returned an answer of any kind, he would go
on repeating the same in a whisper, as though he were seeking to justify
what he had just said. And if he happened to have returned a good
answer, he would begin to preen himself, and to straighten his
waistcoat, frockcoat and tie, and to assume an air of conscious dignity.
Indeed, on these occasions he would feel so encouraged, he would carry
his daring to such a pitch, that, rising softly from his chair, he would
approach the bookshelves, take thence a book, and read over to himself
some passage or another. All this he would do with an air of feigned
indifference and sangfroid, as though he were free ALWAYS to use his
son’s books, and his son’s kindness were no rarity at all. Yet on one
occasion I saw the poor old fellow actually turn pale on being told by
his son not to touch the books. Abashed and confused, he, in his awkward
hurry, replaced the volume wrong side uppermost; whereupon, with a
supreme effort to recover himself, he turned it round with a smile and
a blush, as though he were at a loss how to view his own misdemeanour.
Gradually, as already said, the younger Pokrovski weaned his father
from his dissipated ways by giving him a small coin whenever, on three
successive occasions, he (the father) arrived sober. Sometimes, also,
the younger man would buy the older one shoes, or a tie, or a waistcoat;
whereafter, the old man would be as proud of his acquisition as a
peacock. Not infrequently, also, the old man would step in to visit
ourselves, and bring Sasha and myself gingerbread birds or apples,
while talking unceasingly of Petinka. Always he would beg of us to pay
attention to our lessons, on the plea that Petinka was a good son, an
exemplary son, a son who was in twofold measure a man of learning; after
which he would wink at us so quizzingly with his left eye, and twist
himself about in such amusing fashion, that we were forced to burst out
laughing. My mother had a great liking for him, but he detested Anna
Thedorovna--although in her presence he would be quieter than water and
lowlier than the earth.
Soon after this I ceased to take lessons of Pokrovski. Even now he
thought me a child, a raw schoolgirl, as much as he did Sasha; and this
hurt me extremely, seeing that I had done so much to expiate my former
behaviour. Of my efforts in this direction no notice had been taken,
and the fact continued to anger me more and more. Scarcely ever did I
address a word to my tutor between school hours, for I simply could
not bring myself to do it. If I made the attempt I only grew red and
confused, and rushed away to weep in a corner. How it would all have
ended I do not know, had not a curious incident helped to bring about
a rapprochement. One evening, when my mother was sitting in Anna
Thedorovna’s room, I crept on tiptoe to Pokrovski’s apartment, in the
belief that he was not at home. Some strange impulse moved me to do so.
True, we had lived cheek by jowl with one another; yet never once had
I caught a glimpse of his abode. Consequently my heart beat loudly--so
loudly, indeed, that it seemed almost to be bursting from my breast. On
entering the room I glanced around me with tense interest. The apartment
was very poorly furnished, and bore few traces of orderliness. On table
and chairs there lay heaps of books; everywhere were books and papers.
Then a strange thought entered my head, as well as, with the thought, an
unpleasant feeling of irritation. It seemed to me that my friendship,
my heart’s affection, meant little to him, for HE was well-educated,
whereas I was stupid, and had learned nothing, and had read not a single
book. So I stood looking wistfully at the long bookshelves where
they groaned under their weight of volumes. I felt filled with grief,
disappointment, and a sort of frenzy. I felt that I MUST read those
books, and decided to do so--to read them one by one, and with all
possible speed. Probably the idea was that, by learning whatsoever HE
knew, I should render myself more worthy of his friendship. So, I made
a rush towards the bookcase nearest me, and, without stopping further
to consider matters, seized hold of the first dusty tome upon which my
hands chanced to alight, and, reddening and growing pale by turns, and
trembling with fear and excitement, clasped the stolen book to my breast
with the intention of reading it by candle light while my mother lay
asleep at night.
But how vexed I felt when, on returning to our own room, and hastily
turning the pages, only an old, battered worm-eaten Latin work greeted
my eyes! Without loss of time I retraced my steps. Just when I was about
to replace the book I heard a noise in the corridor outside, and the
sound of footsteps approaching. Fumblingly I hastened to complete what
I was about, but the tiresome book had become so tightly wedged into
its row that, on being pulled out, it caused its fellows to close up too
compactly to leave any place for their comrade. To insert the book was
beyond my strength; yet still I kept pushing and pushing at the row. At
last the rusty nail which supported the shelf (the thing seemed to have
been waiting on purpose for that moment!) broke off short; with the
result that the shelf descended with a crash, and the books piled