Poor Folk
themselves in a heap on the floor! Then the door of the room opened, and
Pokrovski entered!
I must here remark that he never could bear to have his possessions
tampered with. Woe to the person, in particular, who touched his books!
Judge, therefore, of my horror when books small and great, books of
every possible shape and size and thickness, came tumbling from the
shelf, and flew and sprang over the table, and under the chairs, and
about the whole room. I would have turned and fled, but it was too late.
“All is over!” thought I. “All is over! I am ruined, I am undone! Here
have I been playing the fool like a ten-year-old child! What a stupid
girl I am! The monstrous fool!”
Indeed, Pokrovski was very angry. “What? Have you not done enough?” he
cried. “Are you not ashamed to be for ever indulging in such pranks? Are
you NEVER going to grow sensible?” With that he darted forward to pick
up the books, while I bent down to help him.
“You need not, you need not!” he went on. “You would have done far
better not to have entered without an invitation.”
Next, a little mollified by my humble demeanour, he resumed in his usual
tutorial tone--the tone which he had adopted in his new-found role of
preceptor:
“When are you going to grow steadier and more thoughtful? Consider
yourself for a moment. You are no longer a child, a little girl, but a
maiden of fifteen.”
Then, with a desire (probably) to satisfy himself that I was no longer a
being of tender years, he threw me a glance--but straightway reddened to
his very ears. This I could not understand, but stood gazing at him in
astonishment. Presently, he straightened himself a little, approached
me with a sort of confused expression, and haltingly said
something--probably it was an apology for not having before perceived
that I was now a grown-up young person. But the next moment I
understood. What I did I hardly know, save that, in my dismay and
confusion, I blushed even more hotly than he had done and, covering my
face with my hands, rushed from the room.
What to do with myself for shame I could not think. The one thought in
my head was that he had surprised me in his room. For three whole days
I found myself unable to raise my eyes to his, but blushed always to
the point of weeping. The strangest and most confused of thoughts kept
entering my brain. One of them--the most extravagant--was that I should
dearly like to go to Pokrovski, and to explain to him the situation, and
to make full confession, and to tell him everything without concealment,
and to assure him that I had not acted foolishly as a minx, but honestly
and of set purpose. In fact, I DID make up my mind to take this course,
but lacked the necessary courage to do it. If I had done so, what a
figure I should have cut! Even now I am ashamed to think of it.
A few days later, my mother suddenly fell dangerously ill. For two
days past she had not left her bed, while during the third night of her
illness she became seized with fever and delirium. I also had not closed
my eyes during the previous night, but now waited upon my mother, sat by
her bed, brought her drink at intervals, and gave her medicine at duly
appointed hours. The next night I suffered terribly. Every now and then
sleep would cause me to nod, and objects grow dim before my eyes. Also,
my head was turning dizzy, and I could have fainted for very weariness.
Yet always my mother’s feeble moans recalled me to myself as I started,
momentarily awoke, and then again felt drowsiness overcoming me. What
torture it was! I do not know, I cannot clearly remember, but I think
that, during a moment when wakefulness was thus contending with slumber,
a strange dream, a horrible vision, visited my overwrought brain, and
I awoke in terror. The room was nearly in darkness, for the candle was
flickering, and throwing stray beams of light which suddenly illuminated
the room, danced for a moment on the walls, and then disappeared.
Somehow I felt afraid--a sort of horror had come upon me--my imagination
had been over-excited by the evil dream which I had experienced, and a
feeling of oppression was crushing my heart.... I leapt from the chair,
and involuntarily uttered a cry--a cry wrung from me by the terrible,
torturing sensation that was upon me. Presently the door opened, and
Pokrovski entered.
I remember that I was in his arms when I recovered my senses. Carefully
seating me on a bench, he handed me a glass of water, and then asked me
a few questions--though how I answered them I do not know. “You yourself
are ill,” he said as he took my hand. “You yourself are VERY ill. You
are feverish, and I can see that you are knocking yourself out through
your neglect of your own health. Take a little rest. Lie down and go to
sleep. Yes, lie down, lie down,” he continued without giving me time to
protest. Indeed, fatigue had so exhausted my strength that my eyes
were closing from very weakness. So I lay down on the bench with the
intention of sleeping for half an hour only; but, I slept till morning.
Pokrovski then awoke me, saying that it was time for me to go and give
my mother her medicine.
When the next evening, about eight o’clock, I had rested a little and
was preparing to spend the night in a chair beside my mother (fixedly
meaning not to go to sleep this time), Pokrovski suddenly knocked at
the door. I opened it, and he informed me that, since, possibly, I
might find the time wearisome, he had brought me a few books to read. I
accepted the books, but do not, even now, know what books they were, nor
whether I looked into them, despite the fact that I never closed my eyes
the whole night long. The truth was that a strange feeling of excitement
was preventing me from sleeping, and I could not rest long in any one
spot, but had to keep rising from my chair, and walking about the
room. Throughout my whole being there seemed to be diffused a kind of
elation--of elation at Pokrovski’s attentions, at the thought that he
was anxious and uneasy about me. Until dawn I pondered and dreamed; and
though I felt sure Pokrovski would not again visit us that night, I gave
myself up to fancies concerning what he might do the following evening.
That evening, when everyone else in the house had retired to rest,
Pokrovski opened his door, and opened a conversation from the threshold
of his room. Although, at this distance of time, I cannot remember a
word of what we said to one another, I remember that I blushed, grew
confused, felt vexed with myself, and awaited with impatience the end of
the conversation although I myself had been longing for the meeting
to take place, and had spent the day in dreaming of it, and devising
a string of suitable questions and replies. Yes, that evening saw the
first strand in our friendship knitted; and each subsequent night of
my mother’s illness we spent several hours together. Little by little I
overcame his reserve, but found that each of these conversations left me
filled with a sense of vexation at myself. At the same time, I could see
with secret joy and a sense of proud elation that I was leading him to
forget his tiresome books. At last the conversation turned jestingly
upon the upsetting of the shelf. The moment was a peculiar one, for it
came upon me just when I was in the right mood for self-revelation and
candour. In my ardour, my curious phase of exaltation, I found myself
led to make a full confession of the fact that I had become wishful to
learn, to KNOW, something, since I had felt hurt at being taken for a
chit, a mere baby.... I repeat that that night I was in a very strange
frame of mind. My heart was inclined to be tender, and there were
tears standing in my eyes. Nothing did I conceal as I told him about
my friendship for him, about my desire to love him, about my scheme
for living in sympathy with him and comforting him, and making his
life easier. In return he threw me a look of confusion mingled with
astonishment, and said nothing. Then suddenly I began to feel terribly
pained and disappointed, for I conceived that he had failed to
understand me, or even that he might be laughing at me. Bursting into
tears like a child, I sobbed, and could not stop myself, for I had
fallen into a kind of fit; whereupon he seized my hand, kissed it, and
clasped it to his breast--saying various things, meanwhile, to comfort
me, for he was labouring under a strong emotion. Exactly what he said
I do not remember--I merely wept and laughed by turns, and blushed, and
found myself unable to speak a word for joy. Yet, for all my agitation,
I noticed that about him there still lingered an air of constraint
and uneasiness. Evidently, he was lost in wonder at my enthusiasm and
raptures--at my curiously ardent, unexpected, consuming friendship. It
may be that at first he was amazed, but that afterwards he accepted my
devotion and words of invitation and expressions of interest with the
same simple frankness as I had offered them, and responded to them
with an interest, a friendliness, a devotion equal to my own, even as a
friend or a brother would do. How happy, how warm was the feeling in my
heart! Nothing had I concealed or repressed. No, I had bared all to his
sight, and each day would see him draw nearer to me.
Truly I could not say what we did not talk about during those painful,
yet rapturous, hours when, by the trembling light of a lamp, and almost
at the very bedside of my poor sick mother, we kept midnight tryst.
Whatsoever first came into our heads we spoke of--whatsoever came riven
from our hearts, whatsoever seemed to call for utterance, found voice.
And almost always we were happy. What a grievous, yet joyous, period it
was--a period grievous and joyous at the same time! To this day it both
hurts and delights me to recall it. Joyous or bitter though it was, its
memories are yet painful. At least they seem so to me, though a certain
sweetness assuaged the pain. So, whenever I am feeling heartsick and
oppressed and jaded and sad those memories return to freshen and revive
me, even as drops of evening dew return to freshen and revive, after a
sultry day, the poor faded flower which has long been drooping in the
noontide heat.
My mother grew better, but still I continued to spend the nights on
a chair by her bedside. Often, too, Pokrovski would give me books. At
first I read them merely so as to avoid going to sleep, but afterwards I
examined them with more attention, and subsequently with actual avidity,
for they opened up to me a new, an unexpected, an unknown, an unfamiliar
world. New thoughts, added to new impressions, would come pouring
into my heart in a rich flood; and the more emotion, the more pain and
labour, it cost me to assimilate these new impressions, the dearer did
they become to me, and the more gratefully did they stir my soul to
its very depths. Crowding into my heart without giving it time even to
breathe, they would cause my whole being to become lost in a wondrous
chaos. Yet this spiritual ferment was not sufficiently strong wholly to
undo me. For that I was too fanciful, and the fact saved me.
With the passing of my mother’s illness the midnight meetings and
long conversations between myself and Pokrovski came to an end. Only
occasionally did we exchange a few words with one another--words, for
the most part, that were of little purport or substance, yet words
to which it delighted me to apportion their several meanings, their
peculiar secret values. My life had now become full--I was happy; I was
quietly, restfully happy. Thus did several weeks elapse....
One day the elder Pokrovski came to see us, and chattered in a
brisk, cheerful, garrulous sort of way. He laughed, launched out into
witticisms, and, finally, resolved the riddle of his transports by