However, we managed to settle down--though I remember that
in our new home there was much noise and confusion as we set the
establishment in order.
in our new home there was much noise and confusion as we set the
establishment in order.
Dostoevsky - Poor Folk
Goodbye, Makar Alexievitch, for I have come to the
end of all I had to say, and am feeling too unwell to write more. Again
I beg of you not to be angry with me, but to rest assured of my constant
respect and attachment. --Your humble, devoted servant,
BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.
April 12th
DEAREST MISTRESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I pray you, my beloved, to tell
me what ails you. Every one of your letters fills me with alarm. On the
other hand, in every letter I urge you to be more careful of yourself,
and to wrap up yourself warmly, and to avoid going out in bad weather,
and to be in all things prudent. Yet you go and disobey me! Ah, little
angel, you are a perfect child! I know well that you are as weak as a
blade of grass, and that, no matter what wind blows upon you, you are
ready to fade. But you must be careful of yourself, dearest; you MUST
look after yourself better; you MUST avoid all risks, lest you plunge
your friends into desolation and despair.
Dearest, you also express a wish to learn the details of my daily life
and surroundings. That wish I hasten to satisfy. Let me begin at
the beginning, since, by doing so, I shall explain things more
systematically. In the first place, on entering this house, one passes
into a very bare hall, and thence along a passage to a mean staircase.
The reception room, however, is bright, clean, and spacious, and is
lined with redwood and metal-work. But the scullery you would not care
to see; it is greasy, dirty, and odoriferous, while the stairs are in
rags, and the walls so covered with filth that the hand sticks fast
wherever it touches them. Also, on each landing there is a medley of
boxes, chairs, and dilapidated wardrobes; while the windows have had
most of their panes shattered, and everywhere stand washtubs filled with
dirt, litter, eggshells, and fish-bladders. The smell is abominable. In
short, the house is not a nice one.
As to the disposition of the rooms, I have described it to you
already. True, they are convenient enough, yet every one of them has an
ATMOSPHERE. I do not mean that they smell badly so much as that each of
them seems to contain something which gives forth a rank, sickly-sweet
odour. At first the impression is an unpleasant one, but a couple of
minutes will suffice to dissipate it, for the reason that EVERYTHING
here smells--people’s clothes, hands, and everything else--and one grows
accustomed to the rankness. Canaries, however, soon die in this house. A
naval officer here has just bought his fifth. Birds cannot live long
in such an air. Every morning, when fish or beef is being cooked, and
washing and scrubbing are in progress, the house is filled with steam.
Always, too, the kitchen is full of linen hanging out to dry; and since
my room adjoins that apartment, the smell from the clothes causes me not
a little annoyance. However, one can grow used to anything.
From earliest dawn the house is astir as its inmates rise, walk about,
and stamp their feet. That is to say, everyone who has to go to work
then gets out of bed. First of all, tea is partaken of. Most of the
tea-urns belong to the landlady; and since there are not very many of
them, we have to wait our turn. Anyone who fails to do so will find
his teapot emptied and put away. On the first occasion, that was what
happened to myself. Well, is there anything else to tell you? Already I
have made the acquaintance of the company here. The naval officer took
the initiative in calling upon me, and his frankness was such that he
told me all about his father, his mother, his sister (who is married to
a lawyer of Tula), and the town of Kronstadt. Also, he promised me
his patronage, and asked me to come and take tea with him. I kept the
appointment in a room where card-playing is continually in progress;
and, after tea had been drunk, efforts were made to induce me to gamble.
Whether or not my refusal seemed to the company ridiculous I cannot
say, but at all events my companions played the whole evening, and were
playing when I left. The dust and smoke in the room made my eyes ache.
I declined, as I say, to play cards, and was, therefore, requested to
discourse on philosophy, after which no one spoke to me at all--a result
which I did not regret. In fact, I have no intention of going there
again, since every one is for gambling, and for nothing but gambling.
Even the literary tchinovnik gives such parties in his room--though, in
his case, everything is done delicately and with a certain refinement,
so that the thing has something of a retiring and innocent air.
In passing, I may tell you that our landlady is NOT a nice woman. In
fact, she is a regular beldame. You have seen her once, so what do you
think of her? She is as lanky as a plucked chicken in consumption,
and, with Phaldoni (her servant), constitutes the entire staff of the
establishment. Whether or not Phaldoni has any other name I do not know,
but at least he answers to this one, and every one calls him by it.
A red-haired, swine-jowled, snub-nosed, crooked lout, he is for ever
wrangling with Theresa, until the pair nearly come to blows. In short,
life is not overly pleasant in this place. Never at any time is the
household wholly at rest, for always there are people sitting up to
play cards. Sometimes, too, certain things are done of which it would
be shameful for me to speak. In particular, hardened though I am, it
astonishes me that men WITH FAMILIES should care to live in this Sodom.
For example, there is a family of poor folk who have rented from the
landlady a room which does not adjoin the other rooms, but is set apart
in a corner by itself. Yet what quiet people they are! Not a sound is
to be heard from them. The father--he is called Gorshkov--is a little
grey-headed tchinovnik who, seven years ago, was dismissed from public
service, and now walks about in a coat so dirty and ragged that it hurts
one to see it. Indeed it is a worse coat even than mine! Also, he is
so thin and frail (at times I meet him in the corridor) that his knees
quake under him, his hands and head are tremulous with some disease
(God only knows what! ), and he so fears and distrusts everybody that he
always walks alone. Reserved though I myself am, he is even worse. As
for his family, it consists of a wife and three children. The eldest of
the latter--a boy--is as frail as his father, while the mother--a woman
who, formerly, must have been good looking, and still has a striking
aspect in spite of her pallor--goes about in the sorriest of rags. Also
I have heard that they are in debt to our landlady, as well as that she
is not overly kind to them. Moreover, I have heard that Gorshkov lost
his post through some unpleasantness or other--through a legal suit
or process of which I could not exactly tell you the nature. Yes, they
certainly are poor--Oh, my God, how poor! At the same time, never a
sound comes from their room. It is as though not a soul were living in
it. Never does one hear even the children--which is an unusual thing,
seeing that children are ever ready to sport and play, and if they fail
to do so it is a bad sign. One evening when I chanced to be passing the
door of their room, and all was quiet in the house, I heard through the
door a sob, and then a whisper, and then another sob, as though somebody
within were weeping, and with such subdued bitterness that it tore my
heart to hear the sound. In fact, the thought of these poor people never
left me all night, and quite prevented me from sleeping.
Well, good-bye, my little Barbara, my little friend beyond price. I have
described to you everything to the best of my ability. All today you
have been in my thoughts; all today my heart has been yearning for you.
I happen to know, dearest one, that you lack a warm cloak. To me too,
these St. Petersburg springs, with their winds and their snow showers,
spell death. Good heavens, how the breezes bite one! Do not be angry,
beloved, that I should write like this. Style I have not. Would that
I had! I write just what wanders into my brain, in the hope that I may
cheer you up a little. Of course, had I had a good education, things
might have been different; but, as things were, I could not have
one. Never did I learn even to do simple sums! --Your faithful and
unchangeable friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
April 25th
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Today I met my cousin Sasha. To see her
going to wrack and ruin shocked me terribly. Moreover, it has reached
me, through a side wind, that she has been making inquiry for me, and
dogging my footsteps, under the pretext that she wishes to pardon me, to
forget the past, and to renew our acquaintance. Well, among other things
she told me that, whereas you are not a kinsman of mine, that she is my
nearest relative; that you have no right whatever to enter into family
relations with us; and that it is wrong and shameful for me to be
living upon your earnings and charity. Also, she said that I must have
forgotten all that she did for me, though thereby she saved both myself
and my mother from starvation, and gave us food and drink; that for two
and a half years we caused her great loss; and, above all things, that
she excused us what we owed her. Even my poor mother she did not spare.
Would that she, my dead parent, could know how I am being treated!
But God knows all about it. . . . Also, Anna declared that it was solely
through my own fault that my fortunes declined after she had bettered
them; that she is in no way responsible for what then happened; and that
I have but myself to blame for having been either unable or unwilling to
defend my honour. Great God! WHO, then, has been at fault? According to
Anna, Hospodin [Mr. ] Bwikov was only right when he declined to marry
a woman who--But need I say it? It is cruel to hear such lies as hers.
What is to become of me I do not know. I tremble and sob and weep.
Indeed, even to write this letter has cost me two hours. At least it
might have been thought that Anna would have confessed HER share in the
past. Yet see what she says! . . . For the love of God do not be anxious
about me, my friend, my only benefactor. Thedora is over apt to
exaggerate matters. I am not REALLY ill. I have merely caught a little
cold. I caught it last night while I was walking to Bolkovo, to hear
Mass sung for my mother. Ah, mother, my poor mother! Could you but rise
from the grave and learn what is being done to your daughter!
B. D.
May 20th
MY DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,--I am sending you a few grapes, which are
good for a convalescent person, and strongly recommended by doctors for
the allayment of fever. Also, you were saying the other day that you
would like some roses; wherefore, I now send you a bunch. Are you at all
able to eat, my darling? --for that is the chief point which ought to
be seen to. Let us thank God that the past and all its unhappiness are
gone! Yes, let us give thanks to Heaven for that much! As for books, I
cannot get hold of any, except for a book which, written in excellent
style, is, I believe, to be had here. At all events, people keep
praising it very much, and I have begged the loan of it for myself.
Should you too like to read it? In this respect, indeed, I feel nervous,
for the reason that it is so difficult to divine what your taste in
books may be, despite my knowledge of your character. Probably you would
like poetry--the poetry of sentiment and of love making? Well, I will
send you a book of MY OWN poems. Already I have copied out part of the
manuscript.
Everything with me is going well; so pray do not be anxious on my
account, beloved. What Thedora told you about me was sheer rubbish. Tell
her from me that she has not been speaking the truth. Yes, do not fail
to give this mischief-maker my message. It is not the case that I have
gone and sold a new uniform. Why should I do so, seeing that I have
forty roubles of salary still to come to me? Do not be uneasy, my
darling. Thedora is a vindictive woman--merely a vindictive woman. We
shall yet see better days. Only do you get well, my angel--only do you
get well, for the love of God, lest you grieve an old man. Also, who
told you that I was looking thin? Slanders again--nothing but slanders!
I am as healthy as could be, and have grown so fat that I am ashamed
to be so sleek of paunch. Would that you were equally healthy! . . . Now
goodbye, my angel. I kiss every one of your tiny fingers, and remain
ever your constant friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
P. S. --But what is this, dearest one, that you have written to me? Why do
you place me upon such a pedestal? Moreover, how could I come and visit
you frequently? How, I repeat? Of course, I might avail myself of the
cover of night; but, alas! the season of the year is what it is, and
includes no night time to speak of. In fact, although, throughout your
illness and delirium, I scarcely left your side for a moment, I cannot
think how I contrived to do the many things that I did. Later, I ceased
to visit you at all, for the reason that people were beginning to notice
things, and to ask me questions. Yet, even so, a scandal has arisen.
Theresa I trust thoroughly, for she is not a talkative woman; but
consider how it will be when the truth comes out in its entirety! What
THEN will folk not say and think? Nevertheless, be of good cheer, my
beloved, and regain your health. When you have done so we will contrive
to arrange a rendezvous out of doors.
June 1st
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--So eager am I to do something that
will please and divert you in return for your care, for your ceaseless
efforts on my behalf--in short, for your love for me--that I have
decided to beguile a leisure hour for you by delving into my locker, and
extracting thence the manuscript which I send you herewith. I began it
during the happier period of my life, and have continued it at intervals
since. So often have you asked me about my former existence--about my
mother, about Pokrovski, about my sojourn with Anna Thedorovna, about my
more recent misfortunes; so often have you expressed an earnest desire
to read the manuscript in which (God knows why) I have recorded certain
incidents of my life, that I feel no doubt but that the sending of it
will give you sincere pleasure. Yet somehow I feel depressed when I read
it, for I seem now to have grown twice as old as I was when I penned
its concluding lines. Ah, Makar Alexievitch, how weary I am--how this
insomnia tortures me! Convalescence is indeed a hard thing to bear!
B. D.
ONE
UP to the age of fourteen, when my father died, my childhood was the
happiest period of my life. It began very far away from here in the
depths of the province of Tula, where my father filled the position of
steward on the vast estates of the Prince P----. Our house was situated in
one of the Prince’s villages, and we lived a quiet, obscure, but happy,
life. A gay little child was I--my one idea being ceaselessly to run
about the fields and the woods and the garden. No one ever gave me a
thought, for my father was always occupied with business affairs, and
my mother with her housekeeping. Nor did any one ever give me any
lessons--a circumstance for which I was not sorry. At earliest dawn I
would hie me to a pond or a copse, or to a hay or a harvest field, where
the sun could warm me, and I could roam wherever I liked, and scratch my
hands with bushes, and tear my clothes in pieces. For this I used to get
blamed afterwards, but I did not care.
Had it befallen me never to quit that village--had it befallen me to
remain for ever in that spot--I should always have been happy; but fate
ordained that I should leave my birthplace even before my girlhood had
come to an end. In short, I was only twelve years old when we removed
to St. Petersburg. Ah! how it hurts me to recall the mournful gatherings
before our departure, and to recall how bitterly I wept when the time
came for us to say farewell to all that I had held so dear! I remember
throwing myself upon my father’s neck, and beseeching him with tears
to stay in the country a little longer; but he bid me be silent, and
my mother, adding her tears to mine, explained that business matters
compelled us to go. As a matter of fact, old Prince P---- had just died,
and his heirs had dismissed my father from his post; whereupon, since
he had a little money privately invested in St. Petersburg, he bethought
him that his personal presence in the capital was necessary for the
due management of his affairs. It was my mother who told me this.
Consequently we settled here in St. Petersburg, and did not again move
until my father died.
How difficult I found it to grow accustomed to my new life! At the time
of our removal to St. Petersburg it was autumn--a season when, in the
country, the weather is clear and keen and bright, all agricultural
labour has come to an end, the great sheaves of corn are safely garnered
in the byre, and the birds are flying hither and thither in clamorous
flocks. Yes, at that season the country is joyous and fair, but here
in St. Petersburg, at the time when we reached the city, we encountered
nothing but rain, bitter autumn frosts, dull skies, ugliness, and crowds
of strangers who looked hostile, discontented, and disposed to take
offence.
However, we managed to settle down--though I remember that
in our new home there was much noise and confusion as we set the
establishment in order. After this my father was seldom at home, and my
mother had few spare moments; wherefore, I found myself forgotten.
The first morning after our arrival, when I awoke from sleep, how sad I
felt! I could see that our windows looked out upon a drab space of wall,
and that the street below was littered with filth. Passers-by were few,
and as they walked they kept muffling themselves up against the cold.
Then there ensued days when dullness and depression reigned supreme.
Scarcely a relative or an acquaintance did we possess in St. Petersburg,
and even Anna Thedorovna and my father had come to loggerheads with one
another, owing to the fact that he owed her money. In fact, our only
visitors were business callers, and as a rule these came but to wrangle,
to argue, and to raise a disturbance. Such visits would make my father
look very discontented, and seem out of temper. For hours and hours he
would pace the room with a frown on his face and a brooding silence on
his lips. Even my mother did not dare address him at these times,
while, for my own part, I used to sit reading quietly and humbly in a
corner--not venturing to make a movement of any sort.
Three months after our arrival in St. Petersburg I was sent to a
boarding-school. Here I found myself thrown among strange people; here
everything was grim and uninviting, with teachers continually shouting
at me, and my fellow-pupils for ever holding me up to derision, and
myself constantly feeling awkward and uncouth. How strict, how exacting
was the system! Appointed hours for everything, a common table,
ever-insistent teachers! These things simply worried and tortured me.
Never from the first could I sleep, but used to weep many a chill, weary
night away. In the evenings everyone would have to repeat or to learn
her lessons. As I crouched over a dialogue or a vocabulary, without
daring even to stir, how my thoughts would turn to the chimney-corner
at home, to my father, to my mother, to my old nurse, to the tales which
the latter had been used to tell! How sad it all was! The memory of the
merest trifle at home would please me, and I would think and think how
nice things used to be at home. Once more I would be sitting in our
little parlour at tea with my parents--in the familiar little parlour
where everything was snug and warm! How ardently, how convulsively I
would seem to be embracing my mother! Thus I would ponder, until at
length tears of sorrow would softly gush forth and choke my bosom, and
drive the lessons out of my head. For I never could master the tasks of
the morrow; no matter how much my mistress and fellow-pupils might gird
at me, no matter how much I might repeat my lessons over and over to
myself, knowledge never came with the morning. Consequently, I used to
be ordered the kneeling punishment, and given only one meal in the day.
How dull and dispirited I used to feel! From the first my fellow-pupils
used to tease and deride and mock me whenever I was saying my lessons.
Also, they used to pinch me as we were on our way to dinner or tea, and
to make groundless complaints of me to the head mistress. On the other
hand, how heavenly it seemed when, on Saturday evening, my old nurse
arrived to fetch me! How I would embrace the old woman in transports
of joy! After dressing me, and wrapping me up, she would find that
she could scarcely keep pace with me on the way home, so full was I of
chatter and tales about one thing and another. Then, when I had arrived
home merry and lighthearted, how fervently I would embrace my parents,
as though I had not seen them for ten years. Such a fussing would there
be--such a talking and a telling of tales! To everyone I would run with
a greeting, and laugh, and giggle, and scamper about, and skip for
very joy. True, my father and I used to have grave conversations about
lessons and teachers and the French language and grammar; yet we were
all very happy and contented together. Even now it thrills me to think
of those moments. For my father’s sake I tried hard to learn my lessons,
for I could see that he was spending his last kopeck upon me, and
himself subsisting God knows how. Every day he grew more morose and
discontented and irritable; every day his character kept changing for
the worse. He had suffered an influx of debts, nor were his business
affairs prospering. As for my mother, she was afraid even to say a word,
or to weep aloud, for fear of still further angering him. Gradually
she sickened, grew thinner and thinner, and became taken with a painful
cough. Whenever I reached home from school I would find every one
low-spirited, and my mother shedding silent tears, and my father raging.
Bickering and high words would arise, during which my father was wont
to declare that, though he no longer derived the smallest pleasure or
relaxation from life, and had spent his last coin upon my education, I
had not yet mastered the French language. In short, everything began to
go wrong, to turn to unhappiness; and for that circumstance, my father
took vengeance upon myself and my mother. How he could treat my poor
mother so I cannot understand. It used to rend my heart to see her, so
hollow were her cheeks becoming, so sunken her eyes, so hectic her
face. But it was chiefly around myself that the disputes raged. Though
beginning only with some trifle, they would soon go on to God knows
what. Frequently, even I myself did not know to what they related.
Anything and everything would enter into them, for my father would say
that I was an utter dunce at the French language; that the head mistress
of my school was a stupid, common sort of women who cared nothing for
morals; that he (my father) had not yet succeeded in obtaining another
post; that Lamonde’s “Grammar” was a wretched book--even a worse one
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
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.
end of all I had to say, and am feeling too unwell to write more. Again
I beg of you not to be angry with me, but to rest assured of my constant
respect and attachment. --Your humble, devoted servant,
BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.
April 12th
DEAREST MISTRESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I pray you, my beloved, to tell
me what ails you. Every one of your letters fills me with alarm. On the
other hand, in every letter I urge you to be more careful of yourself,
and to wrap up yourself warmly, and to avoid going out in bad weather,
and to be in all things prudent. Yet you go and disobey me! Ah, little
angel, you are a perfect child! I know well that you are as weak as a
blade of grass, and that, no matter what wind blows upon you, you are
ready to fade. But you must be careful of yourself, dearest; you MUST
look after yourself better; you MUST avoid all risks, lest you plunge
your friends into desolation and despair.
Dearest, you also express a wish to learn the details of my daily life
and surroundings. That wish I hasten to satisfy. Let me begin at
the beginning, since, by doing so, I shall explain things more
systematically. In the first place, on entering this house, one passes
into a very bare hall, and thence along a passage to a mean staircase.
The reception room, however, is bright, clean, and spacious, and is
lined with redwood and metal-work. But the scullery you would not care
to see; it is greasy, dirty, and odoriferous, while the stairs are in
rags, and the walls so covered with filth that the hand sticks fast
wherever it touches them. Also, on each landing there is a medley of
boxes, chairs, and dilapidated wardrobes; while the windows have had
most of their panes shattered, and everywhere stand washtubs filled with
dirt, litter, eggshells, and fish-bladders. The smell is abominable. In
short, the house is not a nice one.
As to the disposition of the rooms, I have described it to you
already. True, they are convenient enough, yet every one of them has an
ATMOSPHERE. I do not mean that they smell badly so much as that each of
them seems to contain something which gives forth a rank, sickly-sweet
odour. At first the impression is an unpleasant one, but a couple of
minutes will suffice to dissipate it, for the reason that EVERYTHING
here smells--people’s clothes, hands, and everything else--and one grows
accustomed to the rankness. Canaries, however, soon die in this house. A
naval officer here has just bought his fifth. Birds cannot live long
in such an air. Every morning, when fish or beef is being cooked, and
washing and scrubbing are in progress, the house is filled with steam.
Always, too, the kitchen is full of linen hanging out to dry; and since
my room adjoins that apartment, the smell from the clothes causes me not
a little annoyance. However, one can grow used to anything.
From earliest dawn the house is astir as its inmates rise, walk about,
and stamp their feet. That is to say, everyone who has to go to work
then gets out of bed. First of all, tea is partaken of. Most of the
tea-urns belong to the landlady; and since there are not very many of
them, we have to wait our turn. Anyone who fails to do so will find
his teapot emptied and put away. On the first occasion, that was what
happened to myself. Well, is there anything else to tell you? Already I
have made the acquaintance of the company here. The naval officer took
the initiative in calling upon me, and his frankness was such that he
told me all about his father, his mother, his sister (who is married to
a lawyer of Tula), and the town of Kronstadt. Also, he promised me
his patronage, and asked me to come and take tea with him. I kept the
appointment in a room where card-playing is continually in progress;
and, after tea had been drunk, efforts were made to induce me to gamble.
Whether or not my refusal seemed to the company ridiculous I cannot
say, but at all events my companions played the whole evening, and were
playing when I left. The dust and smoke in the room made my eyes ache.
I declined, as I say, to play cards, and was, therefore, requested to
discourse on philosophy, after which no one spoke to me at all--a result
which I did not regret. In fact, I have no intention of going there
again, since every one is for gambling, and for nothing but gambling.
Even the literary tchinovnik gives such parties in his room--though, in
his case, everything is done delicately and with a certain refinement,
so that the thing has something of a retiring and innocent air.
In passing, I may tell you that our landlady is NOT a nice woman. In
fact, she is a regular beldame. You have seen her once, so what do you
think of her? She is as lanky as a plucked chicken in consumption,
and, with Phaldoni (her servant), constitutes the entire staff of the
establishment. Whether or not Phaldoni has any other name I do not know,
but at least he answers to this one, and every one calls him by it.
A red-haired, swine-jowled, snub-nosed, crooked lout, he is for ever
wrangling with Theresa, until the pair nearly come to blows. In short,
life is not overly pleasant in this place. Never at any time is the
household wholly at rest, for always there are people sitting up to
play cards. Sometimes, too, certain things are done of which it would
be shameful for me to speak. In particular, hardened though I am, it
astonishes me that men WITH FAMILIES should care to live in this Sodom.
For example, there is a family of poor folk who have rented from the
landlady a room which does not adjoin the other rooms, but is set apart
in a corner by itself. Yet what quiet people they are! Not a sound is
to be heard from them. The father--he is called Gorshkov--is a little
grey-headed tchinovnik who, seven years ago, was dismissed from public
service, and now walks about in a coat so dirty and ragged that it hurts
one to see it. Indeed it is a worse coat even than mine! Also, he is
so thin and frail (at times I meet him in the corridor) that his knees
quake under him, his hands and head are tremulous with some disease
(God only knows what! ), and he so fears and distrusts everybody that he
always walks alone. Reserved though I myself am, he is even worse. As
for his family, it consists of a wife and three children. The eldest of
the latter--a boy--is as frail as his father, while the mother--a woman
who, formerly, must have been good looking, and still has a striking
aspect in spite of her pallor--goes about in the sorriest of rags. Also
I have heard that they are in debt to our landlady, as well as that she
is not overly kind to them. Moreover, I have heard that Gorshkov lost
his post through some unpleasantness or other--through a legal suit
or process of which I could not exactly tell you the nature. Yes, they
certainly are poor--Oh, my God, how poor! At the same time, never a
sound comes from their room. It is as though not a soul were living in
it. Never does one hear even the children--which is an unusual thing,
seeing that children are ever ready to sport and play, and if they fail
to do so it is a bad sign. One evening when I chanced to be passing the
door of their room, and all was quiet in the house, I heard through the
door a sob, and then a whisper, and then another sob, as though somebody
within were weeping, and with such subdued bitterness that it tore my
heart to hear the sound. In fact, the thought of these poor people never
left me all night, and quite prevented me from sleeping.
Well, good-bye, my little Barbara, my little friend beyond price. I have
described to you everything to the best of my ability. All today you
have been in my thoughts; all today my heart has been yearning for you.
I happen to know, dearest one, that you lack a warm cloak. To me too,
these St. Petersburg springs, with their winds and their snow showers,
spell death. Good heavens, how the breezes bite one! Do not be angry,
beloved, that I should write like this. Style I have not. Would that
I had! I write just what wanders into my brain, in the hope that I may
cheer you up a little. Of course, had I had a good education, things
might have been different; but, as things were, I could not have
one. Never did I learn even to do simple sums! --Your faithful and
unchangeable friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
April 25th
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Today I met my cousin Sasha. To see her
going to wrack and ruin shocked me terribly. Moreover, it has reached
me, through a side wind, that she has been making inquiry for me, and
dogging my footsteps, under the pretext that she wishes to pardon me, to
forget the past, and to renew our acquaintance. Well, among other things
she told me that, whereas you are not a kinsman of mine, that she is my
nearest relative; that you have no right whatever to enter into family
relations with us; and that it is wrong and shameful for me to be
living upon your earnings and charity. Also, she said that I must have
forgotten all that she did for me, though thereby she saved both myself
and my mother from starvation, and gave us food and drink; that for two
and a half years we caused her great loss; and, above all things, that
she excused us what we owed her. Even my poor mother she did not spare.
Would that she, my dead parent, could know how I am being treated!
But God knows all about it. . . . Also, Anna declared that it was solely
through my own fault that my fortunes declined after she had bettered
them; that she is in no way responsible for what then happened; and that
I have but myself to blame for having been either unable or unwilling to
defend my honour. Great God! WHO, then, has been at fault? According to
Anna, Hospodin [Mr. ] Bwikov was only right when he declined to marry
a woman who--But need I say it? It is cruel to hear such lies as hers.
What is to become of me I do not know. I tremble and sob and weep.
Indeed, even to write this letter has cost me two hours. At least it
might have been thought that Anna would have confessed HER share in the
past. Yet see what she says! . . . For the love of God do not be anxious
about me, my friend, my only benefactor. Thedora is over apt to
exaggerate matters. I am not REALLY ill. I have merely caught a little
cold. I caught it last night while I was walking to Bolkovo, to hear
Mass sung for my mother. Ah, mother, my poor mother! Could you but rise
from the grave and learn what is being done to your daughter!
B. D.
May 20th
MY DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,--I am sending you a few grapes, which are
good for a convalescent person, and strongly recommended by doctors for
the allayment of fever. Also, you were saying the other day that you
would like some roses; wherefore, I now send you a bunch. Are you at all
able to eat, my darling? --for that is the chief point which ought to
be seen to. Let us thank God that the past and all its unhappiness are
gone! Yes, let us give thanks to Heaven for that much! As for books, I
cannot get hold of any, except for a book which, written in excellent
style, is, I believe, to be had here. At all events, people keep
praising it very much, and I have begged the loan of it for myself.
Should you too like to read it? In this respect, indeed, I feel nervous,
for the reason that it is so difficult to divine what your taste in
books may be, despite my knowledge of your character. Probably you would
like poetry--the poetry of sentiment and of love making? Well, I will
send you a book of MY OWN poems. Already I have copied out part of the
manuscript.
Everything with me is going well; so pray do not be anxious on my
account, beloved. What Thedora told you about me was sheer rubbish. Tell
her from me that she has not been speaking the truth. Yes, do not fail
to give this mischief-maker my message. It is not the case that I have
gone and sold a new uniform. Why should I do so, seeing that I have
forty roubles of salary still to come to me? Do not be uneasy, my
darling. Thedora is a vindictive woman--merely a vindictive woman. We
shall yet see better days. Only do you get well, my angel--only do you
get well, for the love of God, lest you grieve an old man. Also, who
told you that I was looking thin? Slanders again--nothing but slanders!
I am as healthy as could be, and have grown so fat that I am ashamed
to be so sleek of paunch. Would that you were equally healthy! . . . Now
goodbye, my angel. I kiss every one of your tiny fingers, and remain
ever your constant friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
P. S. --But what is this, dearest one, that you have written to me? Why do
you place me upon such a pedestal? Moreover, how could I come and visit
you frequently? How, I repeat? Of course, I might avail myself of the
cover of night; but, alas! the season of the year is what it is, and
includes no night time to speak of. In fact, although, throughout your
illness and delirium, I scarcely left your side for a moment, I cannot
think how I contrived to do the many things that I did. Later, I ceased
to visit you at all, for the reason that people were beginning to notice
things, and to ask me questions. Yet, even so, a scandal has arisen.
Theresa I trust thoroughly, for she is not a talkative woman; but
consider how it will be when the truth comes out in its entirety! What
THEN will folk not say and think? Nevertheless, be of good cheer, my
beloved, and regain your health. When you have done so we will contrive
to arrange a rendezvous out of doors.
June 1st
MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--So eager am I to do something that
will please and divert you in return for your care, for your ceaseless
efforts on my behalf--in short, for your love for me--that I have
decided to beguile a leisure hour for you by delving into my locker, and
extracting thence the manuscript which I send you herewith. I began it
during the happier period of my life, and have continued it at intervals
since. So often have you asked me about my former existence--about my
mother, about Pokrovski, about my sojourn with Anna Thedorovna, about my
more recent misfortunes; so often have you expressed an earnest desire
to read the manuscript in which (God knows why) I have recorded certain
incidents of my life, that I feel no doubt but that the sending of it
will give you sincere pleasure. Yet somehow I feel depressed when I read
it, for I seem now to have grown twice as old as I was when I penned
its concluding lines. Ah, Makar Alexievitch, how weary I am--how this
insomnia tortures me! Convalescence is indeed a hard thing to bear!
B. D.
ONE
UP to the age of fourteen, when my father died, my childhood was the
happiest period of my life. It began very far away from here in the
depths of the province of Tula, where my father filled the position of
steward on the vast estates of the Prince P----. Our house was situated in
one of the Prince’s villages, and we lived a quiet, obscure, but happy,
life. A gay little child was I--my one idea being ceaselessly to run
about the fields and the woods and the garden. No one ever gave me a
thought, for my father was always occupied with business affairs, and
my mother with her housekeeping. Nor did any one ever give me any
lessons--a circumstance for which I was not sorry. At earliest dawn I
would hie me to a pond or a copse, or to a hay or a harvest field, where
the sun could warm me, and I could roam wherever I liked, and scratch my
hands with bushes, and tear my clothes in pieces. For this I used to get
blamed afterwards, but I did not care.
Had it befallen me never to quit that village--had it befallen me to
remain for ever in that spot--I should always have been happy; but fate
ordained that I should leave my birthplace even before my girlhood had
come to an end. In short, I was only twelve years old when we removed
to St. Petersburg. Ah! how it hurts me to recall the mournful gatherings
before our departure, and to recall how bitterly I wept when the time
came for us to say farewell to all that I had held so dear! I remember
throwing myself upon my father’s neck, and beseeching him with tears
to stay in the country a little longer; but he bid me be silent, and
my mother, adding her tears to mine, explained that business matters
compelled us to go. As a matter of fact, old Prince P---- had just died,
and his heirs had dismissed my father from his post; whereupon, since
he had a little money privately invested in St. Petersburg, he bethought
him that his personal presence in the capital was necessary for the
due management of his affairs. It was my mother who told me this.
Consequently we settled here in St. Petersburg, and did not again move
until my father died.
How difficult I found it to grow accustomed to my new life! At the time
of our removal to St. Petersburg it was autumn--a season when, in the
country, the weather is clear and keen and bright, all agricultural
labour has come to an end, the great sheaves of corn are safely garnered
in the byre, and the birds are flying hither and thither in clamorous
flocks. Yes, at that season the country is joyous and fair, but here
in St. Petersburg, at the time when we reached the city, we encountered
nothing but rain, bitter autumn frosts, dull skies, ugliness, and crowds
of strangers who looked hostile, discontented, and disposed to take
offence.
However, we managed to settle down--though I remember that
in our new home there was much noise and confusion as we set the
establishment in order. After this my father was seldom at home, and my
mother had few spare moments; wherefore, I found myself forgotten.
The first morning after our arrival, when I awoke from sleep, how sad I
felt! I could see that our windows looked out upon a drab space of wall,
and that the street below was littered with filth. Passers-by were few,
and as they walked they kept muffling themselves up against the cold.
Then there ensued days when dullness and depression reigned supreme.
Scarcely a relative or an acquaintance did we possess in St. Petersburg,
and even Anna Thedorovna and my father had come to loggerheads with one
another, owing to the fact that he owed her money. In fact, our only
visitors were business callers, and as a rule these came but to wrangle,
to argue, and to raise a disturbance. Such visits would make my father
look very discontented, and seem out of temper. For hours and hours he
would pace the room with a frown on his face and a brooding silence on
his lips. Even my mother did not dare address him at these times,
while, for my own part, I used to sit reading quietly and humbly in a
corner--not venturing to make a movement of any sort.
Three months after our arrival in St. Petersburg I was sent to a
boarding-school. Here I found myself thrown among strange people; here
everything was grim and uninviting, with teachers continually shouting
at me, and my fellow-pupils for ever holding me up to derision, and
myself constantly feeling awkward and uncouth. How strict, how exacting
was the system! Appointed hours for everything, a common table,
ever-insistent teachers! These things simply worried and tortured me.
Never from the first could I sleep, but used to weep many a chill, weary
night away. In the evenings everyone would have to repeat or to learn
her lessons. As I crouched over a dialogue or a vocabulary, without
daring even to stir, how my thoughts would turn to the chimney-corner
at home, to my father, to my mother, to my old nurse, to the tales which
the latter had been used to tell! How sad it all was! The memory of the
merest trifle at home would please me, and I would think and think how
nice things used to be at home. Once more I would be sitting in our
little parlour at tea with my parents--in the familiar little parlour
where everything was snug and warm! How ardently, how convulsively I
would seem to be embracing my mother! Thus I would ponder, until at
length tears of sorrow would softly gush forth and choke my bosom, and
drive the lessons out of my head. For I never could master the tasks of
the morrow; no matter how much my mistress and fellow-pupils might gird
at me, no matter how much I might repeat my lessons over and over to
myself, knowledge never came with the morning. Consequently, I used to
be ordered the kneeling punishment, and given only one meal in the day.
How dull and dispirited I used to feel! From the first my fellow-pupils
used to tease and deride and mock me whenever I was saying my lessons.
Also, they used to pinch me as we were on our way to dinner or tea, and
to make groundless complaints of me to the head mistress. On the other
hand, how heavenly it seemed when, on Saturday evening, my old nurse
arrived to fetch me! How I would embrace the old woman in transports
of joy! After dressing me, and wrapping me up, she would find that
she could scarcely keep pace with me on the way home, so full was I of
chatter and tales about one thing and another. Then, when I had arrived
home merry and lighthearted, how fervently I would embrace my parents,
as though I had not seen them for ten years. Such a fussing would there
be--such a talking and a telling of tales! To everyone I would run with
a greeting, and laugh, and giggle, and scamper about, and skip for
very joy. True, my father and I used to have grave conversations about
lessons and teachers and the French language and grammar; yet we were
all very happy and contented together. Even now it thrills me to think
of those moments. For my father’s sake I tried hard to learn my lessons,
for I could see that he was spending his last kopeck upon me, and
himself subsisting God knows how. Every day he grew more morose and
discontented and irritable; every day his character kept changing for
the worse. He had suffered an influx of debts, nor were his business
affairs prospering. As for my mother, she was afraid even to say a word,
or to weep aloud, for fear of still further angering him. Gradually
she sickened, grew thinner and thinner, and became taken with a painful
cough. Whenever I reached home from school I would find every one
low-spirited, and my mother shedding silent tears, and my father raging.
Bickering and high words would arise, during which my father was wont
to declare that, though he no longer derived the smallest pleasure or
relaxation from life, and had spent his last coin upon my education, I
had not yet mastered the French language. In short, everything began to
go wrong, to turn to unhappiness; and for that circumstance, my father
took vengeance upon myself and my mother. How he could treat my poor
mother so I cannot understand. It used to rend my heart to see her, so
hollow were her cheeks becoming, so sunken her eyes, so hectic her
face. But it was chiefly around myself that the disputes raged. Though
beginning only with some trifle, they would soon go on to God knows
what. Frequently, even I myself did not know to what they related.
Anything and everything would enter into them, for my father would say
that I was an utter dunce at the French language; that the head mistress
of my school was a stupid, common sort of women who cared nothing for
morals; that he (my father) had not yet succeeded in obtaining another
post; that Lamonde’s “Grammar” was a wretched book--even a worse one
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
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.
