No More Learning

But to the younger
Pokrovski, fate proved kinder, for a landowner named Bwikov, who had
formerly known the lad’s father and been his benefactor, took the boy
under his protection, and sent him to school. Another reason why this
Bwikov took an interest in young Pokrovski was that he had known the
lad’s dead mother, who, while still a serving-maid, had been befriended
by Anna Thedorovna, and subsequently married to the elder Pokrovski. At
the wedding Bwikov, actuated by his friendship for Anna, conferred upon
the young bride a dowry of five thousand roubles; but whither that money
had since disappeared I cannot say. It was from Anna’s lips that I heard
the story, for the student Pokrovski was never prone to talk about his
family affairs. His mother was said to have been very good-looking;
wherefore, it is the more mysterious why she should have made so poor a
match. She died when young--only four years after her espousal.

From school the young Pokrovski advanced to a gymnasium, [Secondary
school. ] and thence to the University, where Bwikov, who frequently
visited the capital, continued to accord the youth his protection.
Gradually, however, ill health put an end to the young man’s university
course; whereupon Bwikov introduced and personally recommended him to
Anna Thedorovna, and he came to lodge with her on condition that he
taught Sasha whatever might be required of him.

Grief at the harshness of his wife led the elder Pokrovski to plunge
into dissipation, and to remain in an almost permanent condition of
drunkenness. Constantly his wife beat him, or sent him to sit in the
kitchen--with the result that in time, he became so inured to blows
and neglect, that he ceased to complain. Still not greatly advanced
in years, he had nevertheless endangered his reason through evil
courses--his only sign of decent human feeling being his love for his
son. The latter was said to resemble his dead mother as one pea may
resemble another. What recollections, therefore, of the kind helpmeet of
former days may not have moved the breast of the poor broken old man to
this boundless affection for the boy? Of naught else could the father
ever speak but of his son, and never did he fail to visit him twice a
week. To come oftener he did not dare, for the reason that the younger
Pokrovski did not like these visits of his father’s. In fact, there
can be no doubt that the youth’s greatest fault was his lack of filial
respect. Yet the father was certainly rather a difficult person to deal
with, for, in the first place, he was extremely inquisitive, while, in
the second place, his long-winded conversation and questions--questions
of the most vapid and senseless order conceivable--always prevented
the son from working. Likewise, the old man occasionally arrived there
drunk. Gradually, however, the son was weaning his parent from his
vicious ways and everlasting inquisitiveness, and teaching the old man
to look upon him, his son, as an oracle, and never to speak without that
son’s permission.

On the subject of his Petinka, as he called him, the poor old man could
never sufficiently rhapsodise and dilate. Yet when he arrived to see his
son he almost invariably had on his face a downcast, timid expression
that was probably due to uncertainty concerning the way in which he
would be received. For a long time he would hesitate to enter, and if I
happened to be there he would question me for twenty minutes or so as to
whether his Petinka was in good health, as well as to the sort of
mood he was in, whether he was engaged on matters of importance, what
precisely he was doing (writing or meditating), and so on. Then, when I
had sufficiently encouraged and reassured the old man, he would make up
his mind to enter, and quietly and cautiously open the door. Next, he
would protrude his head through the chink, and if he saw that his son
was not angry, but threw him a nod, he would glide noiselessly into the
room, take off his scarf, and hang up his hat (the latter perennially
in a bad state of repair, full of holes, and with a smashed brim)--the
whole being done without a word or a sound of any kind. Next, the old
man would seat himself warily on a chair, and, never removing his eyes
from his son, follow his every movement, as though seeking to gauge
Petinka’s state of mind. On the other hand, if the son was not in good
spirits, the father would make a note of the fact, and at once get up,
saying that he had “only called for a minute or two,” that, “having been
out for a long walk, and happening at the moment to be passing,” he had
“looked in for a moment’s rest. ” Then silently and humbly the old man
would resume his hat and scarf; softly he would open the door, and
noiselessly depart with a forced smile on his face--the better to bear
the disappointment which was seething in his breast, the better to help
him not to show it to his son.

On the other hand, whenever the son received his father civilly the old
man would be struck dumb with joy. Satisfaction would beam in his face,
in his every gesture, in his every movement. And if the son deigned to
engage in conversation with him, the old man always rose a little from
his chair, and answered softly, sympathetically, with something like
reverence, while strenuously endeavouring to make use of the most
recherche (that is to say, the most ridiculous) expressions. But, alas!
He had not the gift of words. Always he grew confused, and turned red in
the face; never did he know what to do with his hands or with himself.
Likewise, whenever he had returned an answer of any kind, he would go
on repeating the same in a whisper, as though he were seeking to justify
what he had just said. And if he happened to have returned a good
answer, he would begin to preen himself, and to straighten his
waistcoat, frockcoat and tie, and to assume an air of conscious dignity.
Indeed, on these occasions he would feel so encouraged, he would carry
his daring to such a pitch, that, rising softly from his chair, he would
approach the bookshelves, take thence a book, and read over to himself
some passage or another. All this he would do with an air of feigned
indifference and sangfroid, as though he were free ALWAYS to use his
son’s books, and his son’s kindness were no rarity at all. Yet on one
occasion I saw the poor old fellow actually turn pale on being told by
his son not to touch the books. Abashed and confused, he, in his awkward
hurry, replaced the volume wrong side uppermost; whereupon, with a
supreme effort to recover himself, he turned it round with a smile and
a blush, as though he were at a loss how to view his own misdemeanour.
Gradually, as already said, the younger Pokrovski weaned his father
from his dissipated ways by giving him a small coin whenever, on three
successive occasions, he (the father) arrived sober. Sometimes, also,
the younger man would buy the older one shoes, or a tie, or a waistcoat;
whereafter, the old man would be as proud of his acquisition as a
peacock. Not infrequently, also, the old man would step in to visit
ourselves, and bring Sasha and myself gingerbread birds or apples,
while talking unceasingly of Petinka. Always he would beg of us to pay
attention to our lessons, on the plea that Petinka was a good son, an
exemplary son, a son who was in twofold measure a man of learning; after
which he would wink at us so quizzingly with his left eye, and twist
himself about in such amusing fashion, that we were forced to burst out
laughing. My mother had a great liking for him, but he detested Anna
Thedorovna--although in her presence he would be quieter than water and
lowlier than the earth.

Soon after this I ceased to take lessons of Pokrovski. Even now he
thought me a child, a raw schoolgirl, as much as he did Sasha; and this
hurt me extremely, seeing that I had done so much to expiate my former
behaviour. Of my efforts in this direction no notice had been taken,
and the fact continued to anger me more and more. Scarcely ever did I
address a word to my tutor between school hours, for I simply could
not bring myself to do it. If I made the attempt I only grew red and
confused, and rushed away to weep in a corner. How it would all have
ended I do not know, had not a curious incident helped to bring about
a rapprochement. One evening, when my mother was sitting in Anna
Thedorovna’s room, I crept on tiptoe to Pokrovski’s apartment, in the
belief that he was not at home. Some strange impulse moved me to do so.
True, we had lived cheek by jowl with one another; yet never once had
I caught a glimpse of his abode. Consequently my heart beat loudly--so
loudly, indeed, that it seemed almost to be bursting from my breast. On
entering the room I glanced around me with tense interest. The apartment
was very poorly furnished, and bore few traces of orderliness. On table
and chairs there lay heaps of books; everywhere were books and papers.
Then a strange thought entered my head, as well as, with the thought, an
unpleasant feeling of irritation. It seemed to me that my friendship,
my heart’s affection, meant little to him, for HE was well-educated,
whereas I was stupid, and had learned nothing, and had read not a single
book. So I stood looking wistfully at the long bookshelves where
they groaned under their weight of volumes. I felt filled with grief,
disappointment, and a sort of frenzy. I felt that I MUST read those
books, and decided to do so--to read them one by one, and with all
possible speed. Probably the idea was that, by learning whatsoever HE
knew, I should render myself more worthy of his friendship. So, I made
a rush towards the bookcase nearest me, and, without stopping further
to consider matters, seized hold of the first dusty tome upon which my
hands chanced to alight, and, reddening and growing pale by turns, and
trembling with fear and excitement, clasped the stolen book to my breast
with the intention of reading it by candle light while my mother lay
asleep at night.

But how vexed I felt when, on returning to our own room, and hastily
turning the pages, only an old, battered worm-eaten Latin work greeted
my eyes! Without loss of time I retraced my steps. Just when I was about
to replace the book I heard a noise in the corridor outside, and the
sound of footsteps approaching. Fumblingly I hastened to complete what
I was about, but the tiresome book had become so tightly wedged into
its row that, on being pulled out, it caused its fellows to close up too
compactly to leave any place for their comrade. To insert the book was
beyond my strength; yet still I kept pushing and pushing at the row. At
last the rusty nail which supported the shelf (the thing seemed to have
been waiting on purpose for that moment! ) broke off short; with the
result that the shelf descended with a crash, and the books piled
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
informing us that in a week’s time it would be his Petinka’s birthday,
when, in honour of the occasion, he (the father) meant to don a new
jacket (as well as new shoes which his wife was going to buy for him),
and to come and pay a visit to his son. In short, the old man was
perfectly happy, and gossiped about whatsoever first entered his head.

My lover’s birthday! Thenceforward, I could not rest by night or day.
Whatever might happen, it was my fixed intention to remind Pokrovski
of our friendship by giving him a present. But what sort of present?
Finally, I decided to give him books. I knew that he had long wanted to
possess a complete set of Pushkin’s works, in the latest edition; so,
I decided to buy Pushkin. My private fund consisted of thirty roubles,
earned by handiwork, and designed eventually to procure me a new dress,
but at once I dispatched our cook, old Matrena, to ascertain the price
of such an edition. Horrors!
The price of the eleven volumes, added to
extra outlay upon the binding, would amount to at least SIXTY roubles!
Where was the money to come from? I thought and thought, yet could not
decide. I did not like to resort to my mother. Of course she would help
me, but in that case every one in the house would become aware of my
gift, and the gift itself would assume the guise of a recompense--of
payment for Pokrovski’s labours on my behalf during the past year;
whereas, I wished to present the gift ALONE, and without the knowledge
of anyone. For the trouble that he had taken with me I wished to be his
perpetual debtor--to make him no payment at all save my friendship. At
length, I thought of a way out of the difficulty.

I knew that of the hucksters in the Gostinni Dvor one could sometimes
buy a book--even one that had been little used and was almost entirely
new--for a half of its price, provided that one haggled sufficiently
over it; wherefore I determined to repair thither. It so happened that,
next day, both Anna Thedorovna and ourselves were in want of sundry
articles; and since my mother was unwell and Anna lazy, the execution of
the commissions devolved upon me, and I set forth with Matrena.

Luckily, I soon chanced upon a set of Pushkin, handsomely bound, and
set myself to bargain for it. At first more was demanded than would have
been asked of me in a shop; but afterwards--though not without a great
deal of trouble on my part, and several feints at departing--I induced
the dealer to lower his price, and to limit his demands to ten roubles
in silver. How I rejoiced that I had engaged in this bargaining! Poor
Matrena could not imagine what had come to me, nor why I so desired to
buy books. But, oh horror of horrors! As soon as ever the dealer caught
sight of my capital of thirty roubles in notes, he refused to let the
Pushkin go for less than the sum he had first named; and though, in
answer to my prayers and protestations, he eventually yielded a little,
he did so only to the tune of two-and-a-half roubles more than I
possessed, while swearing that he was making the concession for my sake
alone, since I was “a sweet young lady,” and that he would have done so
for no one else in the world. To think that only two-and-a-half roubles
should still be wanting! I could have wept with vexation. Suddenly an
unlooked-for circumstance occurred to help me in my distress.

Not far away, near another table that was heaped with books, I perceived
the elder Pokrovski, and a crowd of four or five hucksters plaguing him
nearly out of his senses. Each of these fellows was proffering the old
man his own particular wares; and while there was nothing that they did
not submit for his approval, there was nothing that he wished to buy.
The poor old fellow had the air of a man who is receiving a thrashing.
What to make of what he was being offered him he did not know.
Approaching him, I inquired what he happened to be doing there; whereat
the old man was delighted, since he liked me (it may be) no less than he
did Petinka.

“I am buying some books, Barbara Alexievna,” said he, “I am buying them
for my Petinka. It will be his birthday soon, and since he likes books I
thought I would get him some. ”

The old man always expressed himself in a very roundabout sort of
fashion, and on the present occasion he was doubly, terribly confused.
Of no matter what book he asked the price, it was sure to be one, two,
or three roubles. The larger books he could not afford at all; he could
only look at them wistfully, fumble their leaves with his finger, turn
over the volumes in his hands, and then replace them. “No, no, that
is too dear,” he would mutter under his breath. “I must go and try
somewhere else. ” Then again he would fall to examining copy-books,
collections of poems, and almanacs of the cheaper order.

“Why should you buy things like those? ” I asked him. “They are such
rubbish! ”

“No, no! ” he replied. “See what nice books they are! Yes, they ARE nice
books! ” Yet these last words he uttered so lingeringly that I could see
he was ready to weep with vexation at finding the better sorts of books
so expensive. Already a little tear was trickling down his pale cheeks
and red nose. I inquired whether he had much money on him; whereupon the
poor old fellow pulled out his entire stock, wrapped in a piece of
dirty newspaper, and consisting of a few small silver coins, with twenty
kopecks in copper. At once I seized the lot, and, dragging him off to my
huckster, said: “Look here. These eleven volumes of Pushkin are priced
at thirty-two-and-a-half roubles, and I have only thirty roubles. Let
us add to them these two-and-a-half roubles of yours, and buy the books
together, and make them our joint gift. ” The old man was overjoyed, and
pulled out his money en masse; whereupon the huckster loaded him with
our common library. Stuffing it into his pockets, as well as filling
both arms with it, he departed homewards with his prize, after giving me
his word to bring me the books privately on the morrow.

Next day the old man came to see his son, and sat with him, as usual,
for about an hour; after which he visited ourselves, wearing on his face
the most comical, the most mysterious expression conceivable. Smiling
broadly with satisfaction at the thought that he was the possessor of a
secret, he informed me that he had stealthily brought the books to our
rooms, and hidden them in a corner of the kitchen, under Matrena’s care.
Next, by a natural transition, the conversation passed to the coming
fete-day; whereupon, the old man proceeded to hold forth extensively
on the subject of gifts. The further he delved into his thesis, and the
more he expounded it, the clearer could I see that on his mind there was
something which he could not, dared not, divulge. So I waited and kept
silent. The mysterious exaltation, the repressed satisfaction which I
had hitherto discerned in his antics and grimaces and left-eyed winks
gradually disappeared, and he began to grow momentarily more anxious and
uneasy. At length he could contain himself no longer.

“Listen, Barbara Alexievna,” he said timidly. “Listen to what I have got
to say to you. When his birthday is come, do you take TEN of the books,
and give them to him yourself--that is, FOR yourself, as being YOUR
share of the gift. Then I will take the eleventh book, and give it to
him MYSELF, as being my gift. If we do that, you will have a present for
him and I shall have one--both of us alike. ”

“Why do you not want us to present our gifts together, Zachar
Petrovitch? ” I asked him.

“Oh, very well,” he replied. “Very well, Barbara Alexievna. Only--only,
I thought that--”

The old man broke off in confusion, while his face flushed with the
exertion of thus expressing himself. For a moment or two he sat glued to
his seat.

“You see,” he went on, “I play the fool too much. I am forever playing
the fool, and cannot help myself, though I know that it is wrong to do
so. At home it is often cold, and sometimes there are other troubles
as well, and it all makes me depressed. Well, whenever that happens, I
indulge a little, and occasionally drink too much. Now, Petinka does not
like that; he loses his temper about it, Barbara Alexievna, and scolds
me, and reads me lectures. So I want by my gift to show him that I am
mending my ways, and beginning to conduct myself better. For a long time
past, I have been saving up to buy him a book--yes, for a long time past
I have been saving up for it, since it is seldom that I have any
money, unless Petinka happens to give me some. He knows that, and,
consequently, as soon as ever he perceives the use to which I have put
his money, he will understand that it is for his sake alone that I have
acted. ”

My heart ached for the old man. Seeing him looking at me with such
anxiety, I made up my mind without delay.

“I tell you what,” I said. “Do you give him all the books. ”

“ALL? ” he ejaculated. “ALL the books? ”

“Yes, all of them. ”

“As my own gift? ” “Yes, as your own gift. ”

“As my gift alone? ”

“Yes, as your gift alone. ”

Surely I had spoken clearly enough, yet the old man seemed hardly to
understand me.

“Well,” said he after reflection, “that certainly would be
splendid--certainly it would be most splendid. But what about yourself,
Barbara Alexievna? ”

“Oh, I shall give your son nothing. ”

“What? ” he cried in dismay. “Are you going to give Petinka nothing--do
you WISH to give him nothing? ” So put about was the old fellow with what
I had said, that he seemed almost ready to renounce his own proposal
if only I would give his son something. What a kind heart he had! I
hastened to assure him that I should certainly have a gift of some sort
ready, since my one wish was to avoid spoiling his pleasure.

“Provided that your son is pleased,” I added, “and that you are pleased,
I shall be equally pleased, for in my secret heart I shall feel as
though I had presented the gift. ”

This fully reassured the old man. He stopped with us another couple of
hours, yet could not sit still for a moment, but kept jumping up from
his seat, laughing, cracking jokes with Sasha, bestowing stealthy kisses
upon myself, pinching my hands, and making silent grimaces at Anna
Thedorovna. At length, she turned him out of the house. In short, his
transports of joy exceeded anything that I had yet beheld.

On the festal day he arrived exactly at eleven o’clock, direct from
Mass. He was dressed in a carefully mended frockcoat, a new waistcoat,
and a pair of new shoes, while in his arms he carried our pile of
books. Next we all sat down to coffee (the day being Sunday) in Anna
Thedorovna’s parlour. The old man led off the meal by saying
that Pushkin was a magnificent poet. Thereafter, with a return to
shamefacedness and confusion, he passed suddenly to the statement that
a man ought to conduct himself properly; that, should he not do so, it
might be taken as a sign that he was in some way overindulging himself;
and that evil tendencies of this sort led to the man’s ruin and
degradation. Then the orator sketched for our benefit some terrible
instances of such incontinence, and concluded by informing us that for
some time past he had been mending his own ways, and conducting himself
in exemplary fashion, for the reason that he had perceived the justice
of his son’s precepts, and had laid them to heart so well that he, the
father, had really changed for the better: in proof whereof, he now
begged to present to the said son some books for which he had long been
setting aside his savings.

As I listened to the old man I could not help laughing and crying in
a breath. Certainly he knew how to lie when the occasion required! The
books were transferred to his son’s room, and arranged upon a shelf,
where Pokrovski at once guessed the truth about them. Then the old man
was invited to dinner and we all spent a merry day together at cards and
forfeits. Sasha was full of life, and I rivalled her, while Pokrovski
paid me numerous attentions, and kept seeking an occasion to speak to me
alone. But to allow this to happen I refused. Yes, taken all in all, it
was the happiest day that I had known for four years.

But now only grievous, painful memories come to my recollection, for I
must enter upon the story of my darker experiences. It may be that that
is why my pen begins to move more slowly, and seems as though it were
going altogether to refuse to write. The same reason may account for my
having undertaken so lovingly and enthusiastically a recounting of even
the smallest details of my younger, happier days. But alas! those days
did not last long, and were succeeded by a period of black sorrow which
will close only God knows when!

My misfortunes began with the illness and death of Pokrovski, who was
taken worse two months after what I have last recorded in these memoirs.
During those two months he worked hard to procure himself a livelihood
since hitherto he had had no assured position. Like all consumptives, he
never--not even up to his last moment--altogether abandoned the hope of
being able to enjoy a long life. A post as tutor fell in his way, but he
had never liked the profession; while for him to become a civil servant
was out of the question, owing to his weak state of health. Moreover, in
the latter capacity he would have had to have waited a long time for his
first instalment of salary. Again, he always looked at the darker side
of things, for his character was gradually being warped, and his health
undermined by his illness, though he never noticed it. Then autumn came
on, and daily he went out to business--that is to say, to apply for and
to canvass for posts--clad only in a light jacket; with the result that,
after repeated soakings with rain, he had to take to his bed, and
never again left it. He died in mid-autumn at the close of the month of
October.

Throughout his illness I scarcely ever left his room, but waited on him
hand and foot. Often he could not sleep for several nights at a time.
Often, too, he was unconscious, or else in a delirium; and at such times
he would talk of all sorts of things--of his work, of his books, of his
father, of myself. At such times I learned much which I had not hitherto
known or divined about his affairs. During the early part of his illness
everyone in the house looked askance at me, and Anna Thedorovna would
nod her head in a meaning manner; but, I always looked them straight in
the face, and gradually they ceased to take any notice of my concern for
Pokrovski. At all events my mother ceased to trouble her head about it.

Sometimes Pokrovski would know who I was, but not often, for more
usually he was unconscious. Sometimes, too, he would talk all night with
some unknown person, in dim, mysterious language that caused his gasping
voice to echo hoarsely through the narrow room as through a sepulchre;
and at such times, I found the situation a strange one. During his last
night he was especially lightheaded, for then he was in terrible agony,
and kept rambling in his speech until my soul was torn with pity.
Everyone in the house was alarmed, and Anna Thedorovna fell to praying
that God might soon take him. When the doctor had been summoned, the
verdict was that the patient would die with the morning.

That night the elder Pokrovski spent in the corridor, at the door of his
son’s room. Though given a mattress to lie upon, he spent his time in
running in and out of the apartment. So broken with grief was he that
he presented a dreadful spectacle, and appeared to have lost both
perception and feeling. His head trembled with agony, and his body
quivered from head to foot as at times he murmured to himself something
which he appeared to be debating. Every moment I expected to see him go
out of his mind. Just before dawn he succumbed to the stress of mental
agony, and fell asleep on his mattress like a man who has been beaten;
but by eight o’clock the son was at the point of death, and I ran to
wake the father. The dying man was quite conscious, and bid us all
farewell. Somehow I could not weep, though my heart seemed to be
breaking.

The last moments were the most harassing and heartbreaking of all. For
some time past Pokrovski had been asking for something with his failing
tongue, but I had been unable to distinguish his words. Yet my heart had
been bursting with grief. Then for an hour he had lain quieter, except
that he had looked sadly in my direction, and striven to make some sign
with his death-cold hands. At last he again essayed his piteous request
in a hoarse, deep voice, but the words issued in so many inarticulate
sounds, and once more I failed to divine his meaning. By turns I brought
each member of the household to his bedside, and gave him something to
drink, but he only shook his head sorrowfully. Finally, I understood
what it was he wanted. He was asking me to draw aside the curtain from
the window, and to open the casements. Probably he wished to take his
last look at the daylight and the sun and all God’s world. I pulled back
the curtain, but the opening day was as dull and mournful--looking as
though it had been the fast-flickering life of the poor invalid. Of
sunshine there was none. Clouds overlaid the sky as with a shroud of
mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening under a fine
drizzle which was beating against the window-panes, and streaking their
dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold, dirty moisture. Only a scanty
modicum of daylight entered to war with the trembling rays of the ikon
lamp. The dying man threw me a wistful look, and nodded. The next moment
he had passed away.

The funeral was arranged for by Anna Thedorovna. A plain coffin was
bought, and a broken-down hearse hired; while, as security for
this outlay, she seized the dead man’s books and other articles.
Nevertheless, the old man disputed the books with her, and, raising an
uproar, carried off as many of them as he could--stuffing his pockets
full, and even filling his hat. Indeed, he spent the next three days
with them thus, and refused to let them leave his sight even when it was
time for him to go to church. Throughout he acted like a man bereft
of sense and memory. With quaint assiduity he busied himself about the
bier--now straightening the candlestick on the dead man’s breast, now
snuffing and lighting the other candles. Clearly his thoughts were
powerless to remain long fixed on any subject. Neither my mother nor
Anna Thedorovna were present at the requiem, for the former was ill
and the latter was at loggerheads with the old man. Only myself and
the father were there. During the service a sort of panic, a sort of
premonition of the future, came over me, and I could hardly hold myself
upright. At length the coffin had received its burden and was screwed
down; after which the bearers placed it upon a bier, and set out. I
accompanied the cortege only to the end of the street. Here the
driver broke into a trot, and the old man started to run behind the
hearse--sobbing loudly, but with the motion of his running ever and anon
causing the sobs to quaver and become broken off. Next he lost his hat,
the poor old fellow, yet would not stop to pick it up, even though the
rain was beating upon his head, and a wind was rising and the sleet kept
stinging and lashing his face. It seemed as though he were impervious
to the cruel elements as he ran from one side of the hearse to the
other--the skirts of his old greatcoat flapping about him like a pair
of wings. From every pocket of the garment protruded books, while in his
hand he carried a specially large volume, which he hugged closely to his
breast. The passers-by uncovered their heads and crossed themselves as
the cortege passed, and some of them, having done so, remained staring
in amazement at the poor old man. Every now and then a book would slip
from one of his pockets and fall into the mud; whereupon somebody,
stopping him, would direct his attention to his loss, and he would stop,
pick up the book, and again set off in pursuit of the hearse. At the
corner of the street he was joined by a ragged old woman; until at
length the hearse turned a corner, and became hidden from my eyes. Then
I went home, and threw myself, in a transport of grief, upon my mother’s
breast--clasping her in my arms, kissing her amid a storm of sobs and
tears, and clinging to her form as though in my embraces I were holding
my last friend on earth, that I might preserve her from death. Yet
already death was standing over her. . . .




June 11th

How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar
Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was
everything! And I had not seen anything green for such a long time!
During my illness I used to think that I should never get better, that
I was certainly going to die. Judge, then, how I felt yesterday! True,
I may have seemed to you a little sad, and you must not be angry with me
for that. Happy and light-hearted though I was, there were moments, even
at the height of my felicity, when, for some unknown reason, depression
came sweeping over my soul. I kept weeping about trifles, yet could not
say why I was grieved. The truth is that I am unwell--so much so, that
I look at everything from the gloomy point of view. The pale, clear sky,
the setting sun, the evening stillness--ah, somehow I felt disposed
to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart seemed to be
over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it. But why should
I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart to express itself;
still more difficult for it to forego self-expression. Yet possibly
you may understand me. Tears and laughter! . . . How good you are, Makar
Alexievitch!