No More Learning

. . Surely it
cannot give you pleasure to read of the misfortunes of your friend--of
his sorrows, and of the temptations which he experienced? . . . On the
evening of the third day Emelia urged me to go and see the officer of
whom I have spoken, and whose address I had learned from our dvornik.
More strictly speaking, I had noticed him when, on a previous occasion,
he had come to play cards here, and I had followed him home. Of course
I now see that I did wrong, but I felt beside myself when I heard
them telling him stories about me. Exactly what happened next I cannot
remember. I only remember that several other officers were present as
well as he. Or it may be that I saw everything double--God alone knows.
Also, I cannot exactly remember what I said. I only remember that in my
fury I said a great deal. Then they turned me out of the room, and threw
me down the staircase--pushed me down it, that is to say. How I got home
you know. That is all. Of course, later I blamed myself, and my pride
underwent a fall; but no extraneous person except yourself knows of the
affair, and in any case it does not matter. Perhaps the affair is as you
imagine it to have been, Barbara? One thing I know for certain, and that
is that last year one of our lodgers, Aksenti Osipovitch, took a similar
liberty with Peter Petrovitch, yet kept the fact secret, an absolute
secret. He called him into his room (I happened to be looking through a
crack in the partition-wall), and had an explanation with him in the
way that a gentleman should--noone except myself being a witness of the
scene; whereas, in my own case, I had no explanation at all. After the
scene was over, nothing further transpired between Aksenti Osipovitch
and Peter Petrovitch, for the reason that the latter was so desirous of
getting on in life that he held his tongue. As a result, they bow and
shake hands whenever they meet. . . . I will not dispute the fact that I
have erred most grievously--that I should never dare to dispute, or that
I have fallen greatly in my own estimation; but, I think I was fated
from birth so to do--and one cannot escape fate, my beloved. Here,
therefore, is a detailed explanation of my misfortunes and sorrows,
written for you to read whenever you may find it convenient. I am far
from well, beloved, and have lost all my gaiety of disposition, but I
send you this letter as a token of my love, devotion, and respect, Oh
dear lady of my affections. --Your humble servant,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




July 29th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--I have read your two letters, and they
make my heart ache. See here, dear friend of mine. You pass over certain
things in silence, and write about a PORTION only of your misfortunes.
Can it be that the letters are the outcome of a mental disorder? . . . Come
and see me, for God’s sake. Come today, direct from the office, and dine
with us as you have done before. As to how you are living now, or as to
what settlement you have made with your landlady, I know not, for you
write nothing concerning those two points, and seem purposely to have
left them unmentioned. Au revoir, my friend. Come to me today without
fail. You would do better ALWAYS to dine here. Thedora is an excellent
cook. Goodbye--Your own,

BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.




August 1st.

MY DARLING BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Thank God that He has sent you a chance
of repaying my good with good. I believe in so doing, as well as in the
sweetness of your angelic heart. Therefore, I will not reproach you.
Only I pray you, do not again blame me because in the decline of my life
I have played the spendthrift. It was such a sin, was it not? --such a
thing to do? And even if you would still have it that the sin was there,
remember, little friend, what it costs me to hear such words fall from
your lips. Do not be vexed with me for saying this, for my heart is
fainting. Poor people are subject to fancies--this is a provision of
nature. I myself have had reason to know this. The poor man is exacting.
He cannot see God’s world as it is, but eyes each passer-by askance, and
looks around him uneasily in order that he may listen to every word that
is being uttered. May not people be talking of him? How is it that he
is so unsightly? What is he feeling at all? What sort of figure is
he cutting on the one side or on the other? It is matter of common
knowledge, my Barbara, that the poor man ranks lower than a rag, and
will never earn the respect of any one. Yes, write about him as you
like--let scribblers say what they choose about him--he will ever remain
as he was. And why is this? It is because, from his very nature, the
poor man has to wear his feelings on his sleeve, so that nothing about
him is sacred, and as for his self-respect--! Well, Emelia told me the
other day that once, when he had to collect subscriptions, official
sanction was demanded for every single coin, since people thought that
it would be no use paying their money to a poor man. Nowadays charity
is strangely administered. Perhaps it has always been so. Either folk do
not know how to administer it, or they are adept in the art--one of the
two. Perhaps you did not know this, so I beg to tell it you. And how
comes it that the poor man knows, is so conscious of it all? The answer
is--by experience. He knows because any day he may see a gentleman enter
a restaurant and ask himself, “What shall I have to eat today? I will
have such and such a dish,” while all the time the poor man will
have nothing to eat that day but gruel. There are men, too--wretched
busybodies--who walk about merely to see if they can find some wretched
tchinovnik or broken-down official who has got toes projecting from his
boots or his hair uncut! And when they have found such a one they make
a report of the circumstance, and their rubbish gets entered on the
file. . . . But what does it matter to you if my hair lacks the shears? If
you will forgive me what may seem to you a piece of rudeness, I declare
that the poor man is ashamed of such things with the sensitiveness of a
young girl. YOU, for instance, would not care (pray pardon my bluntness)
to unrobe yourself before the public eye; and in the same way, the poor
man does not like to be pried at or questioned concerning his family
relations, and so forth. A man of honour and self-respect such as I
am finds it painful and grievous to have to consort with men who would
deprive him of both.

Today I sat before my colleagues like a bear’s cub or a plucked sparrow,
so that I fairly burned with shame. Yes, it hurt me terribly, Barbara.
Naturally one blushes when one can see one’s naked toes projecting
through one’s boots, and one’s buttons hanging by a single thread!
As though on purpose, I seemed, on this occasion, to be peculiarly
dishevelled. No wonder that my spirits fell. When I was talking on
business matters to Stepan Karlovitch, he suddenly exclaimed, for no
apparent reason, “Ah, poor old Makar Alexievitch! ” and then left the
rest unfinished. But I knew what he had in his mind, and blushed so
hotly that even the bald patch on my head grew red. Of course the whole
thing is nothing, but it worries me, and leads to anxious thoughts. What
can these fellows know about me? God send that they know nothing! But
I confess that I suspect, I strongly suspect, one of my colleagues. Let
them only betray me! They would betray one’s private life for a groat,
for they hold nothing sacred.

I have an idea who is at the bottom of it all. It is Rataziaev. Probably
he knows someone in our department to whom he has recounted the
story with additions. Or perhaps he has spread it abroad in his own
department, and thence, it has crept and crawled into ours. Everyone
here knows it, down to the last detail, for I have seen them point at
you with their fingers through the window. Oh yes, I have seen them do
it. Yesterday, when I stepped across to dine with you, the whole crew
were hanging out of the window to watch me, and the landlady exclaimed
that the devil was in young people, and called you certain unbecoming
names. But this is as nothing compared with Rataziaev’s foul intention
to place us in his books, and to describe us in a satire. He himself has
declared that he is going to do so, and other people say the same.
In fact, I know not what to think, nor what to decide. It is no use
concealing the fact that you and I have sinned against the Lord God. . . .
You were going to send me a book of some sort, to divert my mind--were
you not, dearest? What book, though, could now divert me? Only such
books as have never existed on earth. Novels are rubbish, and written
for fools and for the idle. Believe me, dearest, I know it through long
experience. Even should they vaunt Shakespeare to you, I tell you that
Shakespeare is rubbish, and proper only for lampoons--Your own,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




August 2nd.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Do not disquiet yourself. God will grant
that all shall turn out well. Thedora has obtained a quantity of work,
both for me and herself, and we are setting about it with a will.
Perhaps it will put us straight again. Thedora suspects my late
misfortunes to be connected with Anna Thedorovna; but I do not care--I
feel extraordinarily cheerful today. So you are thinking of borrowing
more money? If so, may God preserve you, for you will assuredly be
ruined when the time comes for repayment! You had far better come and
live with us here for a little while. Yes, come and take up your abode
here, and pay no attention whatever to what your landlady says. As for
the rest of your enemies and ill-wishers, I am certain that it is with
vain imaginings that you are vexing yourself. . . . In passing, let me tell
you that your style differs greatly from letter to letter. Goodbye until
we meet again. I await your coming with impatience--Your own,

B. D.




August 3rd.

MY ANGEL, BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I hasten to inform you, Oh light of my
life, that my hopes are rising again. But, little daughter of mine--do
you really mean it when you say that I am to indulge in no more
borrowings? Why, I could not do without them. Things would go badly with
us both if I did so. You are ailing. Consequently, I tell you roundly
that I MUST borrow, and that I must continue to do so.

Also, I may tell you that my seat in the office is now next to that of a
certain Emelia Ivanovitch. He is not the Emelia whom you know, but a
man who, like myself, is a privy councillor, as well as represents, with
myself, the senior and oldest official in our department. Likewise he is
a good, disinterested soul, and one that is not over-talkative, though
a true bear in appearance and demeanour. Industrious, and possessed of
a handwriting purely English, his caligraphy is, it must be confessed,
even worse than my own. Yes, he is a good soul. At the same time, we
have never been intimate with one another. We have done no more than
exchange greetings on meeting or parting, borrow one another’s penknife
if we needed one, and, in short, observe such bare civilities as
convention demands. Well, today he said to me, “Makar Alexievitch,
what makes you look so thoughtful? ” and inasmuch as I could see that
he wished me well, I told him all--or, rather, I did not tell him
EVERYTHING, for that I do to no man (I have not the heart to do it); I
told him just a few scattered details concerning my financial straits.
“Then you ought to borrow,” said he. “You ought to obtain a loan of
Peter Petrovitch, who does a little in that way. I myself once borrowed
some money of him, and he charged me fair and light interest. ” Well,
Barbara, my heart leapt within me at these words. I kept thinking and
thinking,--if only God would put it into the mind of Peter Petrovitch
to be my benefactor by advancing me a loan! I calculated that with its
aid I might both repay my landlady and assist yourself and get rid of my
surroundings (where I can hardly sit down to table without the rascals
making jokes about me). Sometimes his Excellency passes our desk in
the office. He glances at me, and cannot but perceive how poorly I am
dressed. Now, neatness and cleanliness are two of his strongest points.
Even though he says nothing, I feel ready to die with shame when he
approaches. Well, hardening my heart, and putting my diffidence into my
ragged pocket, I approached Peter Petrovitch, and halted before him more
dead than alive. Yet I was hopeful, and though, as it turned out, he
was busily engaged in talking to Thedosei Ivanovitch, I walked up to him
from behind, and plucked at his sleeve. He looked away from me, but I
recited my speech about thirty roubles, et cetera, et cetera, of which,
at first, he failed to catch the meaning. Even when I had explained
matters to him more fully, he only burst out laughing, and said nothing.
Again I addressed to him my request; whereupon, asking me what security
I could give, he again buried himself in his papers, and went on writing
without deigning me even a second glance. Dismay seized me. “Peter
Petrovitch,” I said, “I can offer you no security,” but to this I added
an explanation that some salary would, in time, be due to me, which
I would make over to him, and account the loan my first debt. At
that moment someone called him away, and I had to wait a little. On
returning, he began to mend his pen as though he had not even noticed
that I was there. But I was for myself this time. “Peter Petrovitch,” I
continued, “can you not do ANYTHING? ” Still he maintained silence, and
seemed not to have heard me. I waited and waited. At length I determined
to make a final attempt, and plucked him by the sleeve. He muttered
something, and, his pen mended, set about his writing. There was nothing
for me to do but to depart. He and the rest of them are worthy fellows,
dearest--that I do not doubt--but they are also proud, very proud. What
have I to do with them? Yet I thought I would write and tell you all
about it. Meanwhile Emelia Ivanovitch had been encouraging me with nods
and smiles. He is a good soul, and has promised to recommend me to a
friend of his who lives in Viborskaia Street and lends money. Emelia
declares that this friend will certainly lend me a little; so tomorrow,
beloved, I am going to call upon the gentleman in question. . . . What do
you think about it? It would be a pity not to obtain a loan. My landlady
is on the point of turning me out of doors, and has refused to allow me
any more board. Also, my boots are wearing through, and have lost every
button--and I do not possess another pair! Could anyone in a government
office display greater shabbiness? It is dreadful, my Barbara--it is
simply dreadful!

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




August 4th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--For God’s sake borrow some money as
soon as you can. I would not ask this help of you were it not for the
situation in which I am placed. Thedora and myself cannot remain any
longer in our present lodgings, for we have been subjected to great
unpleasantness, and you cannot imagine my state of agitation and
dismay. The reason is that this morning we received a visit from an
elderly--almost an old--man whose breast was studded with orders.
Greatly surprised, I asked him what he wanted (for at the moment Thedora
had gone out shopping); whereupon he began to question me as to my
mode of life and occupation, and then, without waiting for an answer,
informed me that he was uncle to the officer of whom you have spoken;
that he was very angry with his nephew for the way in which the latter
had behaved, especially with regard to his slandering of me right and
left; and that he, the uncle, was ready to protect me from the young
spendthrift’s insolence. Also, he advised me to have nothing to say to
young fellows of that stamp, and added that he sympathised with me as
though he were my own father, and would gladly help me in any way he
could. At this I blushed in some confusion, but did not greatly hasten
to thank him. Next, he took me forcibly by the hand, and, tapping my
cheek, said that I was very good-looking, and that he greatly liked the
dimples in my face (God only knows what he meant! ). Finally he tried to
kiss me, on the plea that he was an old man, the brute! At this moment
Thedora returned; whereupon, in some confusion, he repeated that he felt
a great respect for my modesty and virtue, and that he much wished to
become acquainted with me; after which he took Thedora aside, and tried,
on some pretext or another, to give her money (though of course she
declined it). At last he took himself off--again reiterating his
assurances, and saying that he intended to return with some earrings as
a present; that he advised me to change my lodgings; and, that he could
recommend me a splendid flat which he had in his mind’s eye as likely to
cost me nothing. Yes, he also declared that he greatly liked me for my
purity and good sense; that I must beware of dissolute young men; and
that he knew Anna Thedorovna, who had charged him to inform me that she
would shortly be visiting me in person. Upon that, I understood all.
What I did next I scarcely know, for I had never before found myself in
such a position; but I believe that I broke all restraints, and made the
old man feel thoroughly ashamed of himself--Thedora helping me in the
task, and well-nigh turning him neck and crop out of the tenement.
Neither of us doubt that this is Anna Thedorovna’s work--for how
otherwise could the old man have got to know about us?

Now, therefore, Makar Alexievitch, I turn to you for help. Do not, for
God’s sake, leave me in this plight. Borrow all the money that you can
get, for I have not the wherewithal to leave these lodgings, yet cannot
possibly remain in them any longer. At all events, this is Thedora’s
advice. She and I need at least twenty-five roubles, which I will repay
you out of what I earn by my work, while Thedora shall get me additional
work from day to day, so that, if there be heavy interest to pay on the
loan, you shall not be troubled with the extra burden. Nay, I will make
over to you all that I possess if only you will continue to help me.
Truly, I grieve to have to trouble you when you yourself are so hardly
situated, but my hopes rest upon you, and upon you alone. Goodbye, Makar
Alexievitch. Think of me, and may God speed you on your errand!

B. D.




August 4th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--These unlooked-for blows have shaken me
terribly, and these strange calamities have quite broken my spirit.
Not content with trying to bring you to a bed of sickness, these
lickspittles and pestilent old men are trying to bring me to the same.
And I assure you that they are succeeding--I assure you that they are.
Yet I would rather die than not help you. If I cannot help you I SHALL
die; but, to enable me to help you, you must flee like a bird out of the
nest where these owls, these birds of prey, are seeking to peck you to
death. How distressed I feel, my dearest! Yet how cruel you yourself
are! Although you are enduring pain and insult, although you, little
nestling, are in agony of spirit, you actually tell me that it grieves
you to disturb me, and that you will work off your debt to me with the
labour of your own hands! In other words, you, with your weak health,
are proposing to kill yourself in order to relieve me to term of my
financial embarrassments! Stop a moment, and think what you are saying.
WHY should you sew, and work, and torture your poor head with anxiety,
and spoil your beautiful eyes, and ruin your health? Why, indeed? Ah,
little Barbara, little Barbara! Do you not see that I shall never be any
good to you, never any good to you? At all events, I myself see it. Yet
I WILL help you in your distress. I WILL overcome every difficulty, I
WILL get extra work to do, I WILL copy out manuscripts for authors,
I WILL go to the latter and force them to employ me, I WILL so apply
myself to the work that they shall see that I am a good copyist (and
good copyists, I know, are always in demand). Thus there will be no need
for you to exhaust your strength, nor will I allow you to do so--I will
not have you carry out your disastrous intention. . . Yes, little angel,
I will certainly borrow some money. I would rather die than not do
so. Merely tell me, my own darling, that I am not to shrink from heavy
interest, and I will not shrink from it, I will not shrink from it--nay,
I will shrink from nothing. I will ask for forty roubles, to begin with.
That will not be much, will it, little Barbara? Yet will any one trust
me even with that sum at the first asking? Do you think that I am
capable of inspiring confidence at the first glance? Would the mere
sight of my face lead any one to form of me a favourable opinion? Have I
ever been able, remember you, to appear to anyone in a favourable light?
What think you? Personally, I see difficulties in the way, and feel sick
at heart at the mere prospect. However, of those forty roubles I mean
to set aside twenty-five for yourself, two for my landlady, and the
remainder for my own spending. Of course, I ought to give more than
two to my landlady, but you must remember my necessities, and see for
yourself that that is the most that can be assigned to her. We need say
no more about it. For one rouble I shall buy me a new pair of shoes, for
I scarcely know whether my old ones will take me to the office tomorrow
morning. Also, a new neck-scarf is indispensable, seeing that the old
one has now passed its first year; but, since you have promised to make
of your old apron not only a scarf, but also a shirt-front, I need think
no more of the article in question. So much for shoes and scarves. Next,
for buttons. You yourself will agree that I cannot do without buttons;
nor is there on my garments a single hem unfrayed. I tremble when I
think that some day his Excellency may perceive my untidiness, and
say--well, what will he NOT say? Yet I shall never hear what he says,
for I shall have expired where I sit--expired of mere shame at the
thought of having been thus exposed. Ah, dearest! . . . Well, my various
necessities will have left me three roubles to go on with. Part of
this sum I shall expend upon a half-pound of tobacco--for I cannot live
without tobacco, and it is nine days since I last put a pipe into my
mouth. To tell the truth, I shall buy the tobacco without acquainting
you with the fact, although I ought not so to do. The pity of it all is
that, while you are depriving yourself of everything, I keep solacing
myself with various amenities--which is why I am telling you this, that
the pangs of conscience may not torment me. Frankly, I confess that I
am in desperate straits--in such straits as I have never yet known. My
landlady flouts me, and I enjoy the respect of noone; my arrears and
debts are terrible; and in the office, though never have I found the
place exactly a paradise, noone has a single word to say to me. Yet I
hide, I carefully hide, this from every one. I would hide my person in
the same way, were it not that daily I have to attend the office where
I have to be constantly on my guard against my fellows. Nevertheless,
merely to be able to CONFESS this to you renews my spiritual strength.
We must not think of these things, Barbara, lest the thought of them
break our courage. I write them down merely to warn you NOT to think of
them, nor to torture yourself with bitter imaginings. Yet, my God, what
is to become of us? Stay where you are until I can come to you; after
which I shall not return hither, but simply disappear. Now I have
finished my letter, and must go and shave myself, inasmuch as, when that
is done, one always feels more decent, as well as consorts more easily
with decency. God speed me! One prayer to Him, and I must be off.

M. DIEVUSHKIN.




August 5th.

DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--You must not despair. Away with melancholy!
I am sending you thirty kopecks in silver, and regret that I cannot send
you more. Buy yourself what you most need until tomorrow. I myself have
almost nothing left, and what I am going to do I know not. Is it not
dreadful, Makar Alexievitch? Yet do not be downcast--it is no good being
that. Thedora declares that it would not be a bad thing if we were to
remain in this tenement, since if we left it suspicions would arise, and
our enemies might take it into their heads to look for us. On the other
hand, I do not think it would be well for us to remain here. If I were
feeling less sad I would tell you my reason.

What a strange man you are, Makar Alexievitch! You take things so much
to heart that you never know what it is to be happy. I read your letters
attentively, and can see from them that, though you worry and disturb
yourself about me, you never give a thought to yourself. Yes, every
letter tells me that you have a kind heart; but I tell YOU that that
heart is overly kind. So I will give you a little friendly advice, Makar
Alexievitch. I am full of gratitude towards you--I am indeed full for
all that you have done for me, I am most sensible of your goodness;
but, to think that I should be forced to see that, in spite of your own
troubles (of which I have been the involuntary cause), you live for me
alone--you live but for MY joys and MY sorrows and MY affection! If you
take the affairs of another person so to heart, and suffer with her to
such an extent, I do not wonder that you yourself are unhappy. Today,
when you came to see me after office-work was done, I felt afraid even
to raise my eyes to yours, for you looked so pale and desperate, and
your face had so fallen in. Yes, you were dreading to have to tell me
of your failure to borrow money--you were dreading to have to grieve and
alarm me; but, when you saw that I came very near to smiling, the load
was, I know, lifted from your heart. So do not be despondent, do not
give way, but allow more rein to your better sense. I beg and implore
this of you, for it will not be long before you see things take a turn
for the better. You will but spoil your life if you constantly lament
another person’s sorrow. Goodbye, dear friend. I beseech you not to be
over-anxious about me.

B. D.




August 5th.

MY DARLING LITTLE BARBARA,--This is well, this is well, my angel! So you
are of opinion that the fact that I have failed to obtain any money does
not matter? Then I too am reassured, I too am happy on your account.
Also, I am delighted to think that you are not going to desert your old
friend, but intend to remain in your present lodgings. Indeed, my heart
was overcharged with joy when I read in your letter those kindly words
about myself, as well as a not wholly unmerited recognition of my
sentiments. I say this not out of pride, but because now I know how much
you love me to be thus solicitous for my feelings. How good to
think that I may speak to you of them! You bid me, darling, not be
faint-hearted. Indeed, there is no need for me to be so. Think, for
instance, of the pair of shoes which I shall be wearing to the office
tomorrow! The fact is that over-brooding proves the undoing of a
man--his complete undoing. What has saved me is the fact that it is not
for myself that I am grieving, that I am suffering, but for YOU. Nor
would it matter to me in the least that I should have to walk through
the bitter cold without an overcoat or boots--I could bear it, I could
well endure it, for I am a simple man in my requirements; but the point
is--what would people say, what would every envious and hostile tongue
exclaim, when I was seen without an overcoat? It is for OTHER folk that
one wears an overcoat and boots. In any case, therefore, I should have
needed boots to maintain my name and reputation; to both of which my
ragged footgear would otherwise have spelled ruin. Yes, it is so,
my beloved, and you may believe an old man who has had many years of
experience, and knows both the world and mankind, rather than a set of
scribblers and daubers.

But I have not yet told you in detail how things have gone with me
today. During the morning I suffered as much agony of spirit as might
have been experienced in a year. ‘Twas like this: First of all, I went
out to call upon the gentleman of whom I have spoken. I started very
early, before going to the office. Rain and sleet were falling, and
I hugged myself in my greatcoat as I walked along. “Lord,” thought I,
“pardon my offences, and send me fulfilment of all my desires;” and as
I passed a church I crossed myself, repented of my sins, and reminded
myself that I was unworthy to hold communication with the Lord God. Then
I retired into myself, and tried to look at nothing; and so, walking
without noticing the streets, I proceeded on my way. Everything had an
empty air, and everyone whom I met looked careworn and preoccupied, and
no wonder, for who would choose to walk abroad at such an early hour,
and in such weather? Next a band of ragged workmen met me, and jostled
me boorishly as they passed; upon which nervousness overtook me, and
I felt uneasy, and tried hard not to think of the money that was
my errand. Near the Voskresenski Bridge my feet began to ache with
weariness, until I could hardly pull myself along; until presently I met
with Ermolaev, a writer in our office, who, stepping aside, halted, and
followed me with his eyes, as though to beg of me a glass of vodka. “Ah,
friend,” thought I, “go YOU to your vodka, but what have I to do with
such stuff? ” Then, sadly weary, I halted for a moment’s rest, and
thereafter dragged myself further on my way. Purposely I kept looking
about me for something upon which to fasten my thoughts, with which to
distract, to encourage myself; but there was nothing. Not a single idea
could I connect with any given object, while, in addition, my appearance
was so draggled that I felt utterly ashamed of it. At length I perceived
from afar a gabled house that was built of yellow wood. This, I thought,
must be the residence of the Monsieur Markov whom Emelia Ivanovitch had
mentioned to me as ready to lend money on interest. Half unconscious
of what I was doing, I asked a watchman if he could tell me to whom the
house belonged; whereupon grudgingly, and as though he were vexed at
something, the fellow muttered that it belonged to one Markov. Are ALL
watchmen so unfeeling? Why did this one reply as he did? In any case I
felt disagreeably impressed, for like always answers to like, and, no
matter what position one is in, things invariably appear to correspond
to it. Three times did I pass the house and walk the length of the
street; until the further I walked, the worse became my state of mind.
“No, never, never will he lend me anything! ” I thought to myself, “He
does not know me, and my affairs will seem to him ridiculous, and I
shall cut a sorry figure. However, let fate decide for me. Only, let
Heaven send that I do not afterwards repent me, and eat out my heart
with remorse! ” Softly I opened the wicket-gate. Horrors! A great ragged
brute of a watch-dog came flying out at me, and foaming at the mouth,
and nearly jumping out his skin! Curious is it to note what little,
trivial incidents will nearly make a man crazy, and strike terror to his
heart, and annihilate the firm purpose with which he has armed himself.
At all events, I approached the house more dead than alive, and walked
straight into another catastrophe. That is to say, not noticing the
slipperiness of the threshold, I stumbled against an old woman who
was filling milk-jugs from a pail, and sent the milk flying in every
direction! The foolish old dame gave a start and a cry, and then
demanded of me whither I had been coming, and what it was I wanted;
after which she rated me soundly for my awkwardness. Always have I found
something of the kind befall me when engaged on errands of this nature.
It seems to be my destiny invariably to run into something. Upon that,
the noise and the commotion brought out the mistress of the house--an
old beldame of mean appearance. I addressed myself directly to her:
“Does Monsieur Markov live here? ” was my inquiry. “No,” she replied, and
then stood looking at me civilly enough. “But what want you with him? ”
she continued; upon which I told her about Emelia Ivanovitch and
the rest of the business. As soon as I had finished, she called her
daughter--a barefooted girl in her teens--and told her to summon her
father from upstairs. Meanwhile, I was shown into a room which contained
several portraits of generals on the walls and was furnished with a
sofa, a large table, and a few pots of mignonette and balsam. “Shall I,
or shall I not (come weal, come woe) take myself off? ” was my thought as
I waited there. Ah, how I longed to run away! “Yes,” I continued, “I had
better come again tomorrow, for the weather may then be better, and I
shall not have upset the milk, and these generals will not be looking at
me so fiercely. ” In fact, I had actually begun to move towards the door
when Monsieur Markov entered--a grey-headed man with thievish eyes, and
clad in a dirty dressing-gown fastened with a belt. Greetings over, I
stumbled out something about Emelia Ivanovitch and forty roubles, and
then came to a dead halt, for his eyes told me that my errand had been
futile. “No. ” said he, “I have no money. Moreover, what security
could you offer? ” I admitted that I could offer none, but again added
something about Emelia, as well as about my pressing needs. Markov heard
me out, and then repeated that he had no money. “Ah,” thought I, “I
might have known this--I might have foreseen it! ” And, to tell the
truth, Barbara, I could have wished that the earth had opened under my
feet, so chilled did I feel as he said what he did, so numbed did my
legs grow as shivers began to run down my back. Thus I remained gazing
at him while he returned my gaze with a look which said, “Well now,
my friend? Why do you not go since you have no further business to do
here? ” Somehow I felt conscience-stricken. “How is it that you are in
such need of money? ” was what he appeared to be asking; whereupon, I
opened my mouth (anything rather than stand there to no purpose at all! )
but found that he was not even listening. “I have no money,” again he
said, “or I would lend you some with pleasure. ” Several times I repeated
that I myself possessed a little, and that I would repay any loan
from him punctually, most punctually, and that he might charge me what
interest he liked, since I would meet it without fail. Yes, at that
moment I remembered our misfortunes, our necessities, and I remembered
your half-rouble. “No,” said he, “I can lend you nothing without
security,” and clinched his assurance with an oath, the robber!

How I contrived to leave the house and, passing through Viborskaia
Street, to reach the Voskresenski Bridge I do not know. I only remember
that I felt terribly weary, cold, and starved, and that it was ten
o’clock before I reached the office. Arriving, I tried to clean myself
up a little, but Sniegirev, the porter, said that it was impossible for
me to do so, and that I should only spoil the brush, which belonged to
the Government. Thus, my darling, do such fellows rate me lower than
the mat on which they wipe their boots! What is it that will most
surely break me?