No More Learning

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. 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.