No More Learning

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? It is not the want of money, but the LITTLE worries
of life--these whisperings and nods and jeers. Any day his Excellency
himself may round upon me. Ah, dearest, my golden days are gone. Today I
have spent in reading your letters through; and the reading of them has
made me sad. Goodbye, my own, and may the Lord watch over you!

M. DIEVUSHKIN.

P. S. --To conceal my sorrow I would have written this letter half
jestingly; but, the faculty of jesting has not been given me. My one
desire, however, is to afford you pleasure. Soon I will come and see
you, dearest. Without fail I will come and see you.




August 11th.

O Barbara Alexievna, I am undone--we are both of us undone! Both of
us are lost beyond recall! Everything is ruined--my reputation, my
self-respect, all that I have in the world! And you as much as I. Never
shall we retrieve what we have lost. I--I have brought you to this pass,
for I have become an outcast, my darling. Everywhere I am laughed at
and despised. Even my landlady has taken to abusing me. Today she
overwhelmed me with shrill reproaches, and abased me to the level of a
hearth-brush. And last night, when I was in Rataziaev’s rooms, one of
his friends began to read a scribbled note which I had written to
you, and then inadvertently pulled out of my pocket. Oh beloved, what
laughter there arose at the recital! How those scoundrels mocked and
derided you and myself! I walked up to them and accused Rataziaev of
breaking faith. I said that he had played the traitor. But he only
replied that I had been the betrayer in the case, by indulging in
various amours. “You have kept them very dark though, Mr. Lovelace! ”
said he--and now I am known everywhere by this name of “Lovelace. ” They
know EVERYTHING about us, my darling, EVERYTHING--both about you and
your affairs and about myself; and when today I was for sending Phaldoni
to the bakeshop for something or other, he refused to go, saying that
it was not his business. “But you MUST go,” said I. “I will not,” he
replied. “You have not paid my mistress what you owe her, so I am not
bound to run your errands. ” At such an insult from a raw peasant I lost
my temper, and called him a fool; to which he retorted in a similar
vein. Upon this I thought that he must be drunk, and told him so;
whereupon he replied: “WHAT say you that I am? Suppose you yourself go
and sober up, for I know that the other day you went to visit a woman,
and that you got drunk with her on two grivenniks. ” To such a pass have
things come! I feel ashamed to be seen alive. I am, as it were, a man
proclaimed; I am in a worse plight even than a tramp who has lost his
passport. How misfortunes are heaping themselves upon me! I am lost--I
am lost for ever!

M. D.




August 13th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--It is true that misfortune is following
upon misfortune. I myself scarcely know what to do. Yet, no matter how
you may be fairing, you must not look for help from me, for only today I
burned my left hand with the iron! At one and the same moment I dropped
the iron, made a mistake in my work, and burned myself! So now I can no
longer work. Also, these three days past, Thedora has been ailing.
My anxiety is becoming positively torturous. Nevertheless, I send you
thirty kopecks--almost the last coins that I have left to me, much as I
should have liked to have helped you more when you are so much in need.
I feel vexed to the point of weeping. Goodbye, dear friend of mine. You
will bring me much comfort if only you will come and see me today.

B. D.




August 14th.

What is the matter with you, Makar Alexievitch? Surely you cannot
fear the Lord God as you ought to do? You are not only driving me to
distraction but also ruining yourself with this eternal solicitude for
your reputation. You are a man of honour, nobility of character, and
self-respect, as everyone knows; yet, at any moment, you are ready to
die with shame! Surely you should have more consideration for your grey
hairs. No, the fear of God has departed from you. Thedora has told you
that it is out of my power to render you anymore help. See, therefore,
to what a pass you have brought me! Probably you think it is nothing to
me that you should behave so badly; probably you do not realise what you
have made me suffer. I dare not set foot on the staircase here, for if
I do so I am stared at, and pointed at, and spoken about in the most
horrible manner. Yes, it is even said of me that I am “united to a
drunkard. ” What a thing to hear! And whenever you are brought home drunk
folk say, “They are carrying in that tchinovnik. ” THAT is not the proper
way to make me help you. I swear that I MUST leave this place, and go
and get work as a cook or a laundress. It is impossible for me to stay
here. Long ago I wrote and asked you to come and see me, yet you have
not come. Truly my tears and prayers must mean NOTHING to you, Makar
Alexievitch! Whence, too, did you get the money for your debauchery? For
the love of God be more careful of yourself, or you will be ruined. How
shameful, how abominable of you! So the landlady would not admit you
last night, and you spent the night on the doorstep? Oh, I know all
about it. Yet if only you could have seen my agony when I heard the
news! . . . Come and see me, Makar Alexievitch, and we will once more be
happy together. Yes, we will read together, and talk of old times, and
Thedora shall tell you of her pilgrimages in former days. For God’s sake
beloved, do not ruin both yourself and me. I live for you alone; it
is for your sake alone that I am still here. Be your better self once
more--the self which still can remain firm in the face of misfortune.
Poverty is no crime; always remember that. After all, why should we
despair? Our present difficulties will pass away, and God will right
us. Only be brave. I send you two grivenniks for the purchase of some
tobacco or anything else that you need; but, for the love of heaven, do
not spend the money foolishly. Come you and see me soon; come without
fail. Perhaps you may be ashamed to meet me, as you were before, but you
NEED not feel like that--such shame would be misplaced. Only do bring
with you sincere repentance and trust in God, who orders all things for
the best.

B. D.




August 19th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,-Yes, I AM ashamed to meet you, my
darling--I AM ashamed. At the same time, what is there in all this? Why
should we not be cheerful again? Why should I mind the soles of my feet
coming through my boots? The sole of one’s foot is a mere bagatelle--it
will never be anything but just a base, dirty sole. And shoes do not
matter, either. The Greek sages used to walk about without them, so why
should we coddle ourselves with such things? Yet why, also, should I
be insulted and despised because of them? Tell Thedora that she is a
rubbishy, tiresome, gabbling old woman, as well as an inexpressibly
foolish one. As for my grey hairs, you are quite wrong about them,
inasmuch as I am not such an old man as you think. Emelia sends you
his greeting. You write that you are in great distress, and have been
weeping. Well, I too am in great distress, and have been weeping. Nay,
nay. I wish you the best of health and happiness, even as I am well and
happy myself, so long as I may remain, my darling,--Your friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




August 21st.

MY DEAR AND KIND BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I feel that I am guilty, I feel
that I have sinned against you. Yet also I feel, from what you say, that
it is no use for me so to feel. Even before I had sinned I felt as I do
now; but I gave way to despair, and the more so as recognised my fault.
Darling, I am not cruel or hardhearted. To rend your little soul would
be the act of a blood-thirsty tiger, whereas I have the heart of a
sheep. You yourself know that I am not addicted to bloodthirstiness,
and therefore that I cannot really be guilty of the fault in question,
seeing that neither my mind nor my heart have participated in it.

Nor can I understand wherein the guilt lies. To me it is all a mystery.
When you sent me those thirty kopecks, and thereafter those two
grivenniks, my heart sank within me as I looked at the poor little
money. To think that though you had burned your hand, and would soon be
hungry, you could write to me that I was to buy tobacco! What was I to
do? Remorselessly to rob you, an orphan, as any brigand might do? I
felt greatly depressed, dearest. That is to say, persuaded that I should
never do any good with my life, and that I was inferior even to the
sole of my own boot, I took it into my head that it was absurd for me to
aspire at all--rather, that I ought to account myself a disgrace and an
abomination. Once a man has lost his self-respect, and has decided to
abjure his better qualities and human dignity, he falls headlong, and
cannot choose but do so. It is decreed of fate, and therefore I am not
guilty in this respect.

That evening I went out merely to get a breath of fresh air, but one
thing followed another--the weather was cold, all nature was looking
mournful, and I had fallen in with Emelia. This man had spent everything
that he possessed, and, at the time I met him, had not for two days
tasted a crust of bread. He had tried to raise money by pawning,
but what articles he had for the purpose had been refused by the
pawnbrokers. It was more from sympathy for a fellow-man than from any
liking for the individual that I yielded. That is how the fault arose,
dearest.

He spoke of you, and I mingled my tears with his. Yes, he is a man
of kind, kind heart--a man of deep feeling. I often feel as he did,
dearest, and, in addition, I know how beholden to you I am. As soon as
ever I got to know you I began both to realise myself and to love you;
for until you came into my life I had been a lonely man--I had been, as
it were, asleep rather than alive. In former days my rascally colleagues
used to tell me that I was unfit even to be seen; in fact, they so
disliked me that at length I began to dislike myself, for, being
frequently told that I was stupid, I began to believe that I really was
so. But the instant that YOU came into my life, you lightened the dark
places in it, you lightened both my heart and my soul. Gradually, I
gained rest of spirit, until I had come to see that I was no worse
than other men, and that, though I had neither style nor brilliancy nor
polish, I was still a MAN as regards my thoughts and feelings. But now,
alas! pursued and scorned of fate, I have again allowed myself to abjure
my own dignity. Oppressed of misfortune, I have lost my courage. Here is
my confession to you, dearest. With tears I beseech you not to inquire
further into the matter, for my heart is breaking, and life has grown
indeed hard and bitter for me--Beloved, I offer you my respect, and
remain ever your faithful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 3rd.

The reason why I did not finish my last letter, Makar Alexievitch, was
that I found it so difficult to write. There are moments when I am glad
to be alone--to grieve and repine without any one to share my sorrow:
and those moments are beginning to come upon me with ever-increasing
frequency. Always in my reminiscences I find something which is
inexplicable, yet strongly attractive--so much so that for hours together
I remain insensible to my surroundings, oblivious of reality. Indeed,
in my present life there is not a single impression that I
encounter--pleasant or the reverse--which does not recall to my mind
something of a similar nature in the past. More particularly is this the
case with regard to my childhood, my golden childhood. Yet such moments
always leave me depressed. They render me weak, and exhaust my powers of
fancy; with the result that my health, already not good, grows steadily
worse.

However, this morning it is a fine, fresh, cloudless day, such as we
seldom get in autumn. The air has revived me and I greet it with joy.
Yet to think that already the fall of the year has come! How I used
to love the country in autumn! Then but a child, I was yet a sensitive
being who loved autumn evenings better than autumn mornings. I remember
how beside our house, at the foot of a hill, there lay a large pond, and
how the pond--I can see it even now! --shone with a broad, level surface
that was as clear as crystal. On still evenings this pond would be at
rest, and not a rustle would disturb the trees which grew on its banks
and overhung the motionless expanse of water. How fresh it used to seem,
yet how cold! The dew would be falling upon the turf, lights would be
beginning to shine forth from the huts on the pond’s margin, and the
cattle would be wending their way home. Then quietly I would slip out
of the house to look at my beloved pond, and forget myself in
contemplation. Here and there a fisherman’s bundle of brushwood would be
burning at the water’s edge, and sending its light far and wide over
the surface. Above, the sky would be of a cold blue colour, save for a
fringe of flame-coloured streaks on the horizon that kept turning ever
paler and paler; and when the moon had come out there would be wafted
through the limpid air the sounds of a frightened bird fluttering, of a
bulrush rubbing against its fellows in the gentle breeze, and of a fish
rising with a splash. Over the dark water there would gather a thin,
transparent mist; and though, in the distance, night would be looming,
and seemingly enveloping the entire horizon, everything closer at hand
would be standing out as though shaped with a chisel--banks, boats,
little islands, and all. Beside the margin a derelict barrel would be
turning over and over in the water; a switch of laburnum, with yellowing
leaves, would go meandering through the reeds; and a belated gull
would flutter up, dive again into the cold depths, rise once more, and
disappear into the mist. How I would watch and listen to these things!
How strangely good they all would seem! But I was a mere infant in those
days--a mere child.

Yes, truly I loved autumn-tide--the late autumn when the crops are
garnered, and field work is ended, and the evening gatherings in the
huts have begun, and everyone is awaiting winter. Then does everything
become more mysterious, the sky frowns with clouds, yellow leaves strew
the paths at the edge of the naked forest, and the forest itself turns
black and blue--more especially at eventide when damp fog is spreading
and the trees glimmer in the depths like giants, like formless, weird
phantoms. Perhaps one may be out late, and had got separated from one’s
companions. Oh horrors! Suddenly one starts and trembles as one seems to
see a strange-looking being peering from out of the darkness of a hollow
tree, while all the while the wind is moaning and rattling and howling
through the forest--moaning with a hungry sound as it strips the leaves
from the bare boughs, and whirls them into the air. High over the
tree-tops, in a widespread, trailing, noisy crew, there fly, with
resounding cries, flocks of birds which seem to darken and overlay the
very heavens. Then a strange feeling comes over one, until one seems to
hear the voice of some one whispering: “Run, run, little child! Do not
be out late, for this place will soon have become dreadful! Run, little
child! Run! ” And at the words terror will possess one’s soul, and one
will rush and rush until one’s breath is spent--until, panting, one has
reached home.

At home, however, all will look bright and bustling as we children are
set to shell peas or poppies, and the damp twigs crackle in the stove,
and our mother comes to look fondly at our work, and our old nurse,
Iliana, tells us stories of bygone days, or terrible legends concerning
wizards and dead men. At the recital we little ones will press closer
to one another, yet smile as we do so; when suddenly, everyone becomes
silent. Surely somebody has knocked at the door? . . . But nay, nay; it
is only the sound of Frolovna’s spinning-wheel. What shouts of laughter
arise! Later one will be unable to sleep for fear of the strange dreams
which come to visit one; or, if one falls asleep, one will soon wake
again, and, afraid to stir, lie quaking under the coverlet until dawn.
And in the morning, one will arise as fresh as a lark and look at the
window, and see the fields overlaid with hoarfrost, and fine icicles
hanging from the naked branches, and the pond covered over with ice
as thin as paper, and a white steam rising from the surface, and birds
flying overhead with cheerful cries. Next, as the sun rises, he throws
his glittering beams everywhere, and melts the thin, glassy ice until
the whole scene has come to look bright and clear and exhilarating; and
as the fire begins to crackle again in the stove, we sit down to the
tea-urn, while, chilled with the night cold, our black dog, Polkan, will
look in at us through the window, and wag his tail with a cheerful air.
Presently, a peasant will pass the window in his cart bound for
the forest to cut firewood, and the whole party will feel merry and
contented together. Abundant grain lies stored in the byres, and
great stacks of wheat are glowing comfortably in the morning sunlight.
Everyone is quiet and happy, for God has blessed us with a bounteous
harvest, and we know that there will be abundance of food for the
wintertide. Yes, the peasant may rest assured that his family will not
want for aught. Song and dance will arise at night from the village
girls, and on festival days everyone will repair to God’s house to thank
Him with grateful tears for what He has done. . . . Ah, a golden time was
my time of childhood! . . .

Carried away by these memories, I could weep like a child. Everything,
everything comes back so clearly to my recollection! The past stands out
so vividly before me! Yet in the present everything looks dim and dark!
How will it all end? --how? Do you know, I have a feeling, a sort of
sure premonition, that I am going to die this coming autumn; for I feel
terribly, oh so terribly ill! Often do I think of death, yet feel that
I should not like to die here and be laid to rest in the soil of St.
Petersburg. Once more I have had to take to my bed, as I did last
spring, for I have never really recovered. Indeed I feel so depressed!
Thedora has gone out for the day, and I am alone. For a long while past
I have been afraid to be left by myself, for I keep fancying that there
is someone else in the room, and that that someone is speaking to me.
Especially do I fancy this when I have gone off into a reverie, and then
suddenly awoken from it, and am feeling bewildered. That is why I have
made this letter such a long one; for, when I am writing, the mood
passes away. Goodbye. I have neither time nor paper left for more, and
must close. Of the money which I saved to buy a new dress and hat, there
remains but a single rouble; but, I am glad that you have been able to
pay your landlady two roubles, for they will keep her tongue quiet for a
time. And you must repair your wardrobe.

Goodbye once more. I am so tired! Nor can I think why I am growing so
weak--why it is that even the smallest task now wearies me? Even if work
should come my way, how am I to do it? That is what worries me above all
things.

B. D.




September 5th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA,--Today I have undergone a variety of experiences. In
the first place, my head has been aching, and towards evening I went out
to get a breath of fresh air along the Fontanka Canal. The weather was
dull and damp, and even by six o’clock, darkness had begun to set in.
True, rain was not actually falling, but only a mist like rain, while
the sky was streaked with masses of trailing cloud. Crowds of people
were hurrying along Naberezhnaia Street, with faces that looked strange
and dejected. There were drunken peasants; snub-nosed old harridans in
slippers; bareheaded artisans; cab drivers; every species of beggar;
boys; a locksmith’s apprentice in a striped smock, with lean, emaciated
features which seemed to have been washed in rancid oil; an ex-soldier
who was offering penknives and copper rings for sale; and so on, and
so on. It was the hour when one would expect to meet no other folk than
these. And what a quantity of boats there were on the canal. It made
one wonder how they could all find room there. On every bridge were
old women selling damp gingerbread or withered apples, and every woman
looked as damp and dirty as her wares. In short, the Fontanka is a
saddening spot for a walk, for there is wet granite under one’s feet,
and tall, dingy buildings on either side of one, and wet mist below and
wet mist above. Yes, all was dark and gloomy there this evening.

By the time I had returned to Gorokhovaia Street darkness had fallen
and the lamps had been lit. However, I did not linger long in that
particular spot, for Gorokhovaia Street is too noisy a place. But
what sumptuous shops and stores it contains! Everything sparkles and
glitters, and the windows are full of nothing but bright colours and
materials and hats of different shapes. One might think that they were
decked merely for display; but no,--people buy these things, and give
them to their wives! Yes, it IS a sumptuous place. Hordes of German
hucksters are there, as well as quite respectable traders. And the
quantities of carriages which pass along the street! One marvels that
the pavement can support so many splendid vehicles, with windows like
crystal, linings made of silk and velvet, and lacqueys dressed in
epaulets and wearing swords! Into some of them I glanced, and saw that
they contained ladies of various ages. Perhaps they were princesses and
countesses! Probably at that hour such folk would be hastening to balls
and other gatherings. In fact, it was interesting to be able to look so
closely at a princess or a great lady. They were all very fine. At
all events, I had never before seen such persons as I beheld in those
carriages. . . .

Then I thought of you. Ah, my own, my darling, it is often that I think
of you and feel my heart sink. How is it that YOU are so unfortunate,
Barbara? How is it that YOU are so much worse off than other people? In
my eyes you are kind-hearted, beautiful, and clever--why, then, has
such an evil fate fallen to your lot? How comes it that you are left
desolate--you, so good a human being! While to others happiness comes
without an invitation at all? Yes, I know--I know it well--that I ought
not to say it, for to do so savours of free-thought; but why should that
raven, Fate, croak out upon the fortunes of one person while she is yet
in her mother’s womb, while another person it permits to go forth in
happiness from the home which has reared her? To even an idiot of
an Ivanushka such happiness is sometimes granted. “You, you fool
Ivanushka,” says Fate, “shall succeed to your grandfather’s money-bags,
and eat, drink, and be merry; whereas YOU (such and such another one)
shall do no more than lick the dish, since that is all that you are
good for. ” Yes, I know that it is wrong to hold such opinions, but
involuntarily the sin of so doing grows upon one’s soul. Nevertheless,
it is you, my darling, who ought to be riding in one of those carriages.
Generals would have come seeking your favour, and, instead of being
clad in a humble cotton dress, you would have been walking in silken
and golden attire. Then you would not have been thin and wan as now,
but fresh and plump and rosy-cheeked as a figure on a sugar-cake. Then
should I too have been happy--happy if only I could look at your lighted
windows from the street, and watch your shadow--happy if only I could
think that you were well and happy, my sweet little bird! Yet how are
things in reality? Not only have evil folk brought you to ruin, but
there comes also an old rascal of a libertine to insult you! Just
because he struts about in a frockcoat, and can ogle you through a
gold-mounted lorgnette, the brute thinks that everything will fall into
his hands--that you are bound to listen to his insulting condescension!
Out upon him! But why is this? It is because you are an orphan, it is
because you are unprotected, it is because you have no powerful friend
to afford you the decent support which is your due. WHAT do such facts
matter to a man or to men to whom the insulting of an orphan is an
offence allowed? Such fellows are not men at all, but mere vermin, no
matter what they think themselves to be. Of that I am certain. Why,
an organ-grinder whom I met in Gorokhovaia Street would inspire more
respect than they do, for at least he walks about all day, and suffers
hunger--at least he looks for a stray, superfluous groat to earn him
subsistence, and is, therefore, a true gentleman, in that he supports
himself. To beg alms he would be ashamed; and, moreover, he works for
the benefit of mankind just as does a factory machine. “So far as in me
lies,” says he, “I will give you pleasure. ” True, he is a pauper, and
nothing but a pauper; but, at least he is an HONOURABLE pauper. Though
tired and hungry, he still goes on working--working in his own peculiar
fashion, yet still doing honest labour. Yes, many a decent fellow whose
labour may be disproportionate to its utility pulls the forelock to no
one, and begs his bread of no one. I myself resemble that organ-grinder.
That is to say, though not exactly he, I resemble him in this respect,
that I work according to my capabilities, and so far as in me lies. More
could be asked of no one; nor ought I to be adjudged to do more.

Apropos of the organ-grinder, I may tell you, dearest, that today
I experienced a double misfortune. As I was looking at the grinder,
certain thoughts entered my head and I stood wrapped in a reverie. Some
cabmen also had halted at the spot, as well as a young girl, with a
yet smaller girl who was dressed in rags and tatters. These people had
halted there to listen to the organ-grinder, who was playing in front
of some one’s windows. Next, I caught sight of a little urchin of about
ten--a boy who would have been good-looking but for the fact that his
face was pinched and sickly. Almost barefooted, and clad only in a
shirt, he was standing agape to listen to the music--a pitiful childish
figure. Nearer to the grinder a few more urchins were dancing, but
in the case of this lad his hands and feet looked numbed, and he kept
biting the end of his sleeve and shivering. Also, I noticed that in his
hands he had a paper of some sort. Presently a gentleman came by, and
tossed the grinder a small coin, which fell straight into a box adorned
with a representation of a Frenchman and some ladies. The instant he
heard the rattle of the coin, the boy started, looked timidly round, and
evidently made up his mind that I had thrown the money; whereupon, he
ran to me with his little hands all shaking, and said in a tremulous
voice as he proffered me his paper: “Pl-please sign this. ” I turned over
the paper, and saw that there was written on it what is usual under
such circumstances. “Kind friends I am a sick mother with three hungry
children. Pray help me. Though soon I shall be dead, yet, if you will
not forget my little ones in this world, neither will I forget you in
the world that is to come. ” The thing seemed clear enough; it was a
matter of life and death. Yet what was I to give the lad? Well, I gave
him nothing. But my heart ached for him. I am certain that, shivering
with cold though he was, and perhaps hungry, the poor lad was not lying.
No, no, he was not lying.

The shameful point is that so many mothers take no care of their
children, but send them out, half-clad, into the cold. Perhaps this
lad’s mother also was a feckless old woman, and devoid of character? Or
perhaps she had no one to work for her, but was forced to sit with her
legs crossed--a veritable invalid? Or perhaps she was just an old rogue
who was in the habit of sending out pinched and hungry boys to deceive
the public? What would such a boy learn from begging letters? His heart
would soon be rendered callous, for, as he ran about begging, people
would pass him by and give him nothing. Yes, their hearts would be as
stone, and their replies rough and harsh. “Away with you! ” they would
say. “You are seeking but to trick us. ” He would hear that from every
one, and his heart would grow hard, and he would shiver in vain with the
cold, like some poor little fledgling that has fallen out of the
nest. His hands and feet would be freezing, and his breath coming with
difficulty; until, look you, he would begin to cough, and disease, like
an unclean parasite, would worm its way into his breast until death
itself had overtaken him--overtaken him in some foetid corner whence
there was no chance of escape. Yes, that is what his life would become.

There are many such cases. Ah, Barbara, it is hard to hear “For Christ’s
sake! ” and yet pass the suppliant by and give nothing, or say merely:
“May the Lord give unto you! ” Of course, SOME supplications mean
nothing (for supplications differ greatly in character). Occasionally
supplications are long, drawn-out and drawling, stereotyped and
mechanical--they are purely begging supplications. Requests of this kind
it is less hard to refuse, for they are purely professional and of long
standing. “The beggar is overdoing it,” one thinks to oneself. “He knows
the trick too well. ” But there are other supplications which voice a
strange, hoarse, unaccustomed note, like that today when I took the poor
boy’s paper. He had been standing by the kerbstone without speaking to
anybody--save that at last to myself he said, “For the love of Christ
give me a groat! ” in a voice so hoarse and broken that I started, and
felt a queer sensation in my heart, although I did not give him a groat.
Indeed, I had not a groat on me. Rich folk dislike hearing poor people
complain of their poverty. “They disturb us,” they say, “and are
impertinent as well. Why should poverty be so impertinent? Why should
its hungry moans prevent us from sleeping? ”

To tell you the truth, my darling, I have written the foregoing not
merely to relieve my feelings, but, also, still more, to give you an
example of the excellent style in which I can write. You yourself will
recognise that my style was formed long ago, but of late such fits of
despondency have seized upon me that my style has begun to correspond
to my feelings; and though I know that such correspondence gains one
little, it at least renders one a certain justice. For not unfrequently
it happens that, for some reason or another, one feels abased, and
inclined to value oneself at nothing, and to account oneself lower than
a dishclout; but this merely arises from the fact that at the time one
is feeling harassed and depressed, like the poor boy who today asked of
me alms. Let me tell you an allegory, dearest, and do you hearken to it.
Often, as I hasten to the office in the morning, I look around me at
the city--I watch it awaking, getting out of bed, lighting its fires,
cooking its breakfast, and becoming vocal; and at the sight, I begin to
feel smaller, as though some one had dealt me a rap on my inquisitive
nose. Yes, at such times I slink along with a sense of utter humiliation
in my heart. For one would have but to see what is passing within those
great, black, grimy houses of the capital, and to penetrate within
their walls, for one at once to realise what good reason there is for
self-depredation and heart-searching. Of course, you will note that I am
speaking figuratively rather than literally.

Let us look at what is passing within those houses. In some dingy
corner, perhaps, in some damp kennel which is supposed to be a room, an
artisan has just awakened from sleep. All night he has dreamt--IF such
an insignificant fellow is capable of dreaming? --about the shoes which
last night he mechanically cut out. He is a master-shoemaker, you see,
and therefore able to think of nothing but his one subject of interest.
Nearby are some squalling children and a hungry wife. Nor is he the
only man that has to greet the day in this fashion. Indeed, the incident
would be nothing--it would not be worth writing about, save for another
circumstance. In that same house ANOTHER person--a person of great
wealth-may also have been dreaming of shoes; but, of shoes of a
very different pattern and fashion (in a manner of speaking, if you
understand my metaphor, we are all of us shoemakers). This, again, would
be nothing, were it not that the rich person has no one to whisper in
his ear: “Why dost thou think of such things? Why dost thou think of
thyself alone, and live only for thyself--thou who art not a shoemaker?
THY children are not ailing. THY wife is not hungry. Look around thee.
Can’st thou not find a subject more fitting for thy thoughts than thy
shoes? ” That is what I want to say to you in allegorical language,
Barbara. Maybe it savours a little of free-thought, dearest; but, such
ideas WILL keep arising in my mind and finding utterance in impetuous
speech. Why, therefore, should one not value oneself at a groat as one
listens in fear and trembling to the roar and turmoil of the city?