No More Learning

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? Maybe
you think that I am exaggerating things--that this is a mere whim of
mine, or that I am quoting from a book? No, no, Barbara. You may rest
assured that it is not so. Exaggeration I abhor, with whims I have
nothing to do, and of quotation I am guiltless.

I arrived home today in a melancholy mood. Sitting down to the table, I
had warmed myself some tea, and was about to drink a second glass of it,
when there entered Gorshkov, the poor lodger. Already, this morning,
I had noticed that he was hovering around the other lodgers, and also
seeming to want to speak to myself. In passing I may say that his
circumstances are infinitely worse than my own; for, only think of it,
he has a wife and children! Indeed, if I were he, I do not know what
I should do. Well, he entered my room, and bowed to me with the pus
standing, as usual, in drops on his eyelashes, his feet shuffling about,
and his tongue unable, at first, to articulate a word. I motioned him to
a chair (it was a dilapidated enough one, but I had no other), and asked
him to have a glass of tea. To this he demurred--for quite a long time
he demurred, but at length he accepted the offer. Next, he was for
drinking the tea without sugar, and renewed his excuses, but upon
the sugar I insisted. After long resistance and many refusals, he DID
consent to take some, but only the smallest possible lump; after which,
he assured me that his tea was perfectly sweet. To what depths of
humility can poverty reduce a man! “Well, what is it, my good sir? ” I
inquired of him; whereupon he replied: “It is this, Makar Alexievitch.
You have once before been my benefactor. Pray again show me the charity
of God, and assist my unfortunate family. My wife and children have
nothing to eat. To think that a father should have to say this! ” I was
about to speak again when he interrupted me. “You see,” he continued,
“I am afraid of the other lodgers here. That is to say, I am not so much
afraid of, as ashamed to address them, for they are a proud, conceited
lot of men. Nor would I have troubled even you, my friend and former
benefactor, were it not that I know that you yourself have experienced
misfortune and are in debt; wherefore, I have ventured to come and make
this request of you, in that I know you not only to be kind-hearted, but
also to be in need, and for that reason the more likely to sympathise
with me in my distress. ” To this he added an apology for his awkwardness
and presumption. I replied that, glad though I should have been to
serve him, I had nothing, absolutely nothing, at my disposal. “Ah, Makar
Alexievitch,” he went on, “surely it is not much that I am asking of
you? My-my wife and children are starving. C-could you not afford me
just a grivennik? ” At that my heart contracted, “How these people put me
to shame! ” thought I. But I had only twenty kopecks left, and upon them
I had been counting for meeting my most pressing requirements. “No, good
sir, I cannot,” said I. “Well, what you will,” he persisted. “Perhaps
ten kopecks? ” Well I got out my cash-box, and gave him the twenty. It
was a good deed. To think that such poverty should exist! Then I had
some further talk with him. “How is it,” I asked him, “that, though you
are in such straits, you have hired a room at five roubles? ” He replied
that though, when he engaged the room six months ago, he paid three
months’ rent in advance, his affairs had subsequently turned out badly,
and never righted themselves since. You see, Barbara, he was sued at
law by a merchant who had defrauded the Treasury in the matter of a
contract. When the fraud was discovered the merchant was prosecuted, but
the transactions in which he had engaged involved Gorshkov, although
the latter had been guilty only of negligence, want of prudence, and
culpable indifference to the Treasury’s interests. True, the affair had
taken place some years ago, but various obstacles had since combined
to thwart Gorshkov. “Of the disgrace put upon me,” said he to me, “I am
innocent. True, I to a certain extent disobeyed orders, but never did
I commit theft or embezzlement. ” Nevertheless the affair lost him
his character. He was dismissed the service, and though not adjudged
capitally guilty, has been unable since to recover from the merchant a
large sum of money which is his by right, as spared to him (Gorshkov)
by the legal tribunal. True, the tribunal in question did not altogether
believe in Gorshkov, but I do so. The matter is of a nature so complex
and crooked that probably a hundred years would be insufficient to
unravel it; and, though it has now to a certain extent been cleared up,
the merchant still holds the key to the situation. Personally I side
with Gorshkov, and am very sorry for him. Though lacking a post of any
kind, he still refuses to despair, though his resources are completely
exhausted. Yes, it is a tangled affair, and meanwhile he must live, for,
unfortunately, another child which has been born to him has entailed
upon the family fresh expenses. Also, another of his children recently
fell ill and died--which meant yet further expense. Lastly, not only is
his wife in bad health, but he himself is suffering from a complaint of
long standing. In short, he has had a very great deal to undergo. Yet he
declares that daily he expects a favourable issue to his affair--that he
has no doubt of it whatever. I am terribly sorry for him, and said what
I could to give him comfort, for he is a man who has been much bullied
and misled. He had come to me for protection from his troubles, so I did
my best to soothe him. Now, goodbye, my darling. May Christ watch over
you and preserve your health. Dearest one, even to think of you is like
medicine to my ailing soul. Though I suffer for you, I at least suffer
gladly. --Your true friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.




September 9th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I am beside myself as I take up my pen,
for a most terrible thing has happened. My head is whirling round. Ah,
beloved, how am I to tell you about it all? I had never foreseen what
has happened. But no--I cannot say that I had NEVER foreseen it, for my
mind DID get an inkling of what was coming, through my seeing something
very similar to it in a dream.

I will tell you the whole story--simply, and as God may put it into my
heart. Today I went to the office as usual, and, upon arrival, sat down
to write. You must know that I had been engaged on the same sort of
work yesterday, and that, while executing it, I had been approached by
Timothei Ivanovitch with an urgent request for a particular document.
“Makar Alexievitch,” he had said, “pray copy this out for me. Copy it
as quickly and as carefully as you can, for it will require to be signed
today. ” Also let me tell you, dearest, that yesterday I had not been
feeling myself, nor able to look at anything. I had been troubled with
grave depression--my breast had felt chilled, and my head clouded. All
the while I had been thinking of you, my darling. Well, I set to work
upon the copying, and executed it cleanly and well, except for the
fact that, whether the devil confused my mind, or a mysterious fate so
ordained, or the occurrence was simply bound to happen, I left out a
whole line of the document, and thus made nonsense of it! The work had
been given me too late for signature last night, so it went before his
Excellency this morning. I reached the office at my usual hour, and sat
down beside Emelia Ivanovitch. Here I may remark that for a long time
past I have been feeling twice as shy and diffident as I used to do; I
have been finding it impossible to look people in the face. Let only
a chair creak, and I become more dead than alive. Today, therefore, I
crept humbly to my seat and sat down in such a crouching posture that
Efim Akimovitch (the most touchy man in the world) said to me sotto
voce: “What on earth makes you sit like that, Makar Alexievitch? ” Then
he pulled such a grimace that everyone near us rocked with laughter at
my expense. I stopped my ears, frowned, and sat without moving, for I
found this the best method of putting a stop to such merriment. All at
once I heard a bustle and a commotion and the sound of someone running
towards us. Did my ears deceive me? It was I who was being summoned in
peremptory tones! My heart started to tremble within me, though I could
not say why. I only know that never in my life before had it trembled
as it did then. Still I clung to my chair--and at that moment was hardly
myself at all. The voices were coming nearer and nearer, until they were
shouting in my ear: “Dievushkin! Dievushkin! Where is Dievushkin? ” Then
at length I raised my eyes, and saw before me Evstafi Ivanovitch. He
said to me: “Makar Alexievitch, go at once to his Excellency. You have
made a mistake in a document. ” That was all, but it was enough, was
it not? I felt dead and cold as ice--I felt absolutely deprived of the
power of sensation; but, I rose from my seat and went whither I had
been bidden. Through one room, through two rooms, through three rooms I
passed, until I was conducted into his Excellency’s cabinet itself. Of
my thoughts at that moment I can give no exact account. I merely saw his
Excellency standing before me, with a knot of people around him. I have
an idea that I did not salute him--that I forgot to do so. Indeed,
so panic-stricken was I, that my teeth were chattering and my knees
knocking together. In the first place, I was greatly ashamed of my
appearance (a glance into a mirror on the right had frightened me with
the reflection of myself that it presented), and, in the second place, I
had always been accustomed to comport myself as though no such person
as I existed. Probably his Excellency had never before known that I was
even alive. Of course, he might have heard, in passing, that there was
a man named Dievushkin in his department; but never for a moment had he
had any intercourse with me.

He began angrily: “What is this you have done, sir? Why are you not
more careful? The document was wanted in a hurry, and you have gone
and spoiled it. What do you think of it? ”--the last being addressed
to Evstafi Ivanovitch. More I did not hear, except for some flying
exclamations of “What negligence and carelessness! How awkward this is! ”
and so on. I opened my mouth to say something or other; I tried to
beg pardon, but could not. To attempt to leave the room, I had not
the hardihood. Then there happened something the recollection of which
causes the pen to tremble in my hand with shame. A button of mine--the
devil take it! --a button of mine that was hanging by a single thread
suddenly broke off, and hopped and skipped and rattled and rolled until
it had reached the feet of his Excellency himself--this amid a profound
general silence! THAT was what came of my intended self-justification
and plea for mercy! THAT was the only answer that I had to return to my
chief!

The sequel I shudder to relate. At once his Excellency’s attention
became drawn to my figure and costume. I remembered what I had seen
in the mirror, and hastened to pursue the button. Obstinacy of a sort
seized upon me, and I did my best to arrest the thing, but it slipped
away, and kept turning over and over, so that I could not grasp it, and
made a sad spectacle of myself with my awkwardness. Then there came over
me a feeling that my last remaining strength was about to leave me, and
that all, all was lost--reputation, manhood, everything! In both ears I
seemed to hear the voices of Theresa and Phaldoni. At length, however, I
grasped the button, and, raising and straightening myself, stood humbly
with clasped hands--looking a veritable fool! But no. First of all I
tried to attach the button to the ragged threads, and smiled each time
that it broke away from them, and smiled again. In the beginning his
Excellency had turned away, but now he threw me another glance, and I
heard him say to Evstafi Ivanovitch: “What on earth is the matter with
the fellow? Look at the figure he cuts! Who to God is he? ” Ah, beloved,
only to hear that, “Who to God is he? ” Truly I had made myself a marked
man! In reply to his Excellency Evstafi murmured: “He is no one of any
note, though his character is good. Besides, his salary is sufficient as
the scale goes. ” “Very well, then; but help him out of his difficulties
somehow,” said his Excellency. “Give him a trifle of salary in advance. ”
“It is all forestalled,” was the reply. “He drew it some time ago. But
his record is good. There is nothing against him. ” At this I felt as
though I were in Hell fire. I could actually have died! “Well, well,”
said his Excellency, “let him copy out the document a second time.
Dievushkin, come here. You are to make another copy of this paper, and
to make it as quickly as possible. ” With that he turned to some
other officials present, issued to them a few orders, and the company
dispersed. No sooner had they done so than his Excellency hurriedly
pulled out a pocket-book, took thence a note for a hundred roubles, and,
with the words, “Take this. It is as much as I can afford. Treat it as
you like,” placed the money in my hand! At this, dearest, I started
and trembled, for I was moved to my very soul. What next I did I hardly
know, except that I know that I seized his Excellency by the hand.
But he only grew very red, and then--no, I am not departing by a
hair’s-breadth from the truth--it is true--that he took this unworthy
hand in his, and shook it! Yes, he took this hand of mine in his, and
shook it, as though I had been his equal, as though I had been a general
like himself! “Go now,” he said. “This is all that I can do for you.
Make no further mistakes, and I will overlook your fault. ”

What I think about it is this: I beg of you and of Thedora, and had
I any children I should beg of them also, to pray ever to God for his
Excellency. I should say to my children: “For your father you need not
pray; but for his Excellency, I bid you pray until your lives shall
end. ” Yes, dear one--I tell you this in all solemnity, so hearken well
unto my words--that though, during these cruel days of our adversity,
I have nearly died of distress of soul at the sight of you and your
poverty, as well as at the sight of myself and my abasement and
helplessness, I yet care less for the hundred roubles which his
Excellency has given me than for the fact that he was good enough to
take the hand of a wretched drunkard in his own and press it. By that
act he restored me to myself. By that act he revived my courage, he made
life forever sweet to me. . . . Yes, sure am I that, sinner though I be
before the Almighty, my prayers for the happiness and prosperity of his
Excellency will yet ascend to the Heavenly Throne! . .