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Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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E-Text prepared by Martin Adamson

Poor Folk

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translated by

CJ Hogarth

April 8th

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--How happy I was last night--how
immeasurably, how impossibly happy! That was because for once in
your life you had relented so far as to obey my wishes. At about
eight o'clock I awoke from sleep (you know, my beloved one, that
I always like to sleep for a short hour after my work is done)--I
awoke, I say, and, lighting a candle, prepared my paper to write,
and trimmed my pen. Then suddenly, for some reason or another, I
raised my eyes--and felt my very heart leap within me! For you
had understood what I wanted, you had understood what my heart
was craving for. Yes, I perceived that a corner of the curtain in
your window had been looped up and fastened to the cornice as I
had suggested should be done; and it seemed to me that your dear
face was glimmering at the window, and that you were looking at
me from out of the darkness of your room, and that you were
thinking of me. Yet how vexed I felt that I could not distinguish
your sweet face clearly! For there was a time when you and I
could see one another without any difficulty at all. Ah me, but
old age is not always a blessing, my beloved one! At this very
moment everything is standing awry to my eyes, for a man needs
only to work late overnight in his writing of something or other
for, in the morning, his eyes to be red, and the tears to be
gushing from them in a way that makes him ashamed to be seen
before strangers. However, I was able to picture to myself your
beaming smile, my angel--your kind, bright smile; and in my heart
there lurked just such a feeling as on the occasion when I first
kissed you, my little Barbara. Do you remember that, my darling?
Yet somehow you seemed to be threatening me with your tiny
finger. Was it so, little wanton? You must write and tell me
about it in your next letter.

But what think you of the plan of the curtain, Barbara? It is a
charming one, is it not? No matter whether I be at work, or about
to retire to rest, or just awaking from sleep, it enables me to
know that you are thinking of me, and remembering me--that you
are both well and happy. Then when you lower the curtain, it
means that it is time that I, Makar Alexievitch, should go to
bed; and when again you raise the curtain, it means that you are
saying to me, "Good morning," and asking me how I am, and whether
I have slept well. "As for myself," adds the curtain, "I am
altogether in good health and spirits, glory be to God!" Yes, my
heart's delight, you see how easy a plan it was to devise, and
how much writing it will save us! It is a clever plan, is it not?
And it was my own invention, too! Am I not cunning in such
matters, Barbara Alexievna?

Well, next let me tell you, dearest, that last night I slept
better and more soundly than I had ever hoped to do, and that I
am the more delighted at the fact in that, as you know, I had
just settled into a new lodging--a circumstance only too apt to
keep one from sleeping! This morning, too, I arose (joyous and
full of love) at cockcrow. How good seemed everything at that
hour, my darling! When I opened my window I could see the sun
shining, and hear the birds singing, and smell the air laden with
scents of spring. In short, all nature was awaking to life again.
Everything was in consonance with my mood; everything seemed fair
and spring-like. Moreover, I had a fancy that I should fare well
today. But my whole thoughts were bent upon you. "Surely,"
thought I, "we mortals who dwell in pain and sorrow might with
reason envy the birds of heaven which know not either!" And my
other thoughts were similar to these. In short, I gave myself up
to fantastic comparisons. A little book which I have says the
same kind of thing in a variety of ways. For instance, it says
that one may have many, many fancies, my Barbara--that as soon as
the spring comes on, one's thoughts become uniformly pleasant and
sportive and witty, for the reason that, at that season, the mind
inclines readily to tenderness, and the world takes on a more
roseate hue. From that little book of mine I have culled the
following passage, and written it down for you to see. In
particular does the author express a longing similar to my own,
where he writes:

"Why am I not a bird free to seek its quest?"

And he has written much else, God bless him!

But tell me, my love--where did you go for your walk this
morning? Even before I had started for the office you had taken
flight from your room, and passed through the courtyard--yes,
looking as vernal-like as a bird in spring. What rapture it gave
me to see you! Ah, little Barbara, little Barbara, you must never
give way to grief, for tears are of no avail, nor sorrow. I know
this well--I know it of my own experience. So do you rest quietly
until you have regained your health a little. But how is our good
Thedora? What a kind heart she has! You write that she is now
living with you, and that you are satisfied with what she does.
True, you say that she is inclined to grumble, but do not mind
that, Barbara. God bless her, for she is an excellent soul!

But what sort of an abode have I lighted upon, Barbara Alexievna?
What sort of a tenement, do you think, is this? Formerly, as you
know, I used to live in absolute stillness--so much so that if a
fly took wing it could plainly be heard buzzing. Here, however,
all is turmoil and shouting and clatter. The PLAN of the tenement
you know already. Imagine a long corridor, quite dark, and by no
means clean. To the right a dead wall, and to the left a row of
doors stretching as far as the line of rooms extends. These rooms
are tenanted by different people--by one, by two, or by three
lodgers as the case may be, but in this arrangement there is no
sort of system, and the place is a perfect Noah's Ark. Most of
the lodgers are respectable, educated, and even bookish people.
In particular they include a tchinovnik (one of the literary
staff in some government department), who is so well-read that he
can expound Homer or any other author--in fact, ANYTHING, such a
man of talent is he! Also, there are a couple of officers (for
ever playing cards), a midshipman, and an English tutor. But, to
amuse you, dearest, let me describe these people more
categorically in my next letter, and tell you in detail about
their lives. As for our landlady, she is a dirty little old woman
who always walks about in a dressing-gown and slippers, and never
ceases to shout at Theresa. I myself live in the kitchen--or,
rather, in a small room which forms part of the kitchen. The
latter is a very large, bright, clean, cheerful apartment with
three windows in it, and a partition-wall which, running outwards
from the front wall, makes a sort of little den, a sort of extra
room, for myself. Everything in this den is comfortable and
convenient, and I have, as I say, a window to myself. So much for
a description of my dwelling-place. Do not think, dearest, that
in all this there is any hidden intention. The fact that I live
in the kitchen merely means that I live behind the partition wall
in that apartment--that I live quite alone, and spend my time in
a quiet fashion compounded of trifles. For furniture I have
provided myself with a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, and two
small chairs. Also, I have suspended an ikon. True, better rooms
MAY exist in the world than this--much better rooms; yet COMFORT
is the chief thing. In fact, I have made all my arrangements for
comfort's sake alone; so do not for a moment imagine that I had
any other end in view. And since your window happens to be just
opposite to mine, and since the courtyard between us is narrow
and I can see you as you pass,--why, the result is that this
miserable wretch will be able to live at once more happily and
with less outlay. The dearest room in this house costs, with
board, thirty-five roubles--more than my purse could well afford;
whereas MY room costs only twenty-four, though formerly I used to
pay thirty, and so had to deny myself many things (I could drink
tea but seldom, and never could indulge in tea and sugar as I do
now). But, somehow, I do not like having to go without tea, for
everyone else here is respectable, and the fact makes me ashamed.
After all, one drinks tea largely to please one's fellow men,
Barbara, and to give oneself tone and an air of gentility
(though, of myself, I care little about such things, for I am not
a man of the finicking sort). Yet think you that, when all things
needful--boots and the rest--have been paid for, much will
remain? Yet I ought not to grumble at my salary,--I am quite
satisfied with it; it is sufficient. It has sufficed me now for
some years, and, in addition, I receive certain gratuities.

Well good-bye, my darling. I have bought you two little pots of
geraniums--quite cheap little pots, too--as a present. Perhaps
you would also like some mignonette? Mignonette it shall be if
only you will write to inform me of everything in detail. Also,
do not misunderstand the fact that I have taken this room, my
dearest. Convenience and nothing else, has made me do so. The
snugness of the place has caught my fancy. Also. I shall be able
to save money here, and to hoard it against the future. Already I
have saved a little money as a beginning. Nor must you despise me
because I am such an insignificant old fellow that a fly could
break me with its wing. True, I am not a swashbuckler; but
perhaps there may also abide in me the spirit which should
pertain to every man who is at once resigned and sure of himself.
Good-bye, then, again, my angel. I have now covered close upon a
whole two sheets of notepaper, though I ought long ago to have
been starting for the office. I kiss your hands, and remain ever
your devoted slave, your faithful friend,


P.S.--One thing I beg of you above all things--and that is, that
you will answer this letter as FULLY as possible. With the letter
I send you a packet of bonbons. Eat them for your health's sake,
nor, for the love of God, feel any uneasiness about me. Once
more, dearest one, good-bye.

April 8th

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Do you know, must quarrel with
you. Yes, good Makar Alexievitch, I really cannot accept your
presents, for I know what they must have cost you--I know to what
privations and self-denial they must have led. How many times
have I not told you that I stand in need of NOTHING, of
absolutely NOTHING, as well as that I shall never be in a
position to recompense you for all the kindly acts with which you
have loaded me? Why, for instance, have you sent me geraniums? A
little sprig of balsam would not have mattered so much-- but
geraniums! Only have I to let fall an unguarded word--for
example, about geraniums--and at once you buy me some! How much
they must have cost you! Yet what a charm there is in them, with
their flaming petals! Wherever did you get these beautiful
plants? I have set them in my window as the most conspicuous
place possible, while on the floor I have placed a bench for my
other flowers to stand on (since you are good enough to enrich me
with such presents). Unfortunately, Thedora, who, with her
sweeping and polishing, makes a perfect sanctuary of my room, is
not over-pleased at the arrangement. But why have you sent me
also bonbons? Your letter tells me that something special is
afoot with you, for I find in it so much about paradise and
spring and sweet odours and the songs of birds. Surely, thought I
to myself when I received it, this is as good as poetry! Indeed,
verses are the only thing that your letter lacks, Makar
Alexievitch. And what tender feelings I can read in it--what
roseate-coloured fancies! To the curtain, however, I had never
given a thought. The fact is that when I moved the flower-pots,
it LOOPED ITSELF up. There now!

Ah, Makar Alexievitch, you neither speak of nor give any account
of what you have spent upon me. You hope thereby to deceive me,
to make it seem as though the cost always falls upon you alone,
and that there is nothing to conceal. Yet I KNOW that for my sake
you deny yourself necessaries. For instance, what has made you go
and take the room which you have done, where you will be worried
and disturbed, and where you have neither elbow-space nor
comfort--you who love solitude, and never like to have any one
near you? To judge from your salary, I should think that you
might well live in greater ease than that. Also, Thedora tells me
that your circumstances used to be much more affluent than they
are at present. Do you wish, then, to persuade me that your whole
existence has been passed in loneliness and want and gloom, with
never a cheering word to help you, nor a seat in a friend's
chimney-corner? Ah, kind comrade, how my heart aches for you! But
do not overtask your health, Makar Alexievitch. For instance, you
say that your eyes are over-weak for you to go on writing in your
office by candle-light. Then why do so? I am sure that your
official superiors do not need to be convinced of your diligence!

Once more I implore you not to waste so much money upon me. I
know how much you love me, but I also know that you are not rich.
. . . This morning I too rose in good spirits. Thedora had long
been at work; and it was time that I too should bestir myself.
Indeed I was yearning to do so, so I went out for some silk, and
then sat down to my labours. All the morning I felt light-hearted
and cheerful. Yet now my thoughts are once more dark and sad--
once more my heart is ready to sink.

Ah, what is going to become of me? What will be my fate? To have
to be so uncertain as to the future, to have to be unable to
foretell what is going to happen, distresses me deeply. Even to
look back at the past is horrible, for it contains sorrow that
breaks my very heart at the thought of it. Yes, a whole century
in tears could I spend because of the wicked people who have
wrecked my life!

But dusk is coming on, and I must set to work again. Much else
should I have liked to write to you, but time is lacking, and I
must hasten. Of course, to write this letter is a pleasure
enough, and could never be wearisome; but why do you not come to
see me in person? Why do you not, Makar Alexievitch? You live so
close to me, and at least SOME of your time is your own. I pray
you, come. I have just seen Theresa. She was looking so ill, and
I felt so sorry for her, that I gave her twenty kopecks. I am
almost falling asleep. Write to me in fullest detail, both
concerning your mode of life, and concerning the people who live
with you, and concerning how you fare with them. I should so like
to know! Yes, you must write again. Tonight I have purposely
looped the curtain up. Go to bed early, for, last night, I saw
your candle burning until nearly midnight. Goodbye! I am now
feeling sad and weary. Ah that I should have to spend such days
as this one has been. Again good-bye.--Your friend,


April 8th

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--To think that a day like this
should have fallen to my miserable lot! Surely you are making fun
of an old man? ... However, it was my own fault--my own fault
entirely. One ought not to grow old holding a lock of Cupid's
hair in one's hand. Naturally one is misunderstood.... Yet man is
sometimes a very strange being. By all the Saints, he will talk
of doing things, yet leave them undone, and remain looking the
kind of fool from whom may the Lord preserve us! . . . Nay, I am
not angry, my beloved; I am only vexed to think that I should
have written to you in such stupid, flowery phraseology. Today I
went hopping and skipping to the office, for my heart was under
your influence, and my soul was keeping holiday, as it were. Yes,
everything seemed to be going well with me. Then I betook myself
to my work. But with what result? I gazed around at the old
familiar objects, at the old familiar grey and gloomy objects.
They looked just the same as before. Yet WERE those the same
inkstains, the same tables and chairs, that I had hitherto known?
Yes, they WERE the same, exactly the same; so why should I have
gone off riding on Pegasus' back? Whence had that mood arisen? It
had arisen from the fact that a certain sun had beamed upon me,
and turned the sky to blue. But why so? Why is it, sometimes,
that sweet odours seem to be blowing through a courtyard where
nothing of the sort can be? They must be born of my foolish
fancy, for a man may stray so far into sentiment as to forget his
immediate surroundings, and to give way to the superfluity of
fond ardour with which his heart is charged. On the other hand,
as I walked home from the office at nightfall my feet seemed to
lag, and my head to be aching. Also, a cold wind seemed to be
blowing down my back (enraptured with the spring, I had gone out
clad only in a thin overcoat). Yet you have misunderstood my
sentiments, dearest. They are altogether different to what you
suppose. It is a purely paternal feeling that I have for you. I
stand towards you in the position of a relative who is bound to
watch over your lonely orphanhood. This I say in all sincerity,
and with a single purpose, as any kinsman might do. For, after
all, I AM a distant kinsman of yours--the seventh drop of water
in the pudding, as the proverb has it--yet still a kinsman, and
at the present time your nearest relative and protector, seeing
that where you had the right to look for help and protection, you
found only treachery and insult. As for poetry, I may say that I
consider it unbecoming for a man of my years to devote his
faculties to the making of verses. Poetry is rubbish. Even boys
at school ought to be whipped for writing it.

Why do you write thus about "comfort" and "peace" and the rest? I
am not a fastidious man, nor one who requires much. Never in my
life have I been so comfortable as now. Why, then, should I
complain in my old age? I have enough to eat, I am well dressed
and booted. Also, I have my diversions. You see, I am not of
noble blood. My father himself was not a gentleman; he and his
family had to live even more plainly than I do. Nor am I a
milksop. Nevertheless, to speak frankly, I do not like my present
abode so much as I used to like my old one. Somehow the latter
seemed more cosy, dearest. Of course, this room is a good one
enough; in fact, in SOME respects it is the more cheerful and
interesting of the two. I have nothing to say against it--no. Yet
I miss the room that used to be so familiar to me. Old lodgers
like myself soon grow as attached to our chattels as to a
kinsman. My old room was such a snug little place! True, its
walls resembled those of any other room--I am not speaking of
that; the point is that the recollection of them seems to haunt
my mind with sadness. Curious that recollections should be so
mournful! Even what in that room used to vex me and inconvenience
me now looms in a purified light, and figures in my imagination
as a thing to be desired. We used to live there so quietly--I and
an old landlady who is now dead. How my heart aches to remember
her, for she was a good woman, and never overcharged for her
rooms. Her whole time was spent in making patchwork quilts with
knitting-needles that were an arshin [An ell.] long. Oftentimes
we shared the same candle and board. Also she had a
granddaughter, Masha--a girl who was then a mere baby, but must
now be a girl of thirteen. This little piece of mischief, how she
used to make us laugh the day long! We lived together, a happy
family of three. Often of a long winter's evening we would first
have tea at the big round table, and then betake ourselves to our
work; the while that, to amuse the child and to keep her out of
mischief, the old lady would set herself to tell stories. What
stories they were!--though stories less suitable for a child than
for a grown-up, educated person. My word! Why, I myself have sat
listening to them, as I smoked my pipe, until I have forgotten
about work altogether. And then, as the story grew grimmer, the
little child, our little bag of mischief, would grow thoughtful
in proportion, and clasp her rosy cheeks in her tiny hands, and,
hiding her face, press closer to the old landlady. Ah, how I
loved to see her at those moments! As one gazed at her one would
fail to notice how the candle was flickering, or how the storm
was swishing the snow about the courtyard. Yes, that was a goodly
life, my Barbara, and we lived it for nearly twenty years. . . .
How my tongue does carry me away! Maybe the subject does not
interest you, and I myself find it a not over-easy subject to
recall--especially at the present time.

Darkness is falling, and Theresa is busying herself with
something or another. My head and my back are aching, and even my
thoughts seem to be in pain, so strangely do they occur. Yes, my
heart is sad today, Barbara.... What is it you have written to
me? ---"Why do you not come in PERSON to see me?" Dear one, what
would people say? I should have but to cross the courtyard for
people to begin noticing us, and asking themselves questions.
Gossip and scandal would arise, and there would be read into the
affair quite another meaning than the real one. No, little angel,
it were better that I should see you tomorrow at Vespers. That
will be the better plan, and less hurtful to us both. Nor must
you chide me, beloved, because I have written you a letter like
this (reading it through, I see it to be all odds and ends); for
I am an old man now, dear Barbara, and an uneducated one. Little
learning had I in my youth, and things refuse to fix themselves
in my brain when I try to learn them anew. No, I am not skilled
in letter-writing, Barbara, and, without being told so, or any
one laughing at me for it, I know that, whenever I try to
describe anything with more than ordinary distinctness, I fall
into the mistake of talking sheer rubbish. . . . I saw you at
your window today--yes, I saw you as you were drawing down the
blind! Good-bye, goodbye, little Barbara, and may God keep you!
Good-bye, my own Barbara Alexievna!--Your sincere friend,


P.S.--Do not think that I could write to you in a satirical vein,
for I am too old to show my teeth to no purpose, and people would
laugh at me, and quote our Russian proverb: "Who diggeth a pit
for another one, the same shall fall into it himself."

April 9th

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Are not you, my friend and
benefactor, just a little ashamed to repine and give way to such
despondency? And surely you are not offended with me? Ah! Though
often thoughtless in my speech, I never should have imagined that
you would take my words as a jest at your expense. Rest assured
that NEVER should I make sport of your years or of your
character. Only my own levity is at fault; still more, the fact
that I am so weary of life.

What will such a feeling not engender? To tell you the truth, I
had supposed that YOU were jesting in your letter; wherefore, my
heart was feeling heavy at the thought that you could feel so
displeased with me. Kind comrade and helper, you will be doing me
an injustice if for a single moment you ever suspect that I am
lacking in feeling or in gratitude towards you. My heart, believe
me, is able to appraise at its true worth all that you have done
for me by protecting me from my enemies, and from hatred and
persecution. Never shall I cease to pray to God for you; and,
should my prayers ever reach Him and be received of Heaven, then
assuredly fortune will smile upon you!

Today I am not well. By turns I shiver and flush with heat, and
Thedora is greatly disturbed about me. . . . Do not scruple to
come and see me, Makar Alexievitch. How can it concern other
people what you do? You and I are well enough acquainted with
each other, and one's own affairs are one's own affairs. Goodbye,
Makar Alexievitch, for I have come to the end of all I had to
say, and am feeling too unwell to write more. Again I beg of you
not to be angry with me, but to rest assured of my constant
respect and attachment.--Your humble, devoted servant,


April 12th

tell me what ails you. Every one of your letters fills me with
alarm. On the other hand, in every letter I urge you to be more
careful of yourself, and to wrap up yourself warmly, and to avoid
going out in bad weather, and to be in all things prudent. Yet
you go and disobey me! Ah, little angel, you are a perfect child!
I know well that you are as weak as a blade of grass, and that,
no matter what wind blows upon you, you are ready to fade. But
you must be careful of yourself, dearest; you MUST look after
yourself better; you MUST avoid all risks, lest you plunge your
friends into desolation and despair.

Dearest, you also express a wish to learn the details of my daily
life and surroundings. That wish I hasten to satisfy. Let me
begin at the beginning, since, by doing so, I shall explain
things more systematically. In the first place, on entering this
house, one passes into a very bare hall, and thence along a
passage to a mean staircase. The reception room, however, is
bright, clean, and spacious, and is lined with redwood and metal-
work. But the scullery you would not care to see; it is greasy,
dirty, and odoriferous, while the stairs are in rags, and the
walls so covered with filth that the hand sticks fast wherever it
touches them. Also, on each landing there is a medley of boxes,
chairs, and dilapidated wardrobes; while the windows have had
most of their panes shattered, and everywhere stand washtubs
filled with dirt, litter, eggshells, and fish-bladders. The smell
is abominable. In short, the house is not a nice one.

As to the disposition of the rooms, I have described it to you
already. True, they are convenient enough, yet every one of them
has an ATMOSPHERE. I do not mean that they smell badly so much as
that each of them seems to contain something which gives forth a
rank, sickly-sweet odour. At first the impression is an
unpleasant one, but a couple of minutes will suffice to dissipate
it, for the reason that EVERYTHING here smells--people's clothes,
hands, and everything else--and one grows accustomed to the
rankness. Canaries, however, soon die in this house. A naval
officer here has just bought his fifth. Birds cannot live long in
such an air. Every morning, when fish or beef is being cooked,
and washing and scrubbing are in progress, the house is filled
with steam. Always, too, the kitchen is full of linen hanging out
to dry; and since my room adjoins that apartment, the smell from
the clothes causes me not a little annoyance. However, one can
grow used to anything.

From earliest dawn the house is astir as its inmates rise, walk
about, and stamp their feet. That is to say, everyone who has to
go to work then gets out of bed. First of all, tea is partaken
of. Most of the tea-urns belong to the landlady; and since there
are not very many of them, we have to wait our turn. Anyone who
fails to do so will find his teapot emptied and put away. On the
first occasion, that was what happened to myself. Well, is there
anything else to tell you? Already I have made the acquaintance
of the company here. The naval officer took the initiative in
calling upon me, and his frankness was such that he told me all
about his father, his mother, his sister (who is married to a
lawyer of Tula), and the town of Kronstadt. Also, he promised me
his patronage, and asked me to come and take tea with him. I kept
the appointment in a room where card-playing is continually in
progress; and, after tea had been drunk, efforts were made to
induce me to gamble. Whether or not my refusal seemed to the
company ridiculous I cannot say, but at all events my companions
played the whole evening, and were playing when I left. The dust
and smoke in the room made my eyes ache. I declined, as I say, to
play cards, and was, therefore, requested to discourse on
philosophy, after which no one spoke to me at all--a result which
I did not regret. In fact, I have no intention of going there
again, since every one is for gambling, and for nothing but
gambling. Even the literary tchinovnik gives such parties in his
room--though, in his case, everything is done delicately and with
a certain refinement, so that the thing has something of a
retiring and innocent air.

In passing, I may tell you that our landlady is NOT a nice woman.
In fact, she is a regular beldame. You have seen her once, so
what do you think of her? She is as lanky as a plucked chicken in
consumption, and, with Phaldoni (her servant), constitutes the
entire staff of the establishment. Whether or not Phaldoni has
any other name I do not know, but at least he answers to this
one, and every one calls him by it. A red-haired, swine-jowled,
snub-nosed, crooked lout, he is for ever wrangling with Theresa,
until the pair nearly come to blows. In short, life is not overly
pleasant in this place. Never at any time is the household wholly
at rest, for always there are people sitting up to play cards.
Sometimes, too, certain things are done of which it would be
shameful for me to speak. In particular, hardened though I am, it
astonishes me that men WITH FAMILIES should care to live in this
Sodom. For example, there is a family of poor folk who have
rented from the landlady a room which does not adjoin the other
rooms, but is set apart in a corner by itself. Yet what quiet
people they are! Not a sound is to be heard from them. The
father--he is called Gorshkov--is a little grey-headed tchinovnik
who, seven years ago, was dismissed from public service, and now
walks about in a coat so dirty and ragged that it hurts one to
see it. Indeed it is a worse coat even than mine! Also, he is so
thin and frail (at times I meet him in the corridor) that his
knees quake under him, his hands and head are tremulous with some
disease (God only knows what!), and he so fears and distrusts
everybody that he always walks alone. Reserved though I myself
am, he is even worse. As for his family, it consists of a wife
and three children. The eldest of the latter--a boy--is as frail
as his father, while the mother--a woman who, formerly, must have
been good looking, and still has a striking aspect in spite of
her pallor--goes about in the sorriest of rags. Also I have heard
that they are in debt to our landlady, as well as that she is not
overly kind to them. Moreover, I have heard that Gorshkov lost
his post through some unpleasantness or other--through a legal
suit or process of which I could not exactly tell you the nature.
Yes, they certainly are poor--Oh, my God, how poor! At the same
time, never a sound comes from their room. It is as though not a
soul were living in it. Never does one hear even the children--
which is an unusual thing, seeing that children are ever ready to
sport and play, and if they fail to do so it is a bad sign. One
evening when I chanced to be passing the door of their room, and
all was quiet in the house, I heard through the door a sob, and
then a whisper, and then another sob, as though somebody within
were weeping, and with such subdued bitterness that it tore my
heart to hear the sound. In fact, the thought of these poor
people never left me all night, and quite prevented me from

Well, good-bye, my little Barbara, my little friend beyond price.
I have described to you everything to the best of my ability. All
today you have been in my thoughts; all today my heart has been
yearning for you. I happen to know, dearest one, that you lack a
warm cloak. To me too, these St. Petersburg springs, with their
winds and their snow showers, spell death. Good heavens, how the
breezes bite one! Do not be angry, beloved, that I should write
like this. Style I have not. Would that I had! I write just what
wanders into my brain, in the hope that I may cheer you up a
little. Of course, had I had a good education, things might have
been different; but, as things were, I could not have one. Never
did I learn even to do simple sums!--Your faithful and
unchangeable friend,


April 25th

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Today I met my cousin Sasha. To
see her going to wrack and ruin shocked me terribly. Moreover, it
has reached me, through a side wind, that she has been making
inquiry for me, and dogging my footsteps, under the pretext that
she wishes to pardon me, to forget the past, and to renew our
acquaintance. Well, among other things she told me that, whereas
you are not a kinsman of mine, that she is my nearest relative;
that you have no right whatever to enter into family relations
with us; and that it is wrong and shameful for me to be living
upon your earnings and charity. Also, she said that I must have
forgotten all that she did for me, though thereby she saved both
myself and my mother from starvation, and gave us food and drink;
that for two and a half years we caused her great loss; and,
above all things, that she excused us what we owed her. Even my
poor mother she did not spare. Would that she, my dead parent,
could know how I am being treated! But God knows all about it. .
. . Also, Anna declared that it was solely through my own fault
that my fortunes declined after she had bettered them; that she
is in no way responsible for what then happened; and that I have
but myself to blame for having been either unable or unwilling to
defend my honour. Great God! WHO, then, has been at fault?
According to Anna, Hospodin [Mr.] Bwikov was only right when he
declined to marry a woman who-- But need I say it? It is cruel to
hear such lies as hers. What is to become of me I do not know. I
tremble and sob and weep. Indeed, even to write this letter has
cost me two hours. At least it might have been thought that Anna
would have confessed HER share in the past. Yet see what she
says! ... For the love of God do not be anxious about me, my
friend, my only benefactor. Thedora is over apt to exaggerate
matters. I am not REALLY ill. I have merely caught a little cold.
I caught it last night while I was walking to Bolkovo, to hear
Mass sung for my mother. Ah, mother, my poor mother! Could you
but rise from the grave and learn what is being done to your

B. D.

May 20th

MY DEAREST LITTLE BARBARA,--I am sending you a few grapes, which
are good for a convalescent person, and strongly recommended by
doctors for the allayment of fever. Also, you were saying the
other day that you would like some roses; wherefore, I now send
you a bunch. Are you at all able to eat, my darling?--for that is
the chief point which ought to be seen to. Let us thank God that
the past and all its unhappiness are gone! Yes, let us give
thanks to Heaven for that much! As for books, I cannot get hold
of any, except for a book which, written in excellent style, is,
I believe, to be had here. At all events, people keep praising it
very much, and I have begged the loan of it for myself. Should
you too like to read it? In this respect, indeed, I feel nervous,
for the reason that it is so difficult to divine what your taste
in books may be, despite my knowledge of your character. Probably
you would like poetry--the poetry of sentiment and of love
making? 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,


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.


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! .
. .


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

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

"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

I remember that I was in his arms when I recovered my senses.
Carefully seating me on a bench, he handed me a glass of water,
and then asked me a few questions--though how I answered them I
do not know. "You yourself are ill," he said as he took my hand.
"You yourself are VERY ill. You are feverish, and I can see that
you are knocking yourself out through your neglect of your own
health. Take a little rest. Lie down and go to sleep. Yes, lie
down, lie down," he continued without giving me time to protest.
Indeed, fatigue had so exhausted my strength that my eyes were
closing from very weakness. So I lay down on the bench with the
intention of sleeping for half an hour only; but, I slept till
morning. Pokrovski then awoke me, saying that it was time for me
to go and give my mother her medicine.

When the next evening, about eight o'clock, I had rested a little
and was preparing to spend the night in a chair beside my mother
(fixedly meaning not to go to sleep this time), Pokrovski
suddenly knocked at the door. I opened it, and he informed me
that, since, possibly, I might find the time wearisome, he had
brought me a few books to read. I accepted the books, but do not,
even now, know what books they were, nor whether I looked into
them, despite the fact that I never closed my eyes the whole
night long. The truth was that a strange feeling of excitement
was preventing me from sleeping, and I could not rest long in any
one spot, but had to keep rising from my chair, and walking about
the room. Throughout my whole being there seemed to be diffused a
kind of elation--of elation at Pokrovski's attentions, at the
thought that he was anxious and uneasy about me. Until dawn I
pondered and dreamed; and though I felt sure Pokrovski would not
again visit us that night, I gave myself up to fancies concerning
what he might do the following evening.

That evening, when everyone else in the house had retired to
rest, Pokrovski opened his door, and opened a conversation from
the threshold of his room. Although, at this distance of time, I
cannot remember a word of what we said to one another, I remember
that I blushed, grew confused, felt vexed with myself, and
awaited with impatience the end of the conversation although I
myself had been longing for the meeting to take place, and had
spent the day in dreaming of it, and devising a string of
suitable questions and replies. Yes, that evening saw the first
strand in our friendship knitted; and each subsequent night of my
mother's illness we spent several hours together. Little by
little I overcame his reserve, but found that each of these
conversations left me filled with a sense of vexation at myself.
At the same time, I could see with secret joy and a sense of
proud elation that I was leading him to forget his tiresome
books. At last the conversation turned jestingly upon the
upsetting of the shelf. The moment was a peculiar one, for it
came upon me just when I was in the right mood for self-
revelation and candour. In my ardour, my curious phase of
exaltation, I found myself led to make a full confession of the
fact that I had become wishful to learn, to KNOW, something,
since I had felt hurt at being taken for a chit, a mere baby. . .
. I repeat that that night I was in a very strange frame of mind.
My heart was inclined to be tender, and there were tears standing
in my eyes. Nothing did I conceal as I told him about my
friendship for him, about my desire to love him, about my scheme
for living in sympathy with him and comforting him, and making
his life easier. In return he threw me a look of confusion
mingled with astonishment, and said nothing. Then suddenly I
began to feel terribly pained and disappointed, for I conceived
that he had failed to understand me, or even that he might be
laughing at me. Bursting into tears like a child, I sobbed, and
could not stop myself, for I had fallen into a kind of fit;
whereupon he seized my hand, kissed it, and clasped it to his
breast--saying various things, meanwhile, to comfort me, for he
was labouring under a strong emotion. Exactly what he said I do
not remember--I merely wept and laughed by turns, and blushed,
and found myself unable to speak a word for joy. Yet, for all my
agitation, I noticed that about him there still lingered an air
of constraint and uneasiness. Evidently, he was lost in wonder at
my enthusiasm and raptures--at my curiously ardent, unexpected,
consuming friendship. It may be that at first he was amazed, but
that afterwards he accepted my devotion and words of invitation
and expressions of interest with the same simple frankness as I
had offered them, and responded to them with an interest, a
friendliness, a devotion equal to my own, even as a friend or a
brother would do. How happy, how warm was the feeling in my
heart! Nothing had I concealed or repressed. No, I had bared all
to his sight, and each day would see him draw nearer to me.

Truly I could not say what we did not talk about during those
painful, yet rapturous, hours when, by the trembling light of a
lamp, and almost at the very bedside of my poor sick mother, we
kept midnight tryst. Whatsoever first came into our heads we
spoke of--whatsoever came riven from our hearts, whatsoever
seemed to call for utterance, found voice. And almost always we
were happy. What a grievous, yet joyous, period it was--a period
grievous and joyous at the same time! To this day it both hurts
and delights me to recall it. Joyous or bitter though it was, its
memories are yet painful. At least they seem so to me, though a
certain sweetness assuaged the pain. So, whenever I am feeling
heartsick and oppressed and jaded and sad those memories return
to freshen and revive me, even as drops of evening dew return to
freshen and revive, after a sultry day, the poor faded flower
which has long been drooping in the noontide heat.

My mother grew better, but still I continued to spend the nights
on a chair by her bedside. Often, too, Pokrovski would give me
books. At first I read them merely so as to avoid going to sleep,
but afterwards I examined them with more attention, and
subsequently with actual avidity, for they opened up to me a new,
an unexpected, an unknown, an unfamiliar world. New thoughts,
added to new impressions, would come pouring into my heart in a
rich flood; and the more emotion, the more pain and labour, it
cost me to assimilate these new impressions, the dearer did they
become to me, and the more gratefully did they stir my soul to
its very depths. Crowding into my heart without giving it time
even to breathe, they would cause my whole being to become lost
in a wondrous chaos. Yet this spiritual ferment was not
sufficiently strong wholly to undo me. For that I was too
fanciful, and the fact saved me.

With the passing of my mother's illness the midnight meetings and
long conversations between myself and Pokrovski came to an end.
Only occasionally did we exchange a few words with one another--
words, for the most part, that were of little purport or
substance, yet words to which it delighted me to apportion their
several meanings, their peculiar secret values. My life had now
become full-- I was happy; I was quietly, restfully happy. Thus
did several weeks elapse....

One day the elder Pokrovski came to see us, and chattered in a
brisk, cheerful, garrulous sort of way. He laughed, launched out
into witticisms, and, finally, resolved the riddle of his
transports by informing us that in a week's time it would be his
Petinka's birthday, when, in honour of the occasion, he (the
father) meant to don a new jacket (as well as new shoes which his
wife was going to buy for him), and to come and pay a visit to
his son. In short, the old man was perfectly happy, and gossiped
about whatsoever first entered his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"ALL?" he ejaculated. "ALL the books?"

"Yes, all of them."

"As my own gift?" "Yes, as your own gift."

"As my gift alone?"

"Yes, as your gift alone."

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

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

"Oh, I shall give your son nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 11th

How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar
Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was
everything! And I had not seen anything green for such a long
time! During my illness I used to think that I should never get
better, that I was certainly going to die. Judge, then, how I
felt yesterday! True, I may have seemed to you a little sad, and
you must not be angry with me for that. Happy and light-hearted
though I was, there were moments, even at the height of my
felicity, when, for some unknown reason, depression came sweeping
over my soul. I kept weeping about trifles, yet could not say why
I was grieved. The truth is that I am unwell--so much so, that I
look at everything from the gloomy point of view. The pale, clear
sky, the setting sun, the evening stillness--ah, somehow I felt
disposed to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart seemed
to be over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it.
But why should I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart
to express itself; still more difficult for it to forego self-
expression. Yet possibly you may understand me. Tears and
laughter! . . . How good you are, Makar Alexievitch! Yesterday
you looked into my eyes as though you could read in them all that
I was feeling--as though you were rejoicing at my happiness.
Whether it were a group of shrubs or an alleyway or a vista of
water that we were passing, you would halt before me, and stand
gazing at my face as though you were showing me possessions of
your own. It told me how kind is your nature, and I love you for
it. Today I am again unwell, for yesterday I wetted my feet, and
took a chill. Thedora also is unwell; both of us are ailing. Do
not forget me. Come and see me as often as you can.--Your own,


June 12th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--I had supposed that you meant to
describe our doings of the other day in verse; yet from you there
has arrived only a single sheet of writing. Nevertheless, I must
say that, little though you have put into your letter, that
little is not expressed with rare beauty and grace. Nature, your
descriptions of rural scenes, your analysis of your own feelings-
-the whole is beautifully written. Alas, I have no such talent!
Though I may fill a score of pages, nothing comes of it-- I might
as well never have put pen to paper. Yes, this I know from

You say, my darling, that I am kind and good, that I could not
harm my fellow-men, that I have power to comprehend the goodness
of God (as expressed in nature's handiwork), and so on. It may
all be so, my dearest one--it may all be exactly as you say.
Indeed, I think that you are right. But if so, the reason is that
when one reads such a letter as you have just sent me, one's
heart involuntarily softens, and affords entrance to thoughts of
a graver and weightier order. Listen, my darling; I have
something to tell you, my beloved one.

I will begin from the time when I was seventeen years old and
first entered the service--though I shall soon have completed my
thirtieth year of official activity. I may say that at first I
was much pleased with my new uniform; and, as I grew older, I
grew in mind, and fell to studying my fellow-men. Likewise I may
say that I lived an upright life--so much so that at last I
incurred persecution. This you may not believe, but it is true.
To think that men so cruel should exist! For though, dearest one,
I am dull and of no account, I have feelings like everyone else.
Consequently, would you believe it, Barbara, when I tell you what
these cruel fellows did to me? I feel ashamed to tell it you--and
all because I was of a quiet, peaceful, good-natured disposition!

Things began with "this or that, Makar Alexievitch, is your
fault." Then it went on to "I need hardly say that the fault is
wholly Makar Alexievitch's." Finally it became "OF COURSE Makar
Alexievitch is to blame." Do you see the sequence of things, my
darling? Every mistake was attributed to me, until "Makar
Alexievitch" became a byword in our department. Also, while
making of me a proverb, these fellows could not give me a smile
or a civil word. They found fault with my boots, with my uniform,
with my hair, with my figure. None of these things were to their
taste: everything had to be changed. And so it has been from that
day to this. True, I have now grown used to it, for I can grow
accustomed to anything (being, as you know, a man of peaceable
disposition, like all men of small stature)-- yet why should
these things be? Whom have I harmed? Whom have I ever supplanted?
Whom have I ever traduced to his superiors? No, the fault is that
more than once I have asked for an increase of salary. But have I
ever CABALLED for it? No, you would be wrong in thinking so, my
dearest one. HOW could I ever have done so? You yourself have had
many opportunities of seeing how incapable I am of deceit or

Why then, should this have fallen to my lot? . . . However, since
you think me worthy of respect, my darling, I do not care, for
you are far and away the best person in the world. . . . What do
you consider to be the greatest social virtue? In private
conversation Evstafi Ivanovitch once told me that the greatest
social virtue might be considered to be an ability to get money
to spend. Also, my comrades used jestingly (yes, I know only
jestingly) to propound the ethical maxim that a man ought never
to let himself become a burden upon anyone. Well, I am a burden
upon no one. It is my own crust of bread that I eat; and though
that crust is but a poor one, and sometimes actually a maggoty
one, it has at least been EARNED, and therefore, is being put to
a right and lawful use. What therefore, ought I to do? I know
that I can earn but little by my labours as a copyist; yet even
of that little I am proud, for it has entailed WORK, and has
wrung sweat from my brow. What harm is there in being a copyist?
"He is only an amanuensis," people say of me. But what is there
so disgraceful in that? My writing is at least legible, neat, and
pleasant to look upon--and his Excellency is satisfied with it.
Indeed, I transcribe many important documents. At the same time,
I know that my writing lacks STYLE, which is why I have never
risen in the service. Even to you, my dear one, I write simply
and without tricks, but just as a thought may happen to enter my
head. Yes, I know all this; but if everyone were to become a fine
writer, who would there be left to act as copyists? . . .
Whatsoever questions I may put to you in my letters, dearest, I
pray you to answer them. I am sure that you need me, that I can
be of use to you; and, since that is so, I must not allow myself
to be distracted by any trifle. Even if I be likened to a rat, I
do not care, provided that that particular rat be wanted by you,
and be of use in the world, and be retained in its position, and
receive its reward. But what a rat it is!

Enough of this, dearest one. I ought not to have spoken of it,
but I lost my temper. Still, it is pleasant to speak the truth
sometimes. Goodbye, my own, my darling, my sweet little
comforter! I will come to you soon--yes, I will certainly come to
you. Until I do so, do not fret yourself. With me I shall be
bringing a book. Once more goodbye.--Your heartfelt well-wisher,


June 20th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I am writing to you post-haste--I
am hurrying my utmost to get my work finished in time. What do
you suppose is the reason for this? It is because an opportunity
has occurred for you to make a splendid purchase. Thedora tells
me that a retired civil servant of her acquaintance has a uniform
to sell--one cut to regulation pattern and in good repair, as
well as likely to go very cheap. Now, DO not tell me that you
have not got the money, for I know from your own lips that you
HAVE. Use that money, I pray you, and do not hoard it. See what
terrible garments you walk about in! They are shameful--they are
patched all over! In fact, you have nothing new whatever. That
this is so, I know for certain, and I care not WHAT you tell me
about it. So listen to me for once, and buy this uniform. Do it
for MY sake. Do it to show that you really love me.

You have sent me some linen as a gift. But listen to me, Makar
Alexievitch. You are simply ruining yourself. Is it a jest that
you should spend so much money, such a terrible amount of money,
upon me? How you love to play the spendthrift! I tell you that I
do not need it, that such expenditure is unnecessary. I know, I
am CERTAIN, that you love me-- therefore, it is useless to remind
me of the fact with gifts. Nor do I like receiving them, since I
know how much they must have cost you. No-- put your money to a
better use. I beg, I beseech of you, to do so. Also, you ask me
to send you a continuation of my memoirs--to conclude them. But I

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