Great, however, was my disappointment when, on regaining our room, I hurriedly opened the book and discovered that it was some ancient, semi-decomposed, utterly worm-eaten treatise in Latin. I lost no time in taking it back. Just as I was about to replace the book on its shelf, I heard a noise in the corridor, and someone’s footsteps, quite close. I tried to be as quick as I could, but the wretched book had been so firmly wedged in its row that when I took it out all the others displaced themselves and closed ranks in such a way that there was now no room for their former companion. I had not the strength to squeeze the book back in. But I did push the other books back as hard as I was able. The rusty nail by which the shelf was fixed to the wall and which seemed to have been awaiting precisely that moment in order to snap, snapped. The shelf collapsed at one end, and the books went noisily scattering all over the floor. The door opened, and Pokrovsky entered the room.
I should observe that he could not abide anyone interfering with his possessions. Woe betide anyone who laid a finger on his books! Consider, then, my sense of horror when those books – large and small, of every imaginable format, size and thickness – came hurtling down from the shelf and went careering and fluttering under the table, under the chairs, all over the room. I would have made my escape, but it was too late. ‘I’m finished,’ I thought, ‘finished! It’s all up with me, I’m for it! I’m being silly and naughty like a child of ten years old: I’m just a stupid little girl! A big idiot!’ Pokrovsky flew into the most dreadful rage. ‘Well, that’s all that was wanting!’ he cried. ‘Well, aren’t you ashamed to play silly pranks like this?… Won’t you ever learn any sense?’ And he rushed to pick up the books. I began to stoop down in order to help him. ‘Don’t, don’t!’ he cried. ‘You would do better not to go where you have not been invited.’ Then, however, slightly mollified by my submissive behaviour, he continued more quietly, in his customary teacher’s voice, taking advantage of his customary teacher’s authority: ‘Well, when are you going to learn some self-control and start to behave sensibly, for a change? I mean, just look at you, you’re not a child, you’re not a little girl any longer – you’re fifteen years old!’ And at this point, doubtless in an endeavour to make sure that I really was no longer a little girl, he cast a glance at me and blushed to the roots of his hair. At first, I did not understand; I stood in front of him, staring at him in amazement. He got up, approached me with an air of embarrassment, grew horribly confused, and started to speak: he was evidently apologizing for something, perhaps for only now having noticed that I was such a big girl. At last I understood. I can’t remember what happened to me then; I grew confused, flustered, blushed even deeper than Pokrovsky, covered my face with my hands and ran out of the room.
I did not know what there was left for me to do, or where to hide my head in shame. The mere fact that he had caught me in his room! For three entire days I was unable to bring myself even to look at him. I kept blushing to the point of tears. The strangest, most ridiculous thoughts kept whirling about in my head. One of them, the wildest, was a desire to go to him, have it out with him, confess everything to him, frankly tell him all and convince him that I had behaved not as a stupid little girl, but with good intentions. I had almost made up my mind to do this, but, thank God, found that I did not possess the necessary courage. I can imagine what a fool of myself I should have made! Even now I have pangs of conscience at the memory of the whole episode.
A few days later Mother suddenly fell dangerously ill. She lay in bed for two days, and on the third night she developed a fever and delirium. I had already lost one night of sleep looking after her, sitting by her bedside, bringing her water to drink and giving her her medicine at the prescribed times. By the second night I was completely exhausted. At times sleep overcame me, my eyes went dark, my head grew dizzy, and I was constantly on the point of collapsing with weariness; but Mother’s feeble groaning kept rousing me, and I would start and wake up for a moment before slumber once again got the better of me. I was in torment. I do not know how it was – I cannot remember – but at the agonizing moment of sleep’s struggle with wakefulness a terrible vision, a monstrous dream visited my confused head. I woke up in horror. The room was in darkness, the night-light was going out; suddenly the whole room was bathed in stripes of light, which at one moment flashed across the wall and at the next disappeared entirely. For some reason I grew dreadfully afraid, I was attacked by a sense of horror; my fantasy had been aroused by the terrible dream I had had; anguish constricted my heart… I leapt up from my chair and let out an involuntary shriek, brought on by my sense of claustrophobic, agonized terror. At that moment the door opened, and Pokrovsky came into our room.
The only thing I remember is that when I regained consciousness I was in his arms. He sat me down in a chair, gave me a glass of water, and showered me with questions. I do not remember what I replied. ‘You are ill, too, you are very ill,’ he said taking my hand. ‘You have a fever, you are damaging yourself, you must be kinder to your health; make your mind easy. Lie down, go to sleep. I shall wake you in two hours’ time, try to get a little rest… Lie down, I say, lie down!’ he continued, not letting me say a single word in objection. Tiredness had robbed me of the last of my strength; my eyes were closing from weakness. I lay down on the sofa, determined to sleep for only half an hour, and slept until morning. Pokrovksy did not wake me up until it was time for me to give Mother her medicine.
At about eleven o’clock the following evening when, having managed to rest a little in the afternoon, I was once again preparing to sit on the sofa by Mother’s bedside, this time firmly resolving not to fall asleep, Pokrovsky knocked at the door of our room. ‘It’ll be boring for you sitting up on your own,’ he said. ‘Here’s a book for you; take it; you won’t get so bored then.’ I took it; I don’t remember what book it was; I hardly glanced at it then, even though I did not sleep all night. A strange inner agitation would not allow me to sleep; I was unable to remain in the same place; several times I got up from the chaise-longue and began to walk about the room. A kind of inner satisfaction spread itself throughout my entire being. I was so delighted by Pokrovsky’s attentions. I took pride in his anxiety and concern about me. All night I thought and dreamed. Pokrovsky did not look in again; I knew he would not come, and I made guesses about the following evening.
Next evening, when everyone in the house had gone to bed, Pokrovsky opened his door and began to talk to me, standing on the threshold of his room. I do not remember now a single word of what we said to each other; all I remember is that I was shy and confused, that I was annoyed with myself and awaited the end of our conversation with impatience, even though I had desired it with all my heart, had spent the whole day dreaming about it and preparing my questions and replies… The beginnings of our friendship dated from that evening. Throughout the entire duration of Mother’s illness we spent several hours of every night in each other’s company. Little by little I overcame my shyness, although after each of our conversations I would always find something to be annoyed with myself about. However that may have been, I none the less saw with secret delight and proud satisfaction that he was forgetting his wretched books because of me. Quite casually, almost in jest, our conversation once touched on the subject of their fall from the shelf. It was a strange moment – I was almost too open and candid; the heat of the moment and a strange enthusiasm carried me away, and I confessed everything to him… that I wanted to study, to know a few things, that I found it annoying to be regarded as a little girl, a child… I repeat that I was in a very strange mood; my heart was soft, there were tears in my eyes – I hid nothing and told him everything, everything – about my feelings of friendship for him, about my desire to live with him united in love, to console him, to calm him. He gave me a strange look which contained both embarrassment and amazement, and did not say a word. I suddenly felt terribly hurt and sad. It seemed to me that he did not understand me, that he might even be laughing at me. I suddenly started to cry
like a child, sobbing, unable to control myself; it was as though I had succumbed to a kind of fit. He seized my hands, kissed them, held them to his breast, tried to reassure me, to console me; he was deeply moved. I do not remember what he said to me, only that I both wept and laughed, and once more wept, blushed, and was unable to utter a word for joy. Yet for all my emotional turmoil, I observed that Pokrovsky was still tense and embarrassed. He seemed to be unable to stop wondering at my animation, my enthusiasm, my so suddenly manifested, warm, ardent feelings of affection for him. Perhaps initially he had been merely curious; subsequently his lack of resolve disappeared, and he accepted, with the same simple directness as I, my attachment to him, my friendly words and my attention, and responded to it all with the same degree of attention, as kindly and amicably as if he were my sincere friend, my own brother. My heart felt so warm, so good!… I made no attempt to conceal my feelings from him, I kept nothing back; he saw it all, and with every day that passed became more attached to me.
And truly, I do not remember what we talked about during those sweet but tormenting hours when we would rendezvous by night, by the trembling flame of the icon-lamp, practically by the very bedside of my poor, sick mother… We talked about everything that came into our heads, that burst from our hearts, that begged to be given expression – and we were almost happy… Oh, that was a sad and joyful time – both at once; and it is with both sadness and joy that I now recall it. Memories, whether bitter or joyful, are always a source of torment; that, at least, is how I find it; but even this torment is sweet. And when the heart grows heavy, sick, anguished and sad, then memories refresh it and revive it, as on a dewy evening after a hot day the drops of moisture refresh and revive the poor, withered flower which has been scorched by the afternoon sun.
Mother’s health began to improve, but still I continued to sit by her bedside at night. Pokrovsky would often lend me books; I read them, at first merely in order not to fall asleep, then with greater attention, then with avidity; suddenly there was revealed to me much that was new and that had previously been unknown or unfamiliar to me. New thoughts and new impressions came flooding into my heart in an instant, overwhelming rush. And the greater the agitation, the turmoil and effort these new sensations cost me, the more attractive I began to find them, the more sweetly they made my soul tremble. At once, in a flash they came thronging into my heart, denying it all rest. A strange chaos began to disturb my entire being. But this spiritual onslaught was unable to put me completely off balance. I was in too much of a dreamlike condition, and that was my saving.
When Mother’s illness was over, our evening rendezvous and long conversations came to an end; we sometimes succeeded in exchanging words, often trivial and of little significance, but I took pleasure in giving everything its own special meaning, its own particular, implied value. My life was full, and I was happy – calmly, quietly happy. In this fashion several weeks went by…
One day old man Pokrovsky came to see us. He prattled on to us for a long time, and was unusually animated, cheerful and loquacious; he laughed, made jokes in his own peculiar way, and finally solved for us the mystery of his enraptured state by revealing to us that in exactly a week’s time it would be Petenka’s birthday, on which occasion he would most certainly pay him a visit; he would put on a new waistcoat, and his wife had promised to buy him a new pair of boots. In short, the old man was thoroughly happy and went prattling on about everything that came into his head.
His birthday! That birthday gave me no peace either by day or by night. I determined to show Pokrovsky that I cared for him by giving him a present. But what? I finally had the idea of giving him some books. I knew that he wanted the complete collection of Pushkin is works in the most recent edition,* and I resolved to buy it. I had about thirty rubles of my own, earned from needlework. I had been saving this money in order to buy a dress. I immediately sent our old cook Matryona to find out what a complete Pushkin cost. Alas! The price of all eleven volumes, including the cost of the bindings, was at least sixty rubles. Where would I get the money? I racked my brains, but could not think what to do. I did not want to ask Mother. She would, of course, have helped me; but then everyone in the house would have found out about our present; what was more, the present would have turned into a token of gratitude, a kind of repayment for the year of effort Pokrovsky had devoted to me. I wanted to give him the present alone, in secret from everyone else. And for his efforts with me I wanted to be for ever in his debt, without any repayment whatsoever apart from my friendly feelings for him. At last I conceived a way out of the problem.
I knew that at the second-hand bookstalls of the Gostiny Dvor it was sometimes possible, with a little bargaining, to buy books at half price, scarcely used and almost completely new. I decided to go down to the Gostiny Dvor. So it was; on the following day it turned out that both Anna Fyodorovna and ourselves needed certain purchases. Mother was slightly unwell, and Anna Fyodorovna very conveniently felt too lazy, so I was the one who had to do all the errands, and I set off together with Matryona.
As luck would have it, I found a complete edition of Pushkin very quickly – it was one in a very nice binding. I began to bargain. At first the stallowner demanded more than was charged in the bookshops; but after a while, though not without difficulty, and walking away several times, I succeeded in persuading him to reduce the price to only ten silver rubles. The bargaining was such fun!… Poor Matryona could not understand what had got into me, and why I wanted to buy so many books. But horror! My entire capital amounted to only thirty paper rubles, and the stallowner would not agree to part with the books more cheaply. Finally I began to implore him, beseech him, and in the end got my way. He yielded, but only by two and a half rubles, and he swore that he was only doing this as a special favour to me, since I was such a nice lady; he would not do it for anyone else. I was short of the necessary amount by two and a half rubles! I could almost have wept with frustration. But in my misery a most unexpected circumstance came to my aid.
Not far from me, at another table of books, I saw old man Pokrovsky. He was surrounded by four or five stallowners; they had succeeded in utterly bewildering him, bothering him to death. Each of them was offering him his wares, and what was there not on offer, and what did he not wish to buy! The poor old man stood in their midst like one of the downtrodden, at a loss to know what to do with all that was being offered him. I went up to him and asked him what he was doing here. The old man was very glad to see me; he was fond of me to the point of distraction, perhaps no less fond than he was of Petenka. ‘Oh, I’m buying some books, Varvara Alekseyevna,’ he replied to me. ‘I’m buying some books for Petenka. You see, it’s his birthday soon, and he likes books, so I’m buying some for him…’ The old man always expressed himself in a comical sort of way, and now, what was more, he was in the most dreadful state of confusion. Whatever he asked the price of, it was always one silver ruble, two or three silver rubles; he had by this time given up asking the prices of the larger books, but was merely throwing a covetous glance at them, turning over their pages with his fingers, feeling them in his hands and putting them back in their places. ‘No, no, that’s too expensive,’ he would say in a low voice, ‘but perhaps over here there’ll be something,’ and at that point he would begin to rummage through thin folios, songbooks and almanacs; these were all very cheap. ‘But why do you want to buy things like that?’ I asked him. ‘They’re all the most terrible rubbish.’ ‘Oh no,’ he replied, ‘no, just look at what nice books there are here; very, very nice books!’ These last words he drawled in a singsong voice so plaintively that he seemed on the point of bursting into tears with frustration that the ‘nice books’ were so expensive; I thought that at any moment a tear would roll down his pale cheeks on to his red nose. I asked him if he had much money. ‘Look, here’s what I have,’ he said, taking out all his money, wrapped up in a greasy scrap of newspaper. ‘I’ve half a ruble, a twenty-copeck bit and twenty copecks in copper.’ I immediat
ely hauled him off to my secondhand bookseller. ‘Here,’ I said,’these eleven books only cost thirty-two and a half rubles; I have thirty; if you add two and a half we can buy all these books and give them to your son together.’ The old man nearly fainted with joy, emptied out all his money, and the bookseller loaded on to him the whole of our common library. My old man filled all his pockets with books, took some in his hands, and the rest under his arms, and carried them all off to his home, having promised to bring them all to me in secret the following day.
On the following afternoon the old man came to visit his son, sat with him for an hour or so as he usually did, then looked in to see us and sat down beside me with a most comical enigmatic expression. First, with a smile, and rubbing his hands with proud satisfaction at being in possession of a confidentiality, he told me that all the books had been brought to us in the greatest secrecy and were being kept in a corner of the kitchen under Matryona is supervision. Then the conversation naturally turned to the day we were waiting for; the old man talked for some time about how we would present the gift, and the more deeply he became engrossed in his subject, the more obvious it became to me that he had something on his mind, something he was unable, did not dare, was even afraid to talk about. I bided my time and remained silent. The secret joy, the secret satisfaction which I had had no difficulty in reading from his strange mannerisms, his grimaces, his winking of his left eye, had vanished. From moment to moment he was becoming more and more restless and uneasy; finally he could restrain himself no longer.
Poor Folk and Other Stories Page 6
