I spoke of The Stationmaster to Ratazyayev. He told me that was all old hat, and said that the vogue now was for books with illustrations and various kinds of description;* actually, I did not really quite grasp what he was talking about. He ended by saying that Pushkin was good and that he brought fame to Holy Russia, and told me a lot of other things about him. Yes, it’s very good, Varenka, very good; read your book once again carefully, follow the advice I have given you and make me happy by your obedience, old man that I am. Then the Lord Himself will reward you, my dear, He will not fail to reward you.
Your sincere friend,
MAKAR DEVUSHKIN
July 6
Makar Alekseyevich, Sir,
Today Fedora brought me fifteen silver rubles. How pleased she was, poor woman, when I let her have three! I write to you in haste. I am making you a waistcoat – it’s a gorgeous material, yellow with flowers. I am sending you a book: it contains all sorts of stories; I’ve read one or two of them; read the one called The Overcoat. * You are trying to persuade me to go to the theatre with you; won’t that be rather expensive? Perhaps we could get seats in the gallery. It is a very long time since I went to the theatre, in fact I can’t actually remember when it last was. The only thing that makes me hesitate is again the question of whether it won’t be too expensive. Fedora merely shakes her head. She says you have started to live far beyond your means; indeed I can see that for myself, in all the money you have spent on me! My friend, be careful you do not get into trouble. Fedora has hinted to me that there are certain rumours – that you have had a quarrel with your landlady about the non-payment of rent; I am very concerned for you. Well, goodbye; I must hurry. I have a little business to attend to, I’m changing the ribbon on my hat.
V. D.
PS You know, if we do go to the theatre I shall wear my new hat and my black mantilla. How will that be?
July 7
Varvara Alekseyevna, Madam,
… So I was telling you about my past. Yes, little mother, at one time in my life even I had my follies. I fell head over heels in love with her, but that in itself would have been nothing remarkable; what was really extraordinary was that I had practically never seen her, and had been to the theatre only once, yet for all that I fell for her hopelessly. At that time I was living through the wall from five excitable young fellows. I associated with them, and indeed could not help doing so, though I always kept within respectable limits. Well, so as not to be thought a slowcoach, I went along with them in everything. They started telling me a lot of things about this young actress! Every evening, as soon as the theatre opened, the whole company of them – they never had half a copeck between them for essentials – the whole company would set off for the theatre, where they would sit in the gallery and clap and clap and call and call for this actress – they were like men possessed! Afterwards I would not be able to get a wink of sleep; all night long they would talk about her, each one of them calling her his Glasha, each one of them in love with her, each one of them with the same lovebird in his heart. They got me excited, too, defenceless as I was; I was then just a young stripling of a lad. I myself do not know how I managed to end up at the theatre with them, in the fourth tier of the gallery. All I could see was one little corner of the curtain, but I could hear everything. The little actress really did have a pretty voice – it was resonant, honey-sweet, like a nightingale’s! We all clapped like mad, shouting and shouting – we nearly got into trouble, and one of us was actually thrown out. I arrived home as though I were drunk! I had only a single ruble left in my pocket, and there were a good ten days to go before I would receive my salary. Yet what do you think I did, little mother? The following morning, before I went to the office, I called in at a French perfumer’s and spent all I had left on a bottle of some scent or other and some fragrant soap – I still do not know why I did it. I did not take my dinner at home, either, but kept walking up and down under her window. She lived on the Nevsky Prospekt, in a fourth-floor apartment. I went home, took an hour or two is rest there and went back to the Nevsky again to do some more walking up and down under her window. I did that every day for the next month and ahalf – paidcourt to her; I was forever hiring smart cabs and trying to make myself noticed as I drove past her window; I bankrupted myself completely, sank into debt, and then finally got over her: I was sick of it! That is the state to which a young actress can reduce a decent man, little mother! But I was a young stripling of a lad in those days, a young stripling of a lad!…
M. D.
July 8
Varvara Alekseyevna, my dear Madam,
I hasten to return your book, which I received on the 6th of this month, and at the same time to write to you in order to have the matter out with you. It is not good, little mother, not good that you should place me in such an extremity. If I may make so bold, little mother: every station that falls to a man is lot in this world is ordained by the Almighty. This man is ordained to wear a general’s epaulettes, while that one is ordained to work in the service as a titular councillor; this man’s to give the orders, and that man is to obey them in fear and trembling, without so much as a murmur. Everything is calculated according to a man’s aptitude; one man has an aptitude for one thing, and another has an aptitude for something else, but those aptitudes themselves are arranged by God. I have worked for nearly thirty years now in the service; my work has been above reproach, my behaviour has been sober, and no disorderly conduct has ever been ascribed to me. As a citizen I consider myself, by my own admission, to possess certain defects, but also some virtues. I am respected by the administration, and even His Excellency himself is satisfied with my performance; even though he has not so far shown me any particular signs of favour, I know that he is satisfied. I have lived to see my hair turn grey – I am unaware of having committed any greater sin than that. Of course, who is not guilty of minor sins? Everyone is sinful – even you, little mother! But no major misdemeanours or insolent actions have ever been ascribed to me, such as doing anything against the regulations or causing a breach of public order, nothing like that has ever been laid at my door, there has been none of that: I even got a medal – but what is the good of telling you? You ought in all conscience to have known that, little mother, and so ought he; if you were going to write about me you ought to have known all the facts. No, I did not expect this of you, little mother; no, Varenka! From you in particular I did not expect it.
Here’s a fine to-do! After this I can’t live quietly in my own little corner any more, even though it is not up to much; now I can’t go on living ‘without muddying the water’, as the proverb has it, not troubling anyone, knowing only myself and the fear of God and not having other people troubling me, forcing their way into my hideaway and spying on me to see what my private life is like, whether I have a good waistcoat or not, or whether I have all that I ought to have in the way of underwear; whether I have boots, and what they are lined with; what I eat, what I drink, what I am copying… So what if I do sometimes walk on tiptoe in order to save my boots where the pavement’s bad, little mother? Why write about someone that he sometimes has no money, that he can’t even afford tea? As though everyone were under some kind of obligation to drink tea! Do I look into other people’s mouths to see what they’re eating? Whom have I ever insulted in that way? No, little mother, why should I offend others when they are not troubling me? Look, here is another example, Varvara Alekseyevna, this is what it boils down to: I work and work, ardently, assiduously – how else? – and the administration respects me (whatever else it may be thinking, it does respect one) – and then along comes someone who, right under one is very nose, without any provocation and for no reason in particular, writes a lampoon about me. Of course, it’s true that sometimes I do manage to get some new clothes, and then I’m delighted, I lie awake at night, overjoyed, as when I get a new pair of boots, for instance: I put them on with such voluptuous pleasure – I’ve found that to be true, it’s because it’s so good to see my l
eg covered by a slender, elegant boot – that’s correctly described! But I’m none the less truly surprised that Fyodor Fyodorovich should have let a book of this kind pass without sticking up for himself. It’s true that he is only a young bigwig, and likes to raise his voice at times; and why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he give us a good telling-off if we need it? Suppose he does it to keep up the general tone of the place-well, that’s all right; we need to be kept on our toes, to be given a warning, because – and this is just between the two of us, Varenka – none of us will do anything without being given a warning, each one of us merely seeks to figure on this or that official list so he can say ‘I’m there, and I’m there’, just so long as he can keep to one side and avoid doing any work. And since there are various different ranks and each rank requires a completely different kind of telling-off, it is natural that the tone of the telling-off varies in rank, too – thatis in the order of things! I mean, it’s what holds the world together, little mother: that we all set the tone for one another, that each of us tells the other off. Without that precaution the world would fall apart and there would be no order anywhere. I am truly astonished that Fyodor Fyodorovich should have let such an insult pass unnoticed!
And what is the point of writing things like that? What use do they serve? Will a person who reads that story make me an overcoat, do you suppose? Do you suppose that he will buy me a new pair of boots? No, Varenka, that person will simply read the story and then demand a sequel to it. I sometimes hide myself away, I hide myself away in order to conceal the things I have failed in, I’m sometimes afraid to show my face anywhere, because I tremble at the thought of what wicked tongues may be saying about me, because people can concoct a lampoon about one out of anything at all, anything, and then one is entire public and private life is held up for inspection in the form of literature, it is all published, read, ridiculed and gossiped about! Why, in this instance it will be impossible for me to go out in the street; in this instance everything has been described in such detail that I will now be instantly recognized by my walk alone. Well, I mean, the author might have at least made up for it a bit towards the end; for example,.he could have softened the impact by putting a bit in after the part where they scatter papers over the hero’s head, to the effect that for all his faults he was a decent, virtuous citizen who did not deserve to be treated thus by his companions, that he was obedient to his seniors (here he could have inserted an example of some kind), wished no one any harm, believed in God and died (if he really must have his hero die) lamented. It would, however, have been much better not to have left him to die at all, the poor man, but to make his overcoat be found, to have that general find out more about his virtues, invite him into his office, raise him in rank and give him a good hike in salary, so that then, you see, vice would have been punished and virtue would have triumphed, and all those fellow-clerks would have been left empty-handed. That’s how I, for one, would have written it; but the way it is, what is so special about it, what is good about it? It is just a trivial example of vile, everyday life. And why did you decide to send me a book like that, my dear? I mean, it’s an ill-intentioned book, Varenka; it’s simply not true to life, because a clerk of that kind could never exist. After reading such a book one feels like filing a complaint, Varenka, one feels like filing a formal complaint.
Your most obedient servent,
MAKAR DEVUSHKIN
July 27
Makar Alekseyevich, Sir,
Your latest actions and letters have frightened, shocked and amazed me; however, the things Fedora has told me have explained everything. But why did you despair in this fashion and fall into the abyss into which you have fallen, Makar Alekseyevich? Your explanations have not satisfied me one little bit. Consider: was I not right when I insisted on accepting the advantageous post I was offered? What is more, my most recent adventure has frightened me in earnest. You say your love for me has compelled you to keep yourself in hiding from me. I was already able to see that I was greatly indebted to you when you kept assuring me that you were only spending your savings on me, savings you told me you had put by just in case. But now that I have discovered you had no such savings at all, that having found out about my straitened circumstances and having been touched by them you decided to spend your salary, which you had drawn in advance, and had even sold your clothes when I was ill – now, faced with the revelation of all this, I find myself in such an agonizingly difficult position that I still do not know how to construe all this, or what to think of it. Oh, Makar Alekseyevich! You should have rested content with the first of your good deeds towards me, which were prompted by compassion and familial affection, and not have squandered money on unnecessary things. You have betrayed our friendship, Makar Alekseyevich, because you have not been frank with me, and now, when I see that you spent the very last money you had on smart clothes, on sweets, on walks, on the theatre and on books – now I am paying dearly with remorse for my unforgivable frivolity (for I accepted all those things from you without troubling myself about you); and everything by means of which you wanted to give me enjoyment has now turned into bitterness for me, and has left in me nothing but a futile remorse. I have observed your despondency of late, and although I myself had a depressing sense that something was afoot, I never dreamed of this. How can it be? How could you let yourself sink to this depth of despondency, Makar Alekseyevich? What will people think of you, what will people say about you now, all those who know you? You, whom I and everyone else respected for your kindheartedness, your modesty and wisdom – you have fallen prey to a repulsive vice which no one has ever noticed in you before. What do you think I felt when Fedora told me you had been found drunk in the street and had been taken back to your lodgings by the police? I was paralysed with amazement, even though I had been expecting something untoward, as you had been missing for four days. Have you thought, Makar Alekseyevich, of what your superiors will say when they discover the true reason for your absence? You say that everyone is laughing at you; that everyone has found out about our friendship and that your neighbours are making sarcastic remarks about me. Please do not pay any attention to this, Makar Alekseyevich, and, for the love of God, take a hold of yourself. I am also frightened by this encounter you had with those officers; I have heard vague rumours about it. Please will you explain to me what that is all about? You say in your letter that you were afraid to be open with me, that you were afraid that if you told me about it you would lose my friendship, that you were in despair about what to do in order to help me in my illness, that you sold everything in order to support me and keep me from going into hospital, that you got yourself into debt to the very limit of your credit, and that every day you have unpleasant scenes with your landlady – but I must tell you that, in doing so, you have chosen the wrong course of action. Now, however, I have learned all. You were too ashamed to make me realize that I was the cause of your unhappy position, yet now, by your behaviour, you have succeeded in bringing me twice as much woe. All this has shocked me, Makar Alekseyevich. Oh, my friend! Unhappiness is an infectious disease. Poor and unhappy people ought to steer clear of one another, so as not to catch a greater degree of infection. I have brought you unhappiness such as you never experienced earlier in the modest and isolated existence you have led. All this is tormenting me and making me waste away with grief.
Please write me a frank account of what happened to you and how you could have come to behave like that. If you can, please set my mind at rest. It is not self-regard that compels me to write to you now about my peace of mind, but my friendship and love for you, which nothing will ever efface from my heart. Goodbye. I await your reply with impatience. You do not properly know me, Makar Alekseyevich.
Your truly loving,
VARVARA DOBROSELOVA
July 28
My precious Varvara Alekseyevna,
Well, since all that is now over and things are gradually returning to how they were before, I will tell you this, little mother: you ar
e worried about what people will think of me, but I hasten to assure you, Varvara Alekseyevna, that my self-esteem is what matters to me before all else. As a consequence of which, and with reference to my misfortunes and all these disorderly events, I beg to inform you that none of my superiors know anything about them, nor are likely to do so, and will therefore all continue to treat me with respect, as before. I am afraid of only one thing: loose tongues. The landlady in our house over here has been shouting her head off, but now that with the help of your ten rubles I have paid off part of my debt to her she merely grumbles, and that is all. As for the others, they turn a blind eye; as long as one doesn’t try to borrow money from them, they don’t care. And to conclude my explanations I shall tell you, little mother, that I value your respect for me more highly than anything else in the world and am consoled by it now in my temporary state of confusion. Thank God that the first impact and the worst of the trouble is now over, and that you have construed it in such a way as not to consider me a false friend and a selfish brute for keeping you here and deceiving you, not having the strength to part with you, and loving you as my little angel. I have set zealously to work now and have begun to discharge my duties well. Yevstafy Ivanovich did not say a word when I walked past him yesterday. I will not conceal from you, little mother, that my debts and the shabby condition of my wardrobe are causing me considerable pain, but that is nothing to worry about, either, and I beseech you not to despair in that regard, little mother. If you will send me another fifty copecks, Varenka, then those fifty copecks too, will pierce my heart. So this is what it has come to now, this is what it has come to! It is not I, old fool that I am, who am helping you, but you, my poor little orphan, who are helping me! Fedora did well to get the money. For the moment I have no hope of getting any, little mother, but as soon as there is hope of my doing so I will write and tell you all about it. But it is loose tongues, loose tongues that worry me most of all. Goodbye, my little angel. I kiss your hand and implore you to get well again. I do not write in more detail because I am in a hurry to get to work, since I wish by dint of zeal and effort to make amends for my dereliction of duty; I shall put off a further account of all that happened to me and of my adventure with the officers until the evening.
Poor Folk and Other Stories Page 10
