Poor Folk and Other Stories

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Your respectful and truly loving

  MAKAR DEVUSHKIN

  July 28

  Oh, Varenka, Varenka! Now it is you who are the guilty one. Your letter completely flabbergasted me and put me off my balance, and it is only now, when in my spare time I have managed to search the innermost corners of my heart, that I realize I was right, absolutely right. I speak not of my drunken binge (bother it, little mother, bother it!), but of the fact that I love you and that it was not at all unreasonable of me to fall in love with you, not unreasonable of me at all. You don’t know anything about it, little mother; yet if only you knew why it happened, why I could do no other but to fall in love with you, you would not say those things. That is only your reason talking; I am certain that your heart says something else entirely.

  My little mother, I myself do not know and cannot properly remember what took place between those officers and me. I must tell you, my little angel, that in the time leading up to that event I had been in the most terrible state of distress. You must bear in mind that for the whole of the previous month I had been, so to say, hanging by the merest thread. My situation was a thoroughly wretched one. I had been keeping myself to myself, seeing neither you nor the other people in the house; but my landlady kept raising a terrible hullabaloo. In other circumstances that might not have mattered to me. Let the miserable woman shout as much as she wanted to – but in the first place there was the shame of it, and in the second there was the fact that, God knows how, she had learned of our friendship and kept shouting such things about it to the whole house that I was frozen with horror and stopped up my ears. The trouble was, however, that the others did not stop up theirs, but, on the contrary, strained them in order to hear. Even now, little mother, I don’t know where to hide myself…

  And then, my little angel, all this devil’s brew of every kind of affliction completely overwhelmed me. I suddenly started to hear strange things from Fedora: that an unworthy suitor had appeared on your doorstep and had insulted you by making an unworthy proposal; that he had indeed insulted you, deeply insulted you, I judged by my own reactions, little mother, because I myself felt deeply insulted. At that point, my little angel, I lost my wits entirely: I went into a panic and completely lost control. Varenka, my friend, I ran out in an impossible rage; I wanted to go and confront him, the blackguard; I didn’t know what I wanted to do – so great was my determination that no one should insult you, my little angel! Yes, I was in a sorry state. It was raining, there was sleet, it was a horribly depressing day… I was almost on the point of turning back… Then, little mother, came my fall. I met Yemelya,* that’s Yemelyan Ilyich – he’s a clerk, or rather he was, he’s not one any more, because he’s been dismissed from our department. I don’t even know what he does now, he toils away at something or another there; well, I went with him. Then – but Varenka, I cannot really think that you will derive much enjoyment from hearing about your friend is misfortunes, about the calamities that have befallen him and the ordeals he has endured. On the evening of the third day, Yemelya egged me on, and I went to see that officer who had insulted you. I found out his address from our yardkeeper. If you want to know the truth, little mother, I have long been aware of that fine fellow; I used to keep an eye on him when he was lodging in our house. I can see now that I committed an improper act, as I was not my right self when I was announced to him. Quite honestly, Varenka, I can’t remember any of it; all I remember is that there were an awful lot of officers in his place, or perhaps I was seeing double – God knows. I can’t remember what I said, either. All I remember is that in my righteous indignation I said a great many things. Well, then they turfed me out and threw me down the stairs – actually, they didn’t quite do that, but just shoved me out. You already know how I got home, Varenka; that’s all there is to tell. Of course, I brought myself discredit and my pride took a knock, but after all, no one else apart from yourself knows anything about it; and if that is so, then it’s just the same as if the whole thing had never happened. Perhaps it is – what do you think, Varenka? The only thing I know for certain is that in our house last year Aksenty Osipovich made a similar attack on the personal honour of Pyotr Petrovich, only in secret, he did it in secret. He made him go into the nightwatchman’s room with him, I saw it all through a crack in the door; and there he did what was necessary to settle the matter, but in a decent manner, as no one saw what took place except myself; well, and it didn’t bother me, or rather, that is, I didn’t tell anyone about it. Well, after that Pyotr Petrovich and Aksenty Osipovich stopped getting at each other. Pyotr Petrovich is a proud man, you know, so he didn’t tell anyone, and even now they still bow to each other and shake hands with each other. I will not contest, Varenka, to you I would not dare to contest that I have sunk very low and, what is even more terrible, have lost in terms of my own self-regard; but this was doubtless written in my stars from birth, this must be my fate – and there is no escaping fate, as well you know. Well, that is a full account of my misfortunes and calamities, Varenka, that is everything that happened at that time, even if you do not care to read it. I am somewhat unwell, my little mother, and have lost all playfulness of feeling. And so now, testifying to my devotion, love and respect for you, I remain, my dear madam, Varvara Alekseyevna,

  Your most obedient servant,

  MAKAR DEVUSHKIN

  July 29

  Makar Alekseyevich, My Dear Sir!

  I have read both your letters, and how they made me sigh! Listen, my friend: you are either hiding something from me and only telling me a part of all your unpleasant experiences, or… to be honest, Makar Alekseyevich, your letters still show the signs of a certain confusion… for goodness’ sake come and see me, come and see me today; and listen, come and have dinner with us, you know you are welcome. I do not know how you are, and whether you have patched things up with your landlady. You write nothing about all that, as if you were hiding something on purpose. So until we meet, my friend; you must promise to come and see us today; and you would do best to come and eat with us every day. Fedora is a very good cook. Goodbye.

  Your

  VARVARA DOBROSELOVA

  August 1

  Varvara Alekseyevna, Dear Mother!

  You are glad, little mother, that God has sent you an opportunity of doing one good deed in exchange for another, and of showing your gratitude. I have faith in that, Varenka, I have faith in the goodness of your angel’s heart, and I say this not as a rebuke – but please do not reproach me, as you have done, for squandering my money in my old age. Yes, if you really must insist that I have sinned, then what is there to be done about it? I have sinned; only it costs me much to hear such things from you, my little friend. You must not be angry with me for saying this; in my breast there is nothing but pain and hurt, little mother. Poor folk are capricious – that is the way nature makes them. This is not the first time I have felt it. The poor man is a severe critic; he looks at God’s world from a different angle, he furtively sizes up each person he meets, looks about him with a troubled gaze, and listens carefully to every word he overhears – are people talking about him? Are they saying he is not much to look at, wondering about what he is feeling, what he is like from this point of view and that point of view? And Varenka, everyone knows that a poor man is worth less than an old rag, and cannot hope for respect from anyone, whatever they may write, those scribblers, whatever they may write! The poor man will remain the same as he has always been. And why will he remain the same? Because, according to their lights, the poor man must be turned inside out; he must have no privacy, no dignity of any kind! Yemelya told me the other day that some people somewhere organized a whip-round for him, and that a sort of official check was made of every copeck that was paid to him. They thought they were giving him their money out of charity – but they weren’t: they were paying for having a poor man exhibited to them. Even charity is conducted in a peculiar way nowadays, little mother… but perhaps it has always been like that – who knows! Ei
ther they don’t know how to do it, or they’re past masters at it – one or the other. Perhaps you didn’t know that; well, there you are! In any other field of knowledge you can count us out, but here we’re experts! And how does it come to be that a poor man knows all this and thinks all these things? Why, because he has experience! Because, for example, he knows that there is at his side a gentleman who is going to a restaurant, saying to himself: ‘What is that ragged clerk going to eat today? I’m going to have sauté papillotte, while he is probably going to have kasha with no butter. But what business is it of his, what I’m going to eat? There is a type of man, Varenka, who thinks only about things like that. And they go about, the shameless lampoonists, looking to see whether you put the whole of your foot down on the pavement or just the tips of your toes; look, they say, such-and-such a clerk from such-and-such a department, a titular councillor, is going around with his bare toes sticking out of his boots, and the elbows of his jacket worn through – and then they go home and write about it all and then have this rubbish printed… But what business is it of his that my elbows are worn through? Indeed, if you will forgive me a coarse expression, Varenka, I will even go so far as to say that on this account the poor man has a modesty that is equivalent to your own maidenly reticence. I mean, you wouldn’t – please forgive my vulgarity – unveil yourself in front of everyone, would you? In precisely the same way the poor man doesn’t like people to look into his hideaway to see what his private life is like. And so there was no need to insult me, Varenka, taking sides with my enemies who assail the honour and personal dignity of an honest man.

  And as I sat in the office today I felt such an ungainly fool, such a bedraggled old idiot that I nearly burned up with shame. I was so ashamed of myself, Varenka! After all, it’s not surprising one feels ashamed when one is bare elbows are peeping through one’s sleeves and the buttons on one’s jacket are hanging by threads. And as luck would have it, my desk was in the most terrible mess! In spite of myself, my spirits sank. What can I say?… Stepan Karlovich himself began discussing my work with me today; he talked and talked, and then added, almost casually: ‘Oh, Makar Alekseyevich, old chap!’ – and didn’t finish the rest of what he’d intended to say. But I guessed what it was, and I blushed so violently that even my bald patch turned red. It was really an insignificant event, yet it nevertheless made me feel anxious and prompted me to gloomy thoughts. What if the others overheard? O God forbid that they should have overheard anything! I must confess that I suspect, strongly suspect a certain little fellow. I mean, it is nothing to them, those villains! They will inform on me! They will give away all the details of a man is private life for a brass copeck; they hold nothing sacred.

  I now know whose doing this is. It is Ratazyayev’s doing. Yes, he must know someone in our department who overheard the conversation and who repeated it all to him with bits added on; or perhaps he told the story to the people in his own department and it found its way to ours. Whatever the truth may be, everyone in our lodging-house knows the whole story right down to the last detail, and they point to your window; I know that they do this. When I went to have dinner with you yesterday, they all put their heads out of their windows; the landlady said that the devil had taken up with the infant, and then she called you an indecent name. But all that was nothing compared to Ratazyayev is villainous intention of putting you and myself into literature and describing us in an elegant satire; he told me of this himself, and some of the more kindly disposed of our lodgers have also informed me of it. I no longer know what to think about anything, and I do not know what to do. There is no use in trying to conceal our sin, we have incurred God’s anger, my little angel! You said you would send me a book, little mother, to keep me from being bored. Fie upon it, the book, little mother! What is a book? It is just a fable with faces! Novels are rubbish, too, written as rubbish, merely for idle people to read: believe me, little mother, trust my experience of many years. And if they come telling you about some Shakespeare or other, saying ‘Look, there is Shakespeare – he is literature’ – then be aware that Shakespeare is rubbish, too, it’s all the purest rubbish, and all made simply for the purpose of lampoonery!

  Your

  MAKAR DEVUSHKIN

  August 2

  Makar Alekseyevich, Sir,

  Don’t worry about a thing; with God’s help it will all be settled. Fedora has managed to get a whole pile of work for the two of us to do, and we have made a start on it in a thoroughly cheerful frame of mind; perhaps we shall set everything to rights. Fedora has a suspicion that Anna Fyodorovna may know a thing or two about my recent unpleasant experience; but now it’s all the same to me. For some reason I feel unusually cheerful today. You want to borrow money – God forbid! You will have terrible trouble later on when you have to pay it back. You would do better to live on closer terms with us – come and see us more often and don’t pay so much attention to your landlady. As for your other enemies and ill-wishers, I am sure you are tormenting yourself with needless doubts, Makar Alekseyevich! Take care; after all, I did tell you last time that your way of putting things is extremely irregular. Well, goodbye, until we meet. I expect to see you without fail.

  Your

  V. D.

  August 3

  varvara Alekseyevna, my little angel!

  I hasten to inform you, little light of my life, that I have begun to entertain hopes of a certain nature. But, daughter mine – you write, my little angel, that I am not to take any loans? My little dove, I cannot manage without them; after all, I am unwell, and what if things were suddenly to go wrong for you, as for all I know they might? I mean, you are not exactly strong; so that is why I wrote that I must absolutely borrow some money. Well, then, I shall continue.

  Varvara Alekseyevna, I wish to draw your attention to the fact that in the office I sit next to Yemelyan Ivanovich. he is not the Yemelyan of whom you already know. This one is a titular councillor, like myself, and he and I are practically the oldest and longest-established employees in the whole of our department. he is a good soul, an altruistic soul; he doesn’t say much, and always gives everyone a surly look. But he is businesslike, and he writes a good English round hand; if you want to know the truth, he writes as well as I do – he’s a worthy fellow! He and I have never been on intimate terms, we’re merely in the custom of saying hullo and goodbye to each other; and if I occasionally need to use the penknife I ask him for it – ‘Pass me the penknife, please, Yemelyan Ivanovich,’ I’ll say. In short, our relationship has been limited to the demands of our working together in the same office. Well, today he said to me: ‘Makar Alekseyevich, why have you grown so pensive of late?’ I could see that the man wished me no harm, and I told him what was on my mind. ‘It is like this and it is like that, Yemelyan Ivanovich,’ I said; in other words I didn’t tell him everything – God forbid, I shall never tell it all, as I have not the courage – but merely told him a bit about how I was feeling the pinch and that kind of thing. ‘You know what you ought to do, old chap?’ Yemelyan Ivanovich said. ‘You ought to borrow; why don’t you borrow from Pyotr Petrovich, he lends money at interest; I’ve borrowed from him myself in the past, he charges a reasonable rate – it won’t overburden you.’ Well, Varenka, my heart leapt. I thought and thought, it is just possible that the Lord will touch the soul of that beneficent man Pyotr Petrovich, and he will grant me a loan. I was already working out in my head how then I would be able to pay the landlady, help you, and sort out my affairs all round; otherwise I would be in such a shameful position: just sitting at my desk makes me feel terrible, never mind the jeering laughter of those scoffers of ours, the devil take them. And then, sometimes His Excellency passes my desk; well, God forbid that he should cast a glance at me and notice that I’m not properly dressed. The things that count for most with him are cleanliness and tidiness. He might not say anything, but I would die of shame – that is how it would be. So, in consequence, I summoned up my courage and, concealing my sense of shame in my pock
et full of holes, I went off to see Pyotr Petrovich, full of hope and yet more dead than alive with apprehension – both at the same time. But why, Varenka, it all ended in nonsense! He was busy with something, and was talking to Fedosei Ivanovich. I approached him from the side and tugged his sleeve: ‘Pyotr Petrovich,’ I said, ‘Pyotr Petrovich!’ He looked round, and I continued, telling him this and that, how I needed thirty rubles, and so on. At first he did not understand me, and then, when I had explained it all to him, he merely laughed and said nothing. I repeated my request. Then he said to me: ‘Have you any security?’ And he buried his nose in the document he was busy with, went on writing and did not give me a further glance. I was dumbfounded. ‘No, Pyotr Petrovich,’ I said, ‘I’ve no deposit.’ I explained to him that as soon as I received my salary I would consider it my first duty to pay the money back. At that point someone called him; I waited for him, he returned and then began to sharpen his pen, apparently oblivious of me. I continued to press my case: ‘Pyotr Petrovich,’ I said, ‘can’t something be managed somehow?’ He said nothing and seemed not to hear; I stood there and stood there. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I’ll try just one last time,’ and I tugged him by the sleeve. He said something I could not make out, finished sharpening his pen, and began to write; I gave up, and walked away. You see, little mother, they may be worthy men, but they’re proud, very proud – but what is that to me? Why should we trouble ourselves with them, Varenka? That is why I have written you all this. Yemelyan Ivanovich also laughed and shook his head, but he gave me hope, the kind fellow – Yemelyan Ivanovich is a worthy man. He promised to introduce me to a certain man; this man, Varenka, lives on the Vyborg Side, and also lends money at interest; he is some kind of fourteenth-class civil servant.* Yemelyan Ivanovich says this man will be sure to lend me the money; I shall go and see him tomorrow, my little angel – eh? What do you think? I mean, I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get a loan. My landlady is almost on the point of evicting me, and she won’t give me any more meals. And my boots are in a shocking state, little mother, and I’ve no buttons on my jacket… I’ve nothing much of anything else, either! Well, what if someone from the administration notices an improper state of affairs like that? I’ll be in trouble, Varenka, terrible trouble!