Poor Folk and Other Stories

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  You see, this is what happened:

  This morning I was talking to Yemelyan Ivanovich and Aksenty Mikhailovich about His Excellency. You know, Varenka, I am not the only person to whom he has been so generous. I am not the only person whom he has shown such favour – he is renowned for his kindheartedness far and wide. From many quarters people sing his praises, and shed tears of gratitude. He brought up an orphan girl in his house. He made all the arrangements for her: married her off to a certain man, a government clerk who lived in His Excellency is home and did special assignments. He got the son of a certain widow a position in a government office, and has done many other benevolent deeds of a similar kind. I considered it my duty, little mother, to make my own small contribution, and I told everyone about what His Excellency had done: I told them everything and concealed nothing. I swallowed my pride. What role could a thing like pride or reputation play in a situation like that? I told it all out loud – to the glory of the doings of His Excellency! I spoke enthusiastically and with ardour, and I did not blush – on the contrary, I was proud to have the occasion to tell such a story. I described it all to them (though I was sensible enough to keep quiet about you, little mother): my landlady, Faldoni, Ratazyayev, Markov, my boots – all of it. One or two of them exchanged smiles with one another; in fact, they all exchanged a few smiles. I expect they just thought there was something ridiculous about the way I looked, or perhaps it was what I told them about my boots – yes, that must have been it. But I don’t believe they did it with any malicious intention. It was simply their youth, or the fact that they are rich; I absolutely refuse to believe that they were laughing at what I had to say with any evil or malicious intention. What I mean is that since I was saying it all in relation to His Excellency, they could not possibly have done that, could they, Varenka?

  I still have not really recovered from it all, little mother. All these events have simply reduced me to confusion! Do you have firewood? Don’t catch cold, Varenka; it is so easy to catch cold. Oh, my little mother, you will be the death of me with those melancholy thoughts of yours. I am entreating with God for you, how I am entreating with Him, little mother! That, for example, you should have woollen stockings and warm underclothes. Look to yourself, my little dove. If you should need anything, then in the name of the Creator do not offend an old man. Just come straight to me. The bad times are over now. Do not worry on my account. Everything that lies ahead is so good and bright!

  Yes, it was a sad time, Varenka! But never mind, it’s gone, finished with. The years will roll by, and we will sigh even for that time. I remember the years of my youth. They couldn’t have beenbetter – though I frequently had not a copeck in my pocket. I was cold and hungry, but at least I was cheerful. I would walk down the Nevsky of a morning, encounter a pretty little face, and be happy all day afterwards. That was a glorious, glorious time, little mother! It is good to be alive, Varenka! Especially in St Petersburg. Yesterday I repented with tears in my eyes, asking the Lord God to forgive me all the sins I committed in that sad time: my discontent, my liberal ideas, my debauchery and gambling. I mentioned you in my prayers with tender emotion. It was you alone, my little angel, who gave me support, who consoled me, admonished me with your good counsel and your exhortations. I will never be able to forget that, little mother. I have kissed all your letters today, my little dove! Well, goodbye, little mother. I have been told that there are clothes being sold somewhere not far from here. So I shall see what I can find out. Goodbye, then, little angel. Goodbye!

  Your sincerely devoted

  MAKAR DEVUSHKIN

  September15

  Makar Alekseyevich, Sir,

  I am in a dreadful state of agitation. Listen to what has happened to us. I have a premonition of something fateful. Judge for yourself, my precious friend: Mr Bykov is in St Petersburg. Fedora met him. He was driving by, ordered the droshky to stop, went up to Fedora himself and began to enquire where she lived. At first she wouldn’t oblige him. Then he told her with an ironic smile that he knew who was living with her. (Anna Fyodorovna had apparently told him everything.) Then Fedora lost her patience and began to upbraid him and reproach him right there on the street, telling him that he was a man with no morals, that it was he who was the cause of all my unhappiness. He replied that when people haven’t a copeck to their names they are bound to be unhappy. Fedora told him that I might well have been able to earn my living, might even have found a husband or, failing that, obtained a position somewhere, but that now my happiness was lost for ever, that I was ill, moreover, and would soon die. In reply to this he observed that I was still far too young, that my head was still in a ferment and that even our virtues were getting a little tarnished (his words). Fedora and I thought he didn’t know where our apartment was, but then suddenly, yesterday, just after I had gone out to do some shopping in the Gostiny Dvor, he walked into our room; he apparently wished to avoid me. He spent a long time asking Fedora questions about the life we were leading; he examined all our possessions, looked at my work, and then asked: ‘Who’s this clerk who knows you?’ At that moment you were crossing the yard; Fedora pointed you out to him; he looked, and smiled his ironic smile; Fedora begged him to go away, told him that I was already ill with distress as it was, and that to see him in our room would be very unpleasant for me. For a while he remained silent; then he said he had simply come to see us for want of anything better to do, and tried to give Fedora twenty-five rubles, which she of course refused. What would it have meant if she had accepted them? Why did he come to see us? I cannot fathom how it is that he knows all about us! I am lost in conjectures. Fedora says that her sister-in-law Aksinya who comes visiting us knows a washerwoman called Nastasya and that this Nastasya has a cousin who is a janitor in the same department where a friend of Anna Fyodorovna is nephew works – so isn’t it possible that some malicious gossip has been going the rounds? But it may very well be that Fedora is mistaken; we don’t know what to think. Will he really come to see us again? The very thought horrifies me! When Fedora told me all this yesterday I was so frightened that I nearly fainted from terror. What more does he want? I don’t want to know him now! What business does he have with me, poor woman that I am? Oh, in what fear I live now; I keep thinking that Bykov will come in at any moment. What is to become of me? What else does fate have in store for me? For the love of Christ, come and see me now, Makar Alekseyevich. Please, for the love of God, come and see me.

  V. D.

  September 18

  Varvara Alekseyevna, little mother!

  There took place in our lodging-house today an even that was unbearably sad, thoroughly inexplicable and quite unexpected. Our poor Gorshkov (I must tell you this first, little mother) has completely acquitted himself. The court’s decision was made public a long time ago, but today he went to hear the final judgement. The case ended very happily for him. Whatever the suspicions of negligence and indiscretion that had been entertained against him, he was cleared of them all. The merchant was ordered to pay him a hefty sum of money, with the result that his circumstances were greatly improved; the stain on his honour was removed, and everything was better for him – in short, he had received the most complete fulfilment of his desires. He arrived home at three o’clock this afternoon. He looked terrible, his face was as white as a sheet, his lips were trembling, yet he was smiling – he embraced his wife and children. We all descended on him in a horde to congratulate him. He was thoroughly moved by our action, bowed in all directions, and shook hands with each of us several times. I even thought he had grown a few inches in height and straightened up, and he didn’t have those tears in his eyes as he usually did. He was in such a state of agitation, poor chap. He couldn’t keep still for two minutes on the same spot; he would pick up anything he chanced to find, then put it down again, smiling and bowing all the time without cease; he would sit down, stand up, sit down again, start talking – my, how he talked!– saying God only knows what: ‘My honour, my honour, my good nam
e, my children,’ and even weeping. Most of us also shed a few tears. Ratazyayev clearly wished to cheer him up, and said: ‘What good’s honour, old chap, if you’ve nothing to eat; it’s money, old chap, money that is the main thing; and it’s that you should be thanking God for!’ – and he slapped him on the shoulder. I thought Gorshkov looked offended; that’s to say, he didn’t actually express his displeasure openly, but just gave Ratazyayev a funny look and took his hand off his shoulder. He wouldn’t have done that before, little mother! But people’s characters differ. For example, if I had been so fortunate I would never have acted the proud fellow like that; I mean, my darling, sometimes one bows too much and humiliates oneself for the sole reason that one has suffered a fit of good will and excessive softness of heart… but it is not I we are talking about here! ‘Yes,’ he said,’money’s good too; praise be to God, praise be to God!’ And after that, during all the time we remained in his room, he kept saying ‘Praise be to God, praise be to God!’ His wife ordered a rather special dinner, and lots of it. Our landlady cooked it for them herself. Our landlady is sometimes a kindhearted woman. But until the dinner was ready Gorshkov was unable to sit still. He went to see everyone in their rooms, whether they invited him in or not. He would simply walk in, smile, sit down on a chair, say a few words, or sometimes remain silent – and go away again. When he went to see the warrant-officer he even played cards; they made him join in as fourth hand in their game. He played for a while, then for a little while longer, made a mess of his hand, played three or four rounds and then gave up. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but you see I’m just passing, that’s all, just passing’ – and left their company. When he ran into me in the passage he seized me by both hands and looked me straight in the face, only he did it in a thoroughly odd manner; then he shook my hand and wandered off, smiling all the while, but with a smile that was somehow strange and heavy, like that of a corpse. His wife was weeping for joy; everything in their room was so cheerful, as though it had been arranged for a holiday. They consumed their dinner quickly. After they had eaten, he said to his wife: ‘Listen, my dear, I’m going to take a nap for a while,’ and he went to bed. He called his daughter to his side, put his hand on her little head and stroked it for a long, long time. Then he turned to his wife once more: ‘But what about Petenka?’ he said. ‘Petya, our Petenka?…’ His wife made the sign of the cross over herself and replied that he was dead. ‘Yes, yes, I know, I know it all, Petenka’s in the kingdom of heaven now.’ His wife could see that he was not himself, that the things which had taken place had completely shaken and astounded him, and she said to him: ‘You ought to sleep for a while, my dear.’ ‘Yes, very well, in a moment I will… I’m a bit…’ Here he turned away, lay for a while, then turned back again and tried to say something. His wife couldn’t make out what it was, and she asked him: ‘What is it you want, my friend?’ But he made no reply. She waited for a little. ‘Well,’ she thought, ‘he is fallen asleep.’ And she went to see the landlady for an hour or so. An hour later she returned – she saw that her husband had not yet woken up, and that he lay there without moving. In the belief that he was asleep, she sat down and began to busy herself with some work or other. She says now that she worked for half an hour and was so absorbed in her thoughts that she cannot even remember what it was she was thinking about, only that she had forgotten about her husband. Then a sense of alarm suddenly made her wake up, and what struck her most of all was the tomb-like silence in the room. She looked over at the bed and saw that her husband was still lying in the same position. She went over to him, tugged the coverlet aside, looked – and saw that he was cold as cold – he had died, little mother, Gorshkov had suddenly died, as if smitten by a thunderbolt! And what he diedof – Godalone knows. It so overwhelmed me, Varenka, that I still can’t get over it even now. It’s simply impossible to believe that a man can die with so little fuss. What a poor miserable devil that Gorshkov was! Oh, what a fate, what a fate! His wife was in tears, fairly terrified out of her wits. The girl has gone to hide in a corner somewhere. There’s a terrible commotion in their room; a forensic investigation is going to be carried out… I don’t know all the details for certain. But I’m sorry for them, oh so sorry! It’s so sad to think that one really can have no knowledge of the day or the hour… One will die just like that, for no reason…

  Your

  MAKAR DEVUSHKIN

  September 19

  Varvara Alekseyevna, Dear Madam,

  I hasten to inform you, my friend, that Ratazyayev has found me work with a certain author. Someone came to see him with a great thick manuscript – praise be to God, it’s a lot of work. The only thing is that it’s so illegibly written that I can’t seem to make much sense of it… They’ve agreed to pay me forty copecks per printer is sheet. I’m telling you this, my dear, so you will know that we shall now have some extra money. Well, and now goodbye, little mother. I must set straight to work.

  Your faithful friend,

  MAKAR DEVUSHKIN

  September 23

  Makar Alekseyevich, my dear friend,

  It’s three days now since I wrote anything to you – but I have had a lot, a lot of troubles, a lot of anxiety.

  The day before yesterday Bykov came to see me. I was alone, Fedora had gone off somewhere. I opened the door to him, and was so terrified when I saw him that I could not move from the spot. I could feel myself going pale. He came in as he usually does, with his loud laughter, took a chair and sat down. For a long time I could not summon my wits together; in the end I sat down in the corner with my work. Soon he stopped laughing. I think my appearance shocked him. I have become very thin of late; my cheeks and eyes have grown sunken, and I was as white as a sheet… it would really be quite difficult for someone who had known me a year ago to recognize me now. He looked at me long and fixedly, and then finally cheered up again. He said something or other; I don’t remember what I said in reply, but he burst out laughing again. He sat there in my room for a whole hour, talked to me for a long time, asking me about something. Finally, before taking his leave of me, he took me by the hand and said (these were his exact words): ‘Varvara Alekseyevna! Between you and me, Anna Fyodorovna, your relative and my intimate friend and companion, is a very nasty piece of work.’ (Here he also used an indecent word to refer to her.) ‘She also led your female cousin astray, and ruined you. As regards myself, I behaved like a cad in that affair, too – but then, it happens every day.’ At that point he fairly chortled with laughter. Then he commented that he was no master of eloquence, that he had already told me the most important things which ought to be explained to me and about which the obligations of decency forbade him to remain silent, and that he would proceed to the remaining matters in brief terms only. Here he announced to me that he sought my hand in marriage, that he considered it his duty to restore to me my honour, that he was rich, that after the wedding he would take me away to his village in the steppes, that he wanted to go hare-coursing there; that he would never come back to St Petersburg again, because it was a vile city, that in it he had, as he put it, a ‘no-good nephew’ whom he had sworn to deprive of his inheritance, and that it was for this very reason – that of acquiring some lawful inheritors – that he sought my hand, this being the main purpose of his suit. Then he observed that I was living in very straitened circumstances, that it was no wonder I was ill, living in such a hovel, predicted that I would inevitably die if I were to remain there even one month longer, said that rented accommodation in St Petersburg was vile, and finally asked me if there was anything I wanted.

  I was so shocked by his proposal that – I don’t know why – I burst into tears. He interpreted this as a sign of gratitude and told me that he had always been convinced I was a goodhearted, sensitive and educated woman, but that he had not been able to bring himself to take this step until he had made detailed enquiries as to my present behaviour. Then he enquired about you, said he had heard all about you, that you were a man of decent principles, that he for
his part did not want to be in your debt and asked if five hundred rubles would suffice to pay you for all you had done for me. When I explained to him that what you had done for me could never be paid for in money, he told me that that was just a lot of romantic nonsense, that I was young and read too many poems and novels, that novels were the ruin of young girls, that books were harmful to morality and that he could not endure books of any kind; he advised me to wait until I was his age before making judgements about people. ‘Then you’ll have some idea,’ he added. Then he told me to think his proposal over carefully, that he would find it very displeasing were I to take such an important step rashly, added that rashness and impulsiveness could be the ruin of inexperienced youth, but that he greatly desired a favourable reply from me, and that if such a reply were not forthcoming he would be compelled to marry a merchant’s daughter in Moscow, because, he said, ‘I have sworn to deprive that no-good nephew of mine of his inheritance.’ He forced me to accept the five hundred rubles – isweet-money’, as he put it; he said that in the country I would ‘grow as round as a doughnut’, that in his house I would live in clover, that he had a fearful amount of business to attend to just now, that he trudged around all day seeing to it and that he had dropped in to see me between two appointments. Then he left. I thought for a long time, I rediance on a great many things and went through agonies of indecision as I did so, my friend; and at last I made up my mind. My friend, I am going to marry him. I must accept his proposal. If there is anyone who can save me from my shame, restore to me my honourable reputation, and rescue me from poverty, deprivation and unhappiness, it is him, and him alone. What more can I expect from the future, what more can I ask of fate? Fedora says one mustn’t sacrifice one is happiness. ‘What is happiness in a case like this?’ she says. At any rate, I can’t see another way forward for myself, my precious friend. What would I do? I have ruined my health with work as it is; I cannot work all the time. Become a serving-maid? I would die of misery, and in any case I’d be no good to anyone. I’m sickly by nature, and so I’ll always be a burden to others. Of course, I know I’m not exactly going to paradise now, but what else can I do? What choice do I have?