Poor Folk and Other Stories

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  ‘Oh, no, anything but… You say he did penance; but he’s not alone.’

  ‘I don’t know. They say he was alone. At least, no one else was implicated in the case. But then, I never heard what happened later; all I know is that…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘All I know is that – well, I don’t really have anything to add to what I’ve told you… all I want to say is that if you find anything unusual and out of the ordinary run of things in him, it’s simply the consequence of the disasters that have befallen him, one after the other…’

  ‘Yes, he’s such a pious old fish, so sanctimonious.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Vasily Mikhailovich; he has suffered so much; I think he is pure in heart.’

  ‘But I mean, he’s not mad now; he’s sane.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes; that I can guarantee you, I’d even be prepared to swear an oath on it: he’s in full possession of all his mental faculties. It’s just that he’s, as you so rightly hinted in passing, extremely pious and eccentric. He’s actually a very sensible man. He talks boldly, alertly, and very shrewdly. The traces of his stormy past are still visible in his features. He’s an inquisitive man, and extremely well-read.’

  ‘He only seems to read religious books.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a mystic’.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s a mystic. But that’s a secret which I tell you in confidence. I can also tell you, again confidentially, that at one time he was placed under strict surveillance. That man had a terrible influence on those who sought his company.’

  ‘What sort of influence?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it; listen, and I’ll tell you. In those days he lived in another part of town, not this one; Aleksandr Ignatich, a distinguished citizen, a pillar of society who commanded universal respect, went to see him with some lieutenant or other – they were both simply curious. They arrived at his house, were ushered inside, and then this strange man began to peer into their faces. He usually peered into people’s faces when he had agreed to be of service to them; otherwise he would send them away, in a thoroughly impolite manner, it’s said. “What do you want, gentlemen?” he asked. “Oh,” replied Aleksandr Ignatich: “your gift ought to be able to tell you that without our needing to.” “Come into the other room with me,” he said, determining which one of them it was who had come to ask him for something without having to enquire. Aleksandr Ignatich didn’t say what happened to the man after that, but he came out as white as a sheet. The same thing happened in the case of a certain aristocratic lady from the highest society: she also came out from her interview with him as white as a sheet, in floods of tears and amazed by his predictions and eloquent speech.’

  ‘Strange. But he doesn’t ply that trade now?’

  ‘He’s been categorically forbidden to. There were some extraordinary cases. A certain young cornet, the flowering hope of a highborn family, smiled ironically at the sight of him. “What are you laughing at?” the old man said, flying into a rage. “In three days’ time you’ll be like this!” – and he crossed his arms over his chest to denote a corpse.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t dare to believe it, but they say that his prediction was fulfilled. He possesses a gift. Vasily Mikhailovich… You smile at my artless tale. I know that you have far outstripped me in education; but I trust him: he is not a charlatan. Pushkin himself mentions something similar in his writings.’*

  ‘Hm. I have no wish to contradict you. I believe you said that he doesn’t live alone.’

  ‘I don’t know… I think his daughter lives with him.’

  ‘His daughter?’

  ‘Yes, or she may be his wife; at any rate, I know he has some woman living with him. I’ve seen her in passing, but never paid much attention to her.’

  ‘Hm. Strange…’

  The young man lapsed into reflection, and Yaroslav Ilyich into tender contemplation. He was pleasantly excited both at seeing his old friend and at having been able to tell him something interesting. He sat without taking his eyes off Vasily Mikhailovich, puffing at his pipe; suddenly, however, he leapt to his feet and began to get flustered.

  ‘A whole hour has passed – I’ve forgotten the time! Dear Vasily Mikhailovich, once again I thank fortune for having brought us together, but now I must leave you. Will you permit me to visit you in your learned abode?’

  ‘By all means – I shall be very glad to see you. I shall come and visit you, too, when time allows.’

  ‘Dare I believe the wonderful news? You will do me a great favour, a truly great favour! You cannot imagine the joy with which you have inspired me!’

  They left the inn. Sergeyev was already racing towards them in order to hurriedly report to Yaroslav Ilyich that Vilyam Yemelyanovich was driving by. Sure enough, a smart pair of greys drawing a smart drozhky came into view. Especially stylish was the unusual addition of a trace-horse. Yaroslav Ilyich squeezed the hand of his best friend in a vice-like grip, touched his hat and set off to meet the approaching drozhky. On the way he turned round a couple of times and nodded to Ordynov in a valedictory manner.

  Ordynov felt such weariness, such exhaustion in all his limbs that he was hardly able to drag his legs along. Somehow he managed to reach home. At the gate he was again met by the yardkeeper, who had observed closely the whole of his parting with Yaroslav Ilyich, and made him a beckoning sign while he was still some distance away. But the young man paid no attention, and simply walked past. At the door of his lodgings he collided fairly and squarely with a small grey-haired individual who was coming out from Murin’s room, his eyes lowered.

  ‘Lord, forgive me my transgressions,’ the man whispered, jumping to one side with the resilience of a bottle-cork.

  ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  ‘No, sir, but I thank you most humbly for your concern… Oh, Lord, Lord!’

  Moaning and groaning, mumbling some edifying words to himself, the quiet little man carefully descended the staircase. This was the owner of the building, who had so frightened the yardkeeper. It was only now that Ordynov remembered he had first seen him here, at Murin’s apartment, when he had been moving into his new room.

  He felt tense and shaken; he knew that his imagination and sensibility had been strained to breaking-point, and so he decided not to trust his own impressions. Little by little he sank into a kind of lethargy. His chest was weighed down by a heavy, oppressive sensation. His heart ached as though it were covered in ulcers, and his soul was full of voiceless, inexhaustible tears.

  He fell back on the bed she had made up for him and began to listen again. He could hear two sets of breathing: one was heavy, painful and intermittent, the other quiet but uneven, and also somehow filled with emotion, as though a heart were beating there with the same striving, the same passion. From time to time he could hear the sounds of her dress, the light rustle of her soft, quiet footsteps, and even this rustle of her feet echoed in his heart with a dull, but tormentingly sweet pain. At length he thought he heard sobs, a passionate sigh and then the sound of her praying again. He knew she was kneeling before the icon, wringing her hands in a frenzied paroxysm of despair… Who was she? For whom was she interceding? By what hopeless passion was her heart disturbed? Why did it ache and grieve and overflow with such hot and hopeless tears?

  He began to remember her words. Everything she had said to him still sang in his ears like music, and his heart lovingly echoed each memory of her, each devoutly repeated word she had uttered with a dull, heavy throb… For a second it flashed through his mind that he had dreamt it all. But at that same moment his entire being ached with a sinking sense of anguish as the memory of her hot breath, her words, her kiss burned itself anew into his brain. He closed his eyes and lost consciousness. Somewhere a clock was striking; it was getting late; dusk was falling.

  It suddenly seemed to him that she was leaning over him again, looking with her wonderfully clear eyes, moist with the glittering tears of a serene, radiant joy,
calm and clear as the infinite turquoise cupola of the heavens on a hot midday, into his own. With such solemn calm did her features shine, with such a promise of infinite bliss did her smile gleam, with such sympathy, with such childlike devotion did she lean her head on his shoulder that a moan of joy broke from his overwhelmed inner self. She was trying to tell him something; she was tenderly confiding something to him. Again a heart-piercing music seemed to strike his ears. He greedily sucked in the air which had been rendered warm and electric by her close breathing. In anguish he stretched out his arms, sighed, opened his eyes… She was standing in front of him, bending down towards his face, pale as from sudden fright, in tears, trembling all over with agitation. She was telling him something, begging him for something, wringing her hands, her arms half-exposed. He entwined her in his embrace, and she quivered against his breast…

  PART TWO

  I

  ‘What are you doing? What’s the matter with you?’ said Ordynov, who was now wide awake, but still held her in a close, passionate embrace.’What’s the matter, Katerina? What’s wrong, my love?’

  She was sobbing quietly, her eyes lowered as she hid her flushed face against his chest. It was a long time before she could bring herself to speak; she was trembling all over as though in fright.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know’ she said at last in a voice that was barely audible, gasping for breath and almost unable to get the words out.’I can’t remember how I got into your room…’ At that point she pressed herself even closer to him, with even greater yearning, and kissed his shoulder, his arms, his chest in an unstoppable, convulsive rush of feeling; finally, as though in despair, she covered her face with her hands, fell to her knees and buried her head in his legs. And when Ordynov, in unspeakable anguish, impatiently made her get up and sat her down beside him, her face burned with a veritable conflagration of shame, her eyes wept for forgiveness and the smile that forced itself to her lips was scarcely able to suppress the violence of this new emotion. Now she again seemed frightened of something; she pushed him away with one arm, hardly looked at him, and replied to his rapid questions fearfully and in a whisper, her head lowered.

  ‘I think you must have had a nightmare,’ Ordynov said.’Perhaps you had some kind of hallucination… is that it? Perhaps he fright-ened you… He’s in delirium and unconscious… Perhaps he said something you ought not to have heard… Was it something you heard? Was it?’

  ‘No, I haven’t been asleep,’ Katerina replied, suppressing her agitation only with an effort.’I couldn’t get to sleep. He kept silent all the time, and only called me once. I went over to him, spoke his name, talked to him; I grew afraid; he did not wake up, and did not seem to hear me. He is gravely ill; may the Lord help him! After that anguish began to bite deeply into my heart, bitter anguish! I prayed and prayed, and then this came over me.’

  ‘Enough of this, Katerina, enough, my life, enough! All that happened was that something frightened you yesterday…’

  ‘No, nothing frightened me yesterday!…

  ‘Have you ever experienced anything like this before?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ And she started to tremble again, pressing herself close against him like a child. ‘Look,’ she said, interrupting her sobs,’I didn’t come to you without reason. No, not without reason. I was miserable on my own,’ she said, pressing his hands in gratitude.’Enough, enough of shedding tears over someone else’s grief! Save them for the black day when you yourself, lonely man, are miserable and you have no one to whom you can turn… Listen, have you ever had a sweetheart?’

  ‘No… until you, I haven’t known a single…

  ’ ‘Until me… Are you calling me your sweetheart?’

  She suddenly gave him a look that might have been one of surprise, seemed to be about to say something, but then grew quiet and lowered her gaze. Little by little her face was once more reddened by a suddenly spreading blush; her eyes shone more brightly through the forgotten tears that had not yet cooled on her eyelashes, and it was apparent that some question was stirring on her lips. With modest playfulness she looked at him once or twice and then suddenly lowered her eyes again. ‘No, I’m not going to be your first sweetheart,’ she said. ‘No, no,’ she repeated, shaking her heard reflectively, as a smile once more quietly stole across her features. ‘No, my dear,’ she said, laughing: ‘I’m not going to be your sweetheart.’

  Here she glanced in his direction; but so much melancholy was suddenly written in her face, each one of her features was abruptly touched by so much desperate sadness, so unexpectedly did her despair seethe up from inside her, from within her heart, that a strange, morbid sense of compassion for her enigmatic suffering gripped Ordynov’s spirit, and he looked at her in unspeakable torment.

  ‘Listen to what I shall tell you,’ she said in a voice that pierced his heart, pressing his hands in hers as she struggled to keep back her sobs.’Listen to me well, listen, my joy! Chasten your heart, and do not love me as you do now. You will feel better, your heart will be lighter and more joyful, you will both save yourself from a merciless enemy and gain a sister who cares for you. I will come and see you whenever you like, I will caress you and take no shame upon myself for having befriended you. After all, I was with you for two days, when you lay in that cruel illness! Recognize your sister! Not for nothing have we entered into this close friendship, not for nothing have I prayed in tears to the Holy Virgin for you! You will not find another like me! Though you travel the world over, though you come to know the earth in its entirety, you will not find another such love, if it is love your heart asks for. I will love you passionately, I will love you always as I do now, and I will love you because your soul is pure, light, transparent; because as soon as I first set eyes on you I knew that you were the guest of my household, the desired guest who had not thrust himself upon us unbidden; I will love you because when you look at me your eyes express love and tell of your heart, and when they speak I at once know about everything that is in you. I know, and so I want to give you my life for your love, want to give you my precious freedom, because it is sweet to be the slave of the one whose heart I have found… but my life is not my own, it belongs to another, and my freedom is constrained! Take me as a sister, and be a brother to me – take me to your heart when anguish and cruel infirmity once more assail me; only do it so that I need not be ashamed to come to you and sit with you, as now, through the long night. Do you hear me? Have you opened your heart to me? Has your reason accepted what I have said to you?…’ She tried to say something else, looked at him, put her hand on his shoulder and at last fell helplessly into his arms. Her voice sank away in convulsive, passionate sobbing, her bosom heaved deeply, and her face flushed red as a sunset.

  ‘My life!’ whispered Ordynov, whose eyes had grown dim and whose breath had been taken away.’My joy!’ he said, not knowing what words he spoke, not remembering them, not understanding himself, trembling lest a single puff of air destroy the magic, destroy everything which had happened to him, and which he was inclined to interpret more as vision than reality: so dark had it gone before his eyes!’I don’t know, I don’t understand you, I can’t remember what you said just now, my reason is failing and my heart is aching within me, my sovereign lady!…’

  Here his voice again sank away with emotion. She was pressing herself ever more closely, ever more warmly and passionately against him. He got up from where he had been lying and, no longer able to hold himself in check, helpless and paralysed with ecstasy, fell to his knees. At length sobs, convulsive and painful, broke from his chest, and his voice came straight from his heart and trembled like a string with the plenitude of an unknown delight and bliss.

  ‘Who are you, my darling? Where have you come from, my dove?’ he said, struggling to choke back his sobs.’From what heaven have you flown into my skies? It’s as though I were dreaming; I can’t believe you are real. Don’t reproach me… let me speak, let me tell you everything, everything!… I’ve wanted to speak
to you for such a long time… Who are you, who are you, my joy?… How did you find your way to my heart? Tell me, have you long been my sister?… Tell me everything about yourself, where you have been until now – tell me the name of the place where you lived, what first won your affection there, what gave you joy and what made you unhappy… Was the air there warm, was the sky clear?… Who were the people you held dear, who loved you before I did, whom did your soul first treasure?… Did you have a natural mother, and did she cuddle you as a child, or did you grow accustomed, like I, to being alone? Tell me, have you always been as you are at present? What did you dream of, what did you predict for yourself, which of your hopes were realized and which came to nothing? Tell me it all… For whom did your maiden’s heart first ache, and for what did you give it?… Tell me, my love, my light, my sister, tell me what I must do to win your heart!…’

  Here his voice sank away again, and he inclined his head. But when he raised his eyes he was instantly frozen with speechless horror, and the hair on his head stood on end.

  Katerina had turned as white as a sheet. She sat staring fixedly into space, her lips were blue, like those of a corpse, and her eyes were clouded with dumb, tormented agony. Slowly she rose to her feet, took two steps forward and collapsed with a piercing wail before the icon… Jerky, incoherent words broke from within her. She lost consciousness. Ordynov, utterly shaken with terror, lifted her up and carried her to his bed; he stood over her, practically out of his mind. A moment later she opened her eyes, raised herself on one elbow, looked around her and seized his hand. She drew him towards her and struggled to whisper something with her still-pale lips, but her voice failed her. At last she burst into a deluge of tears; the hot droplets fell burning on Ordynov’s cold hand.

  ‘I am wretched, I am wretched now, my last hour is at hand!’ she said at last, grieving in desperate torment.