Poor Folk and Other Stories

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Everyone, young and old alike, immediately surrounded Semyon Ivanovich, standing side by side around his bed and turning faces full of expectation on the sick man. In the meantime he had recovered consciousness but, whether out of shame or for some other reason, suddenly began to pull the quilt over him with all his might, doubtless wishing to conceal himself beneath it from the attention of his commiserators. At last Mark Ivanovich broke the silence and, being a clever man, began to say very gently that Semyon Ivanovich must calm himself, that being ill was a shame and a disgrace, that only little children behaved this way, that he must get well again and then return to the office. Mark Ivanovich rounded off his remarks with a little joke, saying that no fixed rate of salary had as yet been established for sick clerks, and since he was quite secure in the knowledge that their rank would be very lowly, in his opinion at least such a profession or career would bring no great or material advantages. In a word, it was clear that everyone was taking a genuine interest in Semyon Ivanovich’s fortunes, and that they had the greatest of sympathy with him. With incomprehensible churlishness, however, he continued to lie on his bed, refusing to utter a word and pulling the quilt more and more stubbornly over himself. But Mark Ivanovich would not admit defeat and, mastering his emotions, again said something very sugary to Semyon Ivanovich, certain that this was how one was supposed to behave towards a man who was sick; but Semyon Ivanovich would have none of it; instead, he muttered something through his teeth with a most distrustful look and suddenly began to squint sullenly from right to left, apparently wishing to reduce all his commiserators to ashes by his very gaze. It was no good beating about the bush; Mark Ivanovich could restrain himself no longer: observing that the man had simply decided to be stubborn, having taken umbrage and lost his temper completely, he declared bluntly and without any sugary circumlocutions now that it was time Mr Prokharchin got up, that he had lain there quite long enough, that his constant shouting day and night about fires, sisters-in-law, drunkards, locks, trunks and the devil only knew what else was stupid, unseemly and outrageous, for if Semyon Ivanovich did not want to sleep, others did, and would he please make a note of it. This speech had its effect: Semyon Ivanovich at once turned in the orator’s direction, and said in a voice which, though steady, was none the less hoarse and feeble: ‘You hold your tongue, jackanapes! You’re an idle chatterer, a foul-mouthed fellow! Got that, heel? Think you’re a prince, eh? Got it?’ At the sound of such words, Mark Ivanovich flared into a rage but, recollecting that he was dealing with a sick man, magnanimously refused to take offence and attempted instead to make Mr Prokharchin feel ashamed of himself; here, too, however, his efforts were cut short, for Semyon Ivanovich immediately remarked that he would not permit Mark Ivanovich to trifle with him, for all that Mark Ivanovich wrote poetry. There ensued a silence that lasted all of two minutes; at last recovering from his amazement, Mark Ivanovich plainly and clearly, with much eloquence, though not without firmness, declared that Semyon Ivanovich must bear in mind that he was among men of good breeding, and that ‘dear sir, you must learn how to conduct yourself with persons of good breeding’. Mark Ivanovich was able on occasion to speak with an oratorical flourish, and liked to make an impression on his listeners. For his part, doubtless as a result of his inveterate habit of keeping silent, Semyon Ivanovich spoke and acted in a rather more abrupt manner; moreover, when, for example, he had occasion to embark upon a long sentence, the further into it he got, the more each word seemed to give rise to another word, which at once gave rise to a third, a third to a fourth and so on, so that his mouth was stuffed full, a tickling began in his throat, and the stuffed-in words at last came fluttering out in the most picturesque disorder. It was for this reason that Semyon Ivanovich, though an intelligent man, sometimes spoke some fearful rubbish. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied now. ‘You big hulk, you waster! Just wait till you’re ruined, and have to go begging; you’re a free-thinker, a libertine; that’s what you are, poet!’

  ‘Really, Semyon Ivanovich, I think you must still be raving!’

  ‘You listen to me,’ Semyon Ivanovich replied. ‘A fool raves, a drunkard raves, a dog raves, but a wise man shows some sense. You don’t know what you’re about, do you hear, you loose-living fellow, you intellectual, you talk like a book! One day you’ll catch fire and you won’t even notice that your head’s burnt off. Got it?’

  ‘Er… I’m not sure… What do you mean, Semyon Ivanovich? My head burnt off… ?’

  Mark Ivanovich did not pursue his enquiry, as everyone could clearly see that Semyon Ivanovich had not yet recovered his senses and was still raving; but the landlady could restrain herself no longer, and said without further ado that the house had burned down in Krivoy Lane the other day because of a scatter-brained girl; that there had been a scatter-brained girl living there; that she had lit a candle and set fire to the storeroom; but that such a thing would not happen in her apartment, and that the corners would be safe.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Semyon Ivanovich!’ shouted Zinovy Prokof-yevich, beside himself, interrupting the landlady. ‘Semyon Ivanovich, what on earth has got into you, you silly, sick old man? Don’t you see that people have been making a fool of you with all these jokes about your sister-in-law and dancing exams? Don’t you? Don’t you see?’

  ‘You listen here,’ replied our hero, raising himself from his bed, mustering the last of his strength and venting every ounce of spite and rage that was in him. ‘Who’s calling me a fool? You’re a fool and ahound, a fool of a man, but I won’t provide foolery to your orders, sir; do you hear, you jackanapes? I am no servant of yours, sir!’

  Here Semyon Ivanovich tried to say something else, but fell back on his bed, all strength gone. His commiserators were left in a state of bewilderment. They all stood with mouths agape, for they now surmised what had happened to Semyon Ivanovich, but did not know what to do next. Suddenly the kitchen door gave a creak and opened, and the drunken friend – otherwise known as Mr Zimovey-kin – timidly poked his head round it, cautiously sniffing the lie of the land in his usual way. It was as if they had all been waiting for him; everyone began to signal to him to come in as quickly as he could, and Zimoveykin, thoroughly delighted and without removing his overcoat, pushed his way hurriedly through to Semyon Ivano-vich’s bedside, ready to do his utmost.

  Zimoveykin had evidently stayed up all the previous night engaged in some kind of major exertion. The right side of his face was covered in sticking plaster; his swollen eyelids were caked with the matter that had run from his festering eyes; his jacket and all his clothes were ripped and torn, and the entire left side of his apparel seemed, what was more, tohave been sprayed with some thoroughly evil smelling substance which might have been dirt from some puddle. Under his arm he was carrying someone’s violin, which he was taking somewhere in order to sell. They had plainly not been mistaken in inviting him to help, for immediately, having sized up the situation, he turned to the delinquent Semyon Ivanovich and, with the air of a man in a superior position, who, moreover, knows a thing or two, said: ‘What are you doing, Senka? Get up! What are you doing, wise man Prokharchin? Show a bit of sense! I’ll steal all your money if you go on throwing your weight around like this; stop throwing your weight around!’ This short but powerful speech astonished those present in the room; they were all even more astonished when they observed that upon seeing this person in front of him and hearing all that he had to say, Mr Prokharchin was so flabbergasted, reduced to such a state of timidity and confusion that he could only barely, through his teeth, mutter in a whisper the inevitable expression of protest. ‘Get out of here, you miserable wretch, you thief! Do you hear, have you got that? You think you’re a regular big shot, don’t you, you grand Panjandrum, you think you’re a regular big shot!’

  ‘No, old chap,’ Zimoveykin replied in a drawling voice, keeping all his wits about him. ‘That’s not very worthy of you, Prokharchin, you wise old owl, you regular Prokharchin of a man,’
Zimoveykin continued, parodying Semyon Ivanovich slightly and looking about him with satisfaction. ‘Stop throwing your weight around! Behave yourself, Senya, behave yourself or I’ll report you, my fine fellow, I’ll tell them all about you – got that?’

  It appeared that the message had got through to Semyon Ivanovich, for upon hearing the conclusion of this speech he gave a start and suddenly began to look all round him, swifdy and with a look of utter desperation. Pleased with the effecthe was having, Mr Zimoveykin prepared to continue, but Mark Ivanovich forestalled his ardour by waiting until Semyon Ivanovich had quietened down, become more amenable and almost completely recovered his calm, and then began at length and in reasoned tones to impress upon the uneasy man that to harbour the sort of thoughts that were now in his head was, for one thing, pointless, and for another, not only poindess but even harmful; and indeed, for that matter, not so much harmful as positively immoral; the reason being that Semyon Ivanovich was leading them all astray and setting a bad example. Everyone expected these words to produce a sensible result. What was more, Semyon Ivanovich had now become quite peaceful and was making only the most measured of protests. A modest argument began. The lodgers addressed him in a brotherly sort of way, enquiring as to why he had got the wind up so badly. Semyon Ivanovich did make a reply, but in a rather roundabout fashion. They remonstrated with him; he remonstrated back. Another exchange of protests followed, and then everyone, young and old, joined in the mêlée, for a subject of conversation so strange and startling suddenly cropped up that no one really knew how to deal with it. The argument finally developed into expressions of impatience, impatience led to shouting, shouting led to tears, and at last Mark Ivanovich withdrew foaming at the mouth and declaring that he had never met such an arrantly stubborn and single-minded individual in all his born days. Oplevaniyev spat, Okeanov took fright, Zinovy Prokofyevich started to cry, and Ustinya Fyodorovna set up one of her most impressive wails, howling that her lodger had ‘gone and got bats in the upper storey’, that the poor lamb was going to the without a passport, that he wasn’t registered, that she was all alone and would be hauled in by the police. In short, they all at last clearly saw that the sowing had been good, that all that had been sown had brought forth an hundredfold, that the ground was favoured, and that in their company Semyon Ivanovich had succeeded in working his head off well and truly, and in the most irrevocable manner. They all fell silent, for though they had seen that Semyon Ivanovich had got the wind up, this time his commiserators had got the wind up, too…

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ cried Mark Ivanovich. ‘What is it you’re afraid of? Why have you lost your wits? Who cares anything about you, my good sir? Do you think you have any right to be as scared as this? Who are you? What are you? A zero, sir, a round pancake, that’s all you are! What’s all your fuss about? Just because a woman’s been run over in the street, do you think you’re going to be run over, too? Just because some drunkard forgot to guard his pocket, do you think your coat-tails are going to be cut off? Just because a house burns down, does your head have to burn off, too? Is that it, sir? Is that it?’

  ‘You, you – you’re stupid!’ Semyon Ivanovich muttered. ‘You could have your nose eaten off, but you’d eat it yourself with bread and never notice*…’

  ‘I freely admit that I’m a cad,’ cried Mark Ivanovich, who was not really listening. ‘I’m a caddish sort of fellow. But then, I don’t have to sit an examination, find a wife, or take dancing lessons; the earth isn’t opening under me, my dear sir. What’s wrong, sir? Isn’t there enough room in the world for you? Is the floor giving way beneath your feet, or something?’

  ‘What do you mean? Who asked you? They’ll close it down, and that will be the end of me.’

  ‘What? What will they close down? What are you driving at – eh?’

  ‘They dismissed the drunkard…’

  ‘All right, so they did; but you and I aren’t drunkards, we’re men!’

  ‘All right, so we’re men. But it’s there today, and it’ll be gone tomorrow…’

  ‘Gone? What’ll be gone?’

  ‘The office… The of-fice!’

  ‘But my dear, good fellow! The office is needed, it can’t be done without!…’

  ‘That may be so, but you listen here: it’s needed today, it’ll be needed tomorrow, but the day after tomorrow it won’t be needed at all. You see, I heard a story…’

  ‘But they pay you an annual salary! You’re a Thomas, a doubting Thomas, you man of little faith! You’ll be given another position on account of your senior rank…’

  ‘Salary? But I’ll spend it all, thieves will come and take my money; and I’ve a sister-in-law, do you hear me? A sister-in-law! You and your one-track mind!…’

  ‘Your sister-in-law! My dear man, you’re…’

  ‘I’m a man; yes, I’m a man, but you, you bookworm, are a stupid nincompoop; listen, one-track mind, you man of only one track, listen to this! I’m not talking about any of your jokes; but my job’s the sort of job that’s here today and gone tomorrow. Even Demid, do you hear, Demid Vasilyevich says my job’s for the chop…’

  ‘Oh, Demid, Demid! He’s a young rascal, and I mean…’

  ‘Yes – bang! Just like that! And there’s no job left; and off I go to the devil…’

  ‘Well you’re either talking nonsense or you’ve gone off your head completely! Tell us straight, now: which is it? Confess, if that’s what’s the matter with you! It’s nothing to be ashamed of! Have you gone off your head, sir, eh?’

  ‘He’s gone off his head! He’s gone insane!’ people shouted all around, and everyone wrung their hands in despair; the landlady had thrown both of her arms around Mark Ivanovich, for fear he might tear Semyon Ivanovich to pieces.

  ‘You’re a pagan, a pagan soul, you’re a man of wisdom!’ said Mr Zimoveykin, imploringly. ‘Senya, you’re not a man to take offence, you’re pleasant and kind! You’re simple, you’re virtuous… Do you hear? All this has come about because of your goodness; I mean, I’m just a stupid, rough sort of fellow, a beggar, really; but your good self hasn’t abandoned me, not likely; just see the honour you and your friends have done me; so here’s thanks to you all, and to your landlady; look, I bow down to the ground before you; here, look; it’s my duty, I’m only fulfilling my duty, dear lady!’ Here Zimoveykin actually did bow down to the ground in a sweeping movement that included everyone, performing the action with a kind of pedantic dignity. After it was over, Semyon Ivanovich wanted to carry on talking, but this time they would not let him; they all intervened, imploring him, assuring him, consoling him, until they had contrived to make Semyon Ivanovich feel thoroughly ashamed of himself and, at length, in a feeble voice he asked to be allowed to explain himself.

  ‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘It’s true – I’m pleasant, gentle, and virtuous, do you hear, I’m devoted and loyal; I’d sacrifice the last drop of my blood, you know – do you hear, jackanapes, big shot… all right, so the job’s still there; but I mean, I’m poor; and if they take it away from me, do you hear, big shot – be quiet now, and listen to this – if they take it away, it’ll… it’ll be there, brother, and then it won’t be there… do you understand? And then I’ll be off begging, brother, do you hear?’

  ‘Senka!’ Zimoveykin wailed frantically, his voice drowning out all the hubbub that had arisen. ‘You’re a free-thinker! I’ll report you! What are you? Who are you? Are you a common ruffian, a thickhead withno brains? They’d dismiss a stupid ruffian without notice, don’t you realize that? What sort of a man are you?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, why don’t you just go to the devil?’

  ‘Go to the devil?’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s a subversive, and I’m a subversive; and if a man goes on lying in bed every day, eventually…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’ll turn into a free-thinker…’

  ‘A free-think-er? Senka, you’re
a free-thinker!’

  ‘Wait!’ cried Mr Prokharchin, waving his arm to subdue the shouting that was about to begin. ‘I don’t mean it that way… Try to grasp this, grasp it, you sheep’s head: I’m well-behaved today, I’ll be well-behaved tomorrow, but then suddenly I’ll stop being well-behaved – I’ll be rude to someone; they’ll give you the buckle,* and the free-thinker will get his marching orders!…’

  ‘What’s this you’re saying?’ Mark Ivanovich thundered at last, leaping up from the chair on which he had sat down in order to rest, and running across to the bed in a state of utter excitement and frenzy, quivering all over with vexation and furious rage. ‘What are you saying? You sheep! You’ve neither house nor home! What, do you think you’re the only person in the world? Do you think the world was made for you? What are you – some kind of Napoleon? What are you? Who are you? Are you a Napoleon, eh? Are you a Napoleon? Answer me, sir, are you a Napoleon?’

  But Mr Prokharchin made no reply to this question. Not because he was ashamed of being a Napoleon, or afraid of takingsuch a responsibility upon himself – no, he was no longer capable either of arguing or of pursuing the matter any further… His illness was approaching its crisis. Small, fast tears suddenly streamed from his grey eyes, which glittered with a hectic light. With bony hands that were emaciated from illness he covered his burning face, raised himself on his bed and, sobbing, began to say that he was completely impoverished, that he was an utterly ordinary, miserable man, that he was stupid and ignorant, that people must forgive him, look after him, protect him, give him food and drink, not leave him in his calamity, and God knows what else; thus did Semyon Ivanovich wail. As he did so, he looked around him in wild terror, as though at any moment he expected the ceiling to fall in or the floor to give way. As they looked at the sick man, everyone began to feel sorry for him, and their hearts softened towards him. Sobbing like a peasant woman, the landlady, too, wailed of her own lonely and defenceless plight, and helped the sick man back into bed with her own hands. Mark Ivanovich, perceiving the uselessness of disturbing the memory of Napoleon, at once relapsed into good-nature and proceeded to offer his assistance, too. The others, in order in their turn to have something to do, suggested an infusion of raspberry tea, claiming that it was instantly efficacious in all disorders, and that the sick man would find it most refreshing; but Zimoveykin immediately refuted this, averring that in a case such as the present one there was nothing better as a remedy than a certain type of pungent camomile. As for Zinovy Prokofyevich, being a good-hearted fellow, he positively dissolved in tears, sobbing his repentance for having frightened Semyon Ivanovich with various cock-and-bull stories and, latching on to the sick man’s latest avowal that he was completely impoverished and to his request that he be fed, began to organize a subvention which for the time being was to be limited to the residents of the corners. Everyone oh’d and ah’d, everyone felt sorry and distressed, while at the same time everyone wondered how the man could have got himself into such a state of panic. What could he be so afraid of? They could have understood it if he had occupied an important position, had a wife and children to support; they could have understood it if it were a question of him being hauled before some tribunal or other;but the man was just rubbish; all he owned was a trunk with a German lock; for more than twenty years he had lain behind his screen, never uttering a word, knowing nothing of the world or its cares, hoarding his meagre salary, and now suddenly, all because of someone’s trivial, idle remark he had completely lost his wits with fear that life might suddenly become difficult for him… And it did not even seem to occur to the man that everyone found life difficult! ‘If he’d only taken that into account,’ Okeanov said later, ‘the fact that life’s difficult for us all, he’d have saved his sanity, stopped carrying on that way and somehow lived his life in a decent manner.’ All that day Semyon Ivanovich was the sole topic of conversation. People went to talk to him, asked about him, comfortedhim; but by the time it was evening no amount of comforting would have done him any good. The poor man started to hallucinate and developed a fever; he fell into an unconscious stupor, and they nearly thought of sending for a doctor; the lodgers agreed on a course of action and all promised to take turns at watching over Semyon Ivanovich and calming him, and if anything should happen, to waken the others at once. With this aim in mind, in order not to fall asleep, they sat down to play cards, having stationed by the sick man’s bedside the drunken friend, who had now spent the entire day in the corners, and had asked to stay the night. Since the game was being played on credit and thus afforded not the slightest interest, they soon grew tired of it. They abandoned it, then started to argue about something, then began to make a noise an bang their fists, and finally dispersed to their separate corners, still continuing to shout and dispute angrily for a long time after that; indeed, so exhausted did their anger make them that they lost their resolve to sit up on watch, and fell asleep instead. Soon it was silent in the corners as in an empty cellar, an effect intensified by the horrible cold. One of the last to fall asleep was Okeanov. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I was dreaming or awake,’ he said afterwards, ‘but it seemed to me that near me, just before dawn, I saw two men holding a conversation together.’ Okeanov said that he had recognized Zimo-veykin, that Zimoveykin had woken his old friend Remnev, and that they had talked for a long time in a whisper; then Zimoveykin had gone through into the kitchen, where he could be heard trying to unlock the door. The landlady afterwards confirmed that the key to the door, which she usually kept under her pillow, had gone missing that night. Finally, Okeanov testified that he had heard both men go behind the screens to where the sick man lay, and had seen them light a candle there. ‘I don’t know any more than that,’ he said, ‘for my eyes fell shut.’ He woke up later along with all the others, when everyonein the corners suddenly leapt from their beds at the sound of a shriek from behind the screens that would have woken the dead – and it seemed to many of them that at that moment the candle had gone out. A pandemonium ensued; everyone’s heart froze; they rushed pell-mell in the direction of the shriek, but at that moment from behind the screens came the sounds of scuffling, shouting, cursing and fighting. Someone struck a light, and they saw Zimoveykin and Remnev fighting together, cursing and rebuking each other; as the light fell on them, one of them shouted, ‘It’s not me, it’s this bandit!’ and the other, who turned out to be Zimoveykin, shouted: ‘Don’t touch me, I haven’t done anything, I swear it to you!’ Neither of them looked like human beings; but in that first moment no one paid any attention to them: for the sick man was not in his previous position behind the screen. They wasted no time inseparating the combatants and hauling them away, and saw that Mr Prokharchin was lying underneath the bed, apparently quite unconscious, having dragged his blanket and pillow with him, for all that remained on the bed itself was the bare, decrepit and greasy mattress (he had never used sheets). They hauled Semyon Ivanovich out, stretched him on the mattress, but immediately saw that there was no need for much further concern over him, that he was utterly done for; his hands had gone rigid, and he was at his last gasp. They stood over him: he was still shuddering and trembling all over, trying to something with his arms; he articulated no sound, but winked in precisely the way a head, still warm and bleeding, having just bounced from the executioner’s axe, is said to wink.