Poor Folk and Other Stories

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  POLZUNKOV*

  A TALE

  I began to study the man carefully. Even in his external appearance there was something so peculiar that, no matter how dispersed one’s thoughts might be, one found oneself compelled to rivet one’s gaze on him and immediately burst into the most unrestrained laughter. That is what had happened to me. I should note that the eyes of this little gentleman were so mobile, and he himself so much subject to the magnetism of the eyes of others, that he seemed to guess by instinct that he was being observed, turned instantly to the observer and nervously analysed his gaze. His incessant mobility and quickness of response made him look for all the world like a weather-vane. It was strange: he seemed afraid of being laughed at, and yet he practically made his living out of being an eternal buffoon, obediently offering his head to every flick and fillip, both in a metaphysical sense and in a physical one, depending on what sort of company he was in. As a rule, voluntary buffoons are not even pathetic. But I at once noticed that this strange creature, this ridiculous little man was by no means a buffoon by profession. There remained in him still some residue of nobility. All his nervousness, his perpetual morbid fear for himself actually worked in his favour. I had the impression that his desire to be of service stemmed more from kindness of heart than from the hope of any material advantage. He was only too happy to let people laugh openly and loudly at him, and in the most unseemly manner, to his face; but at the same time – I will give my oath to this – his heart ached and bled at the thought that his listeners were so ignobly callous as to be able to laugh not at some deed of his but at himself, at his entire being, at his heart, his intellect, his appearance, the whole of his flesh-and-blood reality. I am certain that at such moments he experienced the full absurdity of his situation; but each time the protest would instantly the on his lips, though it invariably arose in the most generous and copious fashion. I am certain that all this, too, was nothing other than the product of a kindly heart, and was not in any way connected with a fear of the material disadvantage of being turned out neck and crop and being unable to borrow any money from the persons concerned: this gentleman was for ever borrowing money, or rather, begging for charity in this disguise when, having pulled a few faces and given people some entertainment at his expense, he felt he had in a certain sense a right to borrow from them. But, my goodness! What sort of borrowing was this? And with such an air did he go about it! I would never have thought that there could be room, in such a small space as the wrinkled, angular face of this little man, for so many heterogeneous grimaces, for so many strange and diverse emotions, so many of the most terrible expressions. What was there not to be found there: shame, pretended insolence, annoyance (with a sudden colouring of his features), anger, fear of failure, a plea for forgiveness for having dared to make a nuisance of himself, a consciousness of his own worth, and an even fuller consciousness of his own insignificance – all this passed like lightning across his face. For all of six years he had struggled along in God’s world like this, and to date had not succeeded in cutting a tolerable figure at the important moment of borrowing. It was, of course, simply impossible that he should ever grow callous and mean through and through. His heart was too lively, too passionate for that! I will go even further, and say that he was, in my opinion, one of the most noble individuals the world has ever seen, with, however, one small weakness: that of committing base deeds at the slightest prompting, committing them good-naturally and disinterestedly, solely in order to oblige a fellow human being. In short, he was a living example of what is known as ‘a spineless creature’. The most ridiculous thing of all was that he was dressed more or less just like everyone else, no better and no worse, cleanly, even with a certain degree of refinement and with a feeble impulse in the direction of respectability and a sense of personal dignity. This outward equality and inward lack of it, his nervous fear for himself and his continual self-depreciation – all this formed a most striking contrast and was worthy of laughter and compassion. If he had felt certain at heart (something that happened to him constantly, in spite of experience) that all his listeners were the kindest people in the world, who would laugh only at a ridiculous deed, and not at his doomed personality, then he would gladly have taken off his jacket and put it back on inside out, and then walked about the streets dressed like that for the diversion of others and his own pleasure, just as long as he was able to make his patrons laugh and provide them all with enjoyment. But as for equality, it for ever lay beyond his grasp, not to be attained by any means. He had another trait: the strange fellow was proud and even, by fits and starts, as long as there was no danger in it, magnanimous. One needed to see and hear for oneself the way he was sometimes able, not sparing himself and consequently at a risk to himself, and even with a certain degree of heroism, to haul certain of his ‘patrons’ over the coals when they had infuriated him beyond all endurance. But that was only at moments… In short, he was a martyr in the full sense of the term, but a martyr who was utterly useless and therefore utterly comic.

  An argument had arisen among the guests. I suddenly saw my strange fellow leap up from his chair and start shouting as loud as he was able, demanding that he be given the sole and exclusive attention of those present.

  ‘Listen,’ the host whispered to me. ‘He sometimes tells the most curious stories… Do you find him interesting?’

  I nodded, and squeezed my way into the crowd. The spectacle of a rather well-dressed gentleman jumping up on a chair and shouting at the top of his voice had indeed aroused general attention. Many people who did not know the strange fellow exchanged looks of bewilderment, while others laughed like drains.

  ‘I know Fedosei Nikolaich! I know Fedosei Nikolaich better than anyone does!’ the strange fellow cried from his elevation. ‘Let me tell you about him, gentlemen. I can tell you some good stories about Fedosei Nikolaich! There’sone I know that’s an absolute wonder!…’

  ‘All right, Osip Mikhailich, tell us it, then.’

  ‘Yes, go on, tell us it!’

  ‘Listen, then…’

  ‘Listen, listen!’

  ‘I shall begin; but, gentlemen, this is a peculiar story…’

  ‘Excellent, excellent!’

  ‘It is a comical story.’

  ‘Wonderful, magnificent, marvellous! Get on with it!’

  ‘It’s an episode from the private life of your most humble…’

  ‘Well, why did you have to go out of your way to tell us it was a comical story, then?’

  ‘And it’s even somewhat tragic!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘In short, the story which you are now about to enjoy hearing me tell, gentlemen – the story in consequence of which I have landed in such interesting company…’

  ‘No puns!’

  ‘The story…’

  ‘Yes, the story – come on, get the preambles over with – a story that’s worth the telling,’ a fair-haired young man with a moustache said in a hoarse voice, lowering his hand into the pocket of his frock-coat and, as though by accident, producing his wallet instead of his handkerchief.

  ‘The story, my dear sirs, which prompts me to wonder what many of you would have done when it was all over, had you been in my shoes. And, finally, the story as a consequence of which I did not get married.’

  ‘Married?… A wife?… Polzunkov had plans to marry!’

  ‘I must say I’d like to see Madame Polzunkov!’

  ‘I’d be curious to learn the first name of the ci-devant Madame Polzunkov!’ squeaked one young fellow, elbowing his way through to the speaker.

  ‘Well, gentlemen: chapter one. It happened just six years ago, in spring, on the thirty-first of March – take note of the date, gentlemen – on the eve of…’

  ‘The first of April!’ cried a young fellow with curls.

  ‘You are remarkably perceptive, sir. It was evening. Dusk was thickening over the provincial market town of N., and the moon was about to come floating out… well, and everything else wa
s just as it ought to be. So, my good sirs, when dusk had practically fallen I, too, floated out of my miserable lodgings on the quiet, having taken my leave of my reclusive grandmother, now deceased. You must forgive me, gentlemen, for using such a modish expression, which I last heard at Nikolai Nikolaich’s. But my grandmother really was a recluse: she was blind, deaf, dumb and gaga – the lot!… I must confess I was in a bit of a state, for I was preparing myself for a great deed; my heart was beating like that of a kitten grabbed by the scruff of the neck in someone’s bony hand.’

  ‘Er, Monsieur Polzunkov.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Please tell the story more simply; don’t try so hard!’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ replied a slightly embarrassed Osip Mikhailich. ‘I entered the house of Fedosei Nikolaich (he owns it). Fedosei Nikolaich is, as you are aware, no mere fellow-employee, but a real head of department. I was announced and at once led into the study. I see it now: the room was quite dark, or almost quite, but there were no candles. As I looked, Fedosei Nikolaich walked in. There we were, he and I, in the darkness together…’

  ‘What took place between you?’ an officer enquired.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Polzunkov, instantly turning in the direction of the curly-headed youth, his face moving convulsively. ‘Well, gentlemen, at that point a strange thing happened. Or rather, it wasn’t really strange, but just what’s known as a common occurrence. Quite simply, I took a bundle of papers from my pocket, and so did he, only his were government ones…’

  ‘Banknotes?’

  ‘Yes, banknotes, and we made a swap.’

  ‘I dare say there was a whiff of bribery about it,’ said a soberly dressed and close-cropped young gentleman.

  ‘Bribery!’ said Polzunkov. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake:

  Let me be a liberal,

  Like many I have seen!

  If, when it comes to your turn to serve in the provinces, you don’t warm your hands… at your nation’s hearth… Why, a certain literary gentleman has said: “Even the smoke of the fatherland is sweet and pleasant to us!”* Our motherland is our mother, our mother, gentlemen, we are her fledglings and from her we derive our sustenance!’

  There was general mirth.

  ‘But you must believe me, gentlemen, when I tell you that never have I been in the habit of taking bribes,’ Polzunkov went on, surveying the entire company with mistrust. A burst of Homeric, unstoppable laughter swallowed his words.

  ‘It’s really true, gentlemen…’

  At this point, however, he stopped, and continued to survey everyone with a strange expression on his face. Perhaps – who knows – perhaps at that moment it had occurred to him that he was somewhat more honest than many in that whole honest company… Whatever the case, the serious expression on his face did not disappear until the universal merriment had completely run its course.

  ‘Well then,’ Polzunkov began, when they had all fallen silent. ‘Although I have never accepted bribes, on this occasion I sinned: I put in my pocket a bribe… from a bribe-taker… That’s to say, there were in my hands certain papers which, if I had decided to send them to certain persons, would have done Fedosei Nikolaich no good.’

  ‘You mean he bought them from you?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Did he give you a lot for them?’

  ‘He gave me as much as many a man would sell his conscience for in our time, the whole paraphernalia with all its brass knobs on, sir… as long as he got something for it. But I felt as though I had burnt my hand when I put the money in my pocket. I really don’t know what comes over me at such times, gentlemen – but there I go, I’m more dead than alive, my lips move, my legs tremble; well, I was so ashamed I nearly turned into a jelly, I was ready to beg Fedosei Nikolaich’s forgiveness…’

  ‘Well, and did he forgive you?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t actually beg him, sir… All I mean is that that was what I felt like at the time; that I have a passionate heart, in other words. I saw he was looking straight at me. “Have you no fear of God, Osip Mikhailich?” he said. Well, what was I to do? I just spread my hands in a proper sort of way, and put my head on one side. “Why do you think I have no fear of God, Fedosei Nikolaich?” I said. But I only said it because it sounded the proper thing to say… Actually, I was wishing the floor would open and swallow me up. “Having been a friend of my family for so long, having been, I should even say, like a son to me – and who knows what Heaven intended for us, Osip Mikhailich? – to suddenly go and write a report denouncing me to the authorities, and on such an occasion, too!… What am I to think of the human race after this, Osip Mikhailich?” Oh, he read me a proper sermon, gentlemen! “Yes,” he said, “just you tell me what I’m to think of the human race after this, Osip Mikhailich.” “What indeed?” I thought to myself! There was a clawing in my throat, and my wretched voice was trembling – well, I could feel my bad habit coming on, and so I grabbed my hat… “Where are you off to, Osip Mikhailich? Surely you can bear me no ill-will on the eve of such a day; in what way have I sinned against you?” “Fedosei Nikolaich,” I said, “Fedosei Nikolaich!” Yes, I melted, gentlemen, I melted like a wet sugar-stick. No wonder! The very envelope that contained the banknotes and that sat in my pocket seemed to be shouting “You ingrate, you brigand, you accursed thief!” It felt as heavy as though it weighed five poods… (Ah, if only it really had contained five poods!…) “I see,” said Fedosei Nikolaich, “I see that you have repented of your ways… You know, tomorrow is –” “The Feast of St Mary of Egypt,* sir.” “Well, don’t cry,” said Fedosei Nikolaich. “That’s enough, now: you’ve sinned and repented! Come! Perhaps I shall succeed in returning you to the true path,” he said… “Perhaps my modest penates [I remember he used that very word, penates] will restore some warmth to your harden – I will not say hardened – your erring heart…” He took me by the arm, gentlemen, and led me to his household. A chill ran down my spine; I shivered! I thought of how my eyes would look when I introduced myself… But I should tell you, gentlemen, that at this point a… how shall I put it?… ticklish situation arose.’

  ‘Mrs Polzunkov?’

  ‘Marya Fedoseyevna, sir. Only she was not destined to be the “Mrs” you called her, she was not accorded that honour. That Fedosei Nikolaich was right, you see, when he said I had been almost like a son to him in his household. That was how it had been half a year previously, when a certain retired junker, Mikhailo Maksimych Dvigailov by name, was still alive. Subsequently he passed away by God s decree, but he had put all his arrangements for a will away in his bottom drawer; and it turned out that he couldn’t be found in any sort of drawer at all afterwards…’

  ‘Ugh!’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right, say no more, gentlemen, forgive me, it was a slip of the tongue – it was a bad pun, but that’s not the half ofit – itwas a far worse kettle of fish when I was left, as it were, with nothing but a zero in view, because that retired junker, though he would not allow me into his house (he lived in a grand style, as he’d always known how to rake the lucre in), had also, perhaps not mistakenly, treated me like his own son.’

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s how it was! Well, they began to make long noses at me in Fedosei Nikolaich’s house. I observed and took note, I endured and stood firm, and then suddenly, to my misfortune (though perhaps it was to my good fortune!), a remount officer galloped into our wretched little town like a bolt from the blue. True, his business was a lively, airy, cavalry-style one–but he settled himself down as heavily at Fedosei Nikolaich’s house as if he were a dug-in mortar! I came to the point by a devious, roundabout route, as it’s my vile habit to do, saying, “Why are you insulting me, Fedosei Nikolaich? In a certain sense I’m your son… When are you going to start treating me like a father?” My dear sir, did he start to answer me back! Well, I mean, once he gets going he spouts an entire epic poem in twelve cantos, with rhyme, just listening to him is enough to make you lick you
r lips and spread out your hands with enjoyment, but there’s not a copeck’s worth of sense in it, or what sense there is there’s no making out; you can’t take in a word of it and you stand there like a fool while the cloud thickens up and he whirls around like a bit of quicksilver and escapes scot-free; yes, it’s a talent, simply a talent, the kind of gift that frightens other people even though it has nothing to do with them. I went rushing about in all directions: I couldn’t think what to do! I brought romances, confectionery, I thought up fancy phrases, I sighed and groaned, said that my heart was aching with amour, and then resorted to tears and secret explanations! Man’s a foolish creature, after all! I mean, he hadn’t gone to check with the parish clerk to see if I really was only thirty years old, had he?… so I tried a bit of cunning! But no, it didn’t work, all I got was jeers and laughter all round – well, I was seized with anger, completely choked with it – I slipped away, resolved never to set foot inside his house again, thought and thought – and by jingo, I decided to report him to the authorities! Well, I admit it was a mean thing to do, to give away a friend, but I had a lot of evidence, wonderful evidence, capital stuff! I got fifteen hundred rubles in silver for it when I swapped it, together with my denunciatory report, for government banknotes.’