Poor Folk: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

April 8th

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--How happy I was last night--how
immeasurably, how impossibly happy! That was because for once in
your life you had relented so far as to obey my wishes. At about
eight o'clock I awoke from sleep (you know, my beloved one, that
I always like to sleep for a short hour after my work is done)--I
awoke, I say, and, lighting a candle, prepared my paper to write,
and trimmed my pen. Then suddenly, for some reason or another, I
raised my eyes--and felt my very heart leap within me! For you
had understood what I wanted, you had understood what my heart
was craving for. Yes, I perceived that a corner of the curtain in
your window had been looped up and fastened to the cornice as I
had suggested should be done; and it seemed to me that your dear
face was glimmering at the window, and that you were looking at
me from out of the darkness of your room, and that you were
thinking of me. Yet how vexed I felt that I could not distinguish
your sweet face clearly! For there was a time when you and I
could see one another without any difficulty at all. Ah me, but
old age is not always a blessing, my beloved one! At this very
moment everything is standing awry to my eyes, for a man needs
only to work late overnight in his writing of something or other
for, in the morning, his eyes to be red, and the tears to be
gushing from them in a way that makes him ashamed to be seen
before strangers. However, I was able to picture to myself your
beaming smile, my angel--your kind, bright smile; and in my heart
there lurked just such a feeling as on the occasion when I first
kissed you, my little Barbara. Do you remember that, my darling?
Yet somehow you seemed to be threatening me with your tiny
finger. Was it so, little wanton? You must write and tell me
about it in your next letter.

But what think you of the plan of the curtain, Barbara? It is a
charming one, is it not? No matter whether I be at work, or about
to retire to rest, or just awaking from sleep, it enables me to
know that you are thinking of me, and remembering me--that you
are both well and happy. Then when you lower the curtain, it
means that it is time that I, Makar Alexievitch, should go to
bed; and when again you raise the curtain, it means that you are
saying to me, "Good morning," and asking me how I am, and whether
I have slept well. "As for myself," adds the curtain, "I am
altogether in good health and spirits, glory be to God!" Yes, my
heart's delight, you see how easy a plan it was to devise, and
how much writing it will save us! It is a clever plan, is it not?
And it was my own invention, too! Am I not cunning in such
matters, Barbara Alexievna?

Well, next let me tell you, dearest, that last night I slept
better and more soundly than I had ever hoped to do, and that I
am the more delighted at the fact in that, as you know, I had
just settled into a new lodging--a circumstance only too apt to
keep one from sleeping! This morning, too, I arose (joyous and
full of love) at cockcrow. How good seemed everything at that
hour, my darling! When I opened my window I could see the sun
shining, and hear the birds singing, and smell the air laden with
scents of spring. In short, all nature was awaking to life again.
Everything was in consonance with my mood; everything seemed fair
and spring-like. Moreover, I had a fancy that I should fare well
today. But my whole thoughts were bent upon you. "Surely,"
thought I, "we mortals who dwell in pain and sorrow might with
reason envy the birds of heaven which know not either!" And my
other thoughts were similar to these. In short, I gave myself up
to fantastic comparisons. A little book which I have says the
same kind of thing in a variety of ways. For instance, it says
that one may have many, many fancies, my Barbara--that as soon as
the spring comes on, one's thoughts become uniformly pleasant and
sportive and witty, for the reason that, at that season, the mind
inclines readily to tenderness, and the world takes on a more
roseate hue. From that little book of mine I have culled the
following passage, and written it down for you to see. In
particular does the author express a longing similar to my own,
where he writes:

"Why am I not a bird free to seek its quest?"

And he has written much else, God bless him!

But tell me, my love--where did you go for your walk this
morning? Even before I had started for the office you had taken
flight from your room, and passed through the courtyard--yes,
looking as vernal-like as a bird in spring. What rapture it gave
me to see you! Ah, little Barbara, little Barbara, you must never
give way to grief, for tears are of no avail, nor sorrow. I know
this well--I know it of my own experience. So do you rest quietly
until you have regained your health a little. But how is our good
Thedora? What a kind heart she has! You write that she is now
living with you, and that you are satisfied with what she does.
True, you say that she is inclined to grumble, but do not mind
that, Barbara. God bless her, for she is an excellent soul!

But what sort of an abode have I lighted upon, Barbara Alexievna?
What sort of a tenement, do you think, is this? Formerly, as you
know, I used to live in absolute stillness--so much so that if a
fly took wing it could plainly be heard buzzing. Here, however,
all is turmoil and shouting and clatter. The PLAN of the tenement
you know already. Imagine a long corridor, quite dark, and by no
means clean. To the right a dead wall, and to the left a row of
doors stretching as far as the line of rooms extends. These rooms
are tenanted by different people--by one, by two, or by three
lodgers as the case may be, but in this arrangement there is no
sort of system, and the place is a perfect Noah's Ark. Most of
the lodgers are respectable, educated, and even bookish people.
In particular they include a tchinovnik (one of the literary
staff in some government department), who is so well-read that he
can expound Homer or any other author--in fact, ANYTHING, such a
man of talent is he! Also, there are a couple of officers (for
ever playing cards), a midshipman, and an English tutor. But, to
amuse you, dearest, let me describe these people more
categorically in my next letter, and tell you in detail about
their lives. As for our landlady, she is a dirty little old woman
who always walks about in a dressing-gown and slippers, and never
ceases to shout at Theresa. I myself live in the kitchen--or,
rather, in a small room which forms part of the kitchen. The
latter is a very large, bright, clean, cheerful apartment with
three windows in it, and a partition-wall which, running outwards
from the front wall, makes a sort of little den, a sort of extra
room, for myself. Everything in this den is comfortable and
convenient, and I have, as I say, a window to myself. So much for
a description of my dwelling-place. Do not think, dearest, that
in all this there is any hidden intention. The fact that I live
in the kitchen merely means that I live behind the partition wall
in that apartment--that I live quite alone, and spend my time in
a quiet fashion compounded of trifles. For furniture I have
provided myself with a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, and two
small chairs. Also, I have suspended an ikon. True, better rooms
MAY exist in the world than this--much better rooms; yet COMFORT
is the chief thing. In fact, I have made all my arrangements for
comfort's sake alone; so do not for a moment imagine that I had
any other end in view. And since your window happens to be just
opposite to mine, and since the courtyard between us is narrow
and I can see you as you pass,--why, the result is that this
miserable wretch will be able to live at once more happily and
with less outlay. The dearest room in this house costs, with
board, thirty-five roubles--more than my purse could well afford;
whereas MY room costs only twenty-four, though formerly I used to
pay thirty, and so had to deny myself many things (I could drink
tea but seldom, and never could indulge in tea and sugar as I do
now). But, somehow, I do not like having to go without tea, for
everyone else here is respectable, and the fact makes me ashamed.
After all, one drinks tea largely to please one's fellow men,
Barbara, and to give oneself tone and an air of gentility
(though, of myself, I care little about such things, for I am not
a man of the finicking sort). Yet think you that, when all things
needful--boots and the rest--have been paid for, much will
remain? Yet I ought not to grumble at my salary,--I am quite
satisfied with it; it is sufficient. It has sufficed me now for
some years, and, in addition, I receive certain gratuities.

Well good-bye, my darling. I have bought you two little pots of
geraniums--quite cheap little pots, too--as a present. Perhaps
you would also like some mignonette? Mignonette it shall be if
only you will write to inform me of everything in detail. Also,
do not misunderstand the fact that I have taken this room, my
dearest. Convenience and nothing else, has made me do so. The
snugness of the place has caught my fancy. Also. I shall be able
to save money here, and to hoard it against the future. Already I
have saved a little money as a beginning. Nor must you despise me
because I am such an insignificant old fellow that a fly could
break me with its wing. True, I am not a swashbuckler; but
perhaps there may also abide in me the spirit which should
pertain to every man who is at once resigned and sure of himself.
Good-bye, then, again, my angel. I have now covered close upon a
whole two sheets of notepaper, though I ought long ago to have
been starting for the office. I kiss your hands, and remain ever
your devoted slave, your faithful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

P.S.--One thing I beg of you above all things--and that is, that
you will answer this letter as FULLY as possible. With the letter
I send you a packet of bonbons. Eat them for your health's sake,
nor, for the love of God, feel any uneasiness about me. Once
more, dearest one, good-bye.

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