Poor Folk: Chapter 36

Chapter 36

August 21st.

MY DEAR AND KIND BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I feel that I am guilty, I
feel that I have sinned against you. Yet also I feel, from what
you say, that it is no use for me so to feel. Even before I had
sinned I felt as I do now; but I gave way to despair, and the
more so as recognised my fault. Darling, I am not cruel or
hardhearted. To rend your little soul would be the act of a
blood-thirsty tiger, whereas I have the heart of a sheep. You
yourself know that I am not addicted to bloodthirstiness, and
therefore that I cannot really be guilty of the fault in
question, seeing that neither my mind nor my heart have
participated in it.

Nor can I understand wherein the guilt lies. To me it is all a
mystery. When you sent me those thirty kopecks, and thereafter
those two grivenniks, my heart sank within me as I looked at the
poor little money. To think that though you had burned your hand,
and would soon be hungry, you could write to me that I was to buy
tobacco! What was I to do? Remorselessly to rob you, an orphan,
as any brigand might do? I felt greatly depressed, dearest. That
is to say, persuaded that I should never do any good with my
life, and that I was inferior even to the sole of my own boot, I
took it into my head that it was absurd for me to aspire at all--
rather, that I ought to account myself a disgrace and an
abomination. Once a man has lost his self-respect, and has
decided to abjure his better qualities and human dignity, he
falls headlong, and cannot choose but do so. It is decreed of
fate, and therefore I am not guilty in this respect.

That evening I went out merely to get a breath of fresh air, but
one thing followed another-- the weather was cold, all nature was
looking mournful, and I had fallen in with Emelia. This man had
spent everything that he possessed, and, at the time I met him,
had not for two days tasted a crust of bread. He had tried to
raise money by pawning, but what articles he had for the purpose
had been refused by the pawnbrokers. It was more from sympathy
for a fellow-man than from any liking for the individual that I
yielded. That is how the fault arose, dearest.

He spoke of you, and I mingled my tears with his. Yes, he is a
man of kind, kind heart--a man of deep feeling. I often feel as
he did, dearest, and, in addition, I know how beholden to you I
am. As soon as ever I got to know you I began both to realise
myself and to love you; for until you came into my life I had
been a lonely man--I had been, as it were, asleep rather than
alive. In former days my rascally colleagues used to tell me that
I was unfit even to be seen; in fact, they so disliked me that at
length I began to dislike myself, for, being frequently told that
I was stupid, I began to believe that I really was so. But the
instant that YOU came into my life, you lightened the dark places
in it, you lightened both my heart and my soul. Gradually, I
gained rest of spirit, until I had come to see that I was no
worse than other men, and that, though I had neither style nor
brilliancy nor polish, I was still a MAN as regards my thoughts
and feelings. But now, alas! pursued and scorned of fate, I have
again allowed myself to abjure my own dignity. Oppressed of
misfortune, I have lost my courage. Here is my confession to you,
dearest. With tears I beseech you not to inquire further into the
matter, for my heart is breaking, and life has grown indeed hard
and bitter for me--Beloved, I offer you my respect, and remain
ever your faithful friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

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