Poor Folk: Chapter 38

Chapter 38

September 5th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA,--Today I have undergone a variety of
experiences. In the first place, my head has been aching, and
towards evening I went out to get a breath of fresh air along the
Fontanka Canal. The weather was dull and damp, and even by six
o'clock, darkness had begun to set in. True, rain was not
actually falling, but only a mist like rain, while the sky was
streaked with masses of trailing cloud. Crowds of people were
hurrying along Naberezhnaia Street, with faces that looked
strange and dejected. There were drunken peasants; snub-nosed old
harridans in slippers; bareheaded artisans; cab drivers; every
species of beggar; boys; a locksmith's apprentice in a striped
smock, with lean, emaciated features which seemed to have been
washed in rancid oil; an ex-soldier who was offering penknives
and copper rings for sale; and so on, and so on. It was the hour
when one would expect to meet no other folk than these. And what
a quantity of boats there were on the canal. It made one wonder
how they could all find room there. On every bridge were old
women selling damp gingerbread or withered apples, and every
woman looked as damp and dirty as her wares. In short, the
Fontanka is a saddening spot for a walk, for there is wet granite
under one's feet, and tall, dingy buildings on either side of
one, and wet mist below and wet mist above. Yes, all was dark and
gloomy there this evening.

By the time I had returned to Gorokhovaia Street darkness had
fallen and the lamps had been lit. However, I did not linger long
in that particular spot, for Gorokhovaia Street is too noisy a
place. But what sumptuous shops and stores it contains!
Everything sparkles and glitters, and the windows are full of
nothing but bright colours and materials and hats of different
shapes. One might think that they were decked merely for display;
but no,--people buy these things, and give them to their wives!
Yes, it IS a sumptuous place. Hordes of German hucksters are
there, as well as quite respectable traders. And the quantities
of carriages which pass along the street! One marvels that the
pavement can support so many splendid vehicles, with windows like
crystal, linings made of silk and velvet, and lacqueys dressed in
epaulets and wearing swords! Into some of them I glanced, and saw
that they contained ladies of various ages. Perhaps they were
princesses and countesses! Probably at that hour such folk would
be hastening to balls and other gatherings. In fact, it was
interesting to be able to look so closely at a princess or a
great lady. They were all very fine. At all events, I had never
before seen such persons as I beheld in those carriages. . . .

Then I thought of you. Ah, my own, my darling, it is often that I
think of you and feel my heart sink. How is it that YOU are so
unfortunate, Barbara? How is it that YOU are so much worse off
than other people? In my eyes you are kind-hearted, beautiful,
and clever-- why, then, has such an evil fate fallen to your lot?
How comes it that you are left desolate--you, so good a human
being! While to others happiness comes without an invitation at
all? Yes, I know--I know it well--that I ought not to say it, for
to do so savours of free-thought; but why should that raven,
Fate, croak out upon the fortunes of one person while she is yet
in her mother's womb, while another person it permits to go forth
in happiness from the home which has reared her? To even an idiot
of an Ivanushka such happiness is sometimes granted. "You, you
fool Ivanushka," says Fate, "shall succeed to your grandfather's
money-bags, and eat, drink, and be merry; whereas YOU (such and
such another one) shall do no more than lick the dish, since that
is all that you are good for." Yes, I know that it is wrong to
hold such opinions, but involuntarily the sin of so doing grows
upon one's soul. Nevertheless, it is you, my darling, who ought
to be riding in one of those carriages. Generals would have come
seeking your favour, and, instead of being clad in a humble
cotton dress, you would have been walking in silken and golden
attire. Then you would not have been thin and wan as now, but
fresh and plump and rosy-cheeked as a figure on a sugar-cake.
Then should I too have been happy--happy if only I could look at
your lighted windows from the street, and watch your shadow--
happy if only I could think that you were well and happy, my
sweet little bird! Yet how are things in reality? Not only have
evil folk brought you to ruin, but there comes also an old rascal
of a libertine to insult you! Just because he struts about in a
frockcoat, and can ogle you through a gold-mounted lorgnette, the
brute thinks that everything will fall into his hands--that you
are bound to listen to his insulting condescension! Out upon him!
But why is this? It is because you are an orphan, it is because
you are unprotected, it is because you have no powerful friend to
afford you the decent support which is your due. WHAT do such
facts matter to a man or to men to whom the insulting of an
orphan is an offence allowed? Such fellows are not men at all,
but mere vermin, no matter what they think themselves to be. Of
that I am certain. Why, an organ-grinder whom I met in
Gorokhovaia Street would inspire more respect than they do, for
at least he walks about all day, and suffers hunger--at least he
looks for a stray, superfluous groat to earn him subsistence, and
is, therefore, a true gentleman, in that he supports himself. To
beg alms he would be ashamed; and, moreover, he works for the
benefit of mankind just as does a factory machine. "So far as in
me lies," says he, "I will give you pleasure." True, he is a
pauper, and nothing but a pauper; but, at least he is an
HONOURABLE pauper. Though tired and hungry, he still goes on
working--working in his own peculiar fashion, yet still doing
honest labour. Yes, many a decent fellow whose labour may be
disproportionate to its utility pulls the forelock to no one, and
begs his bread of no one. I myself resemble that organ-grinder.
That is to say, though not exactly he, I resemble him in this
respect, that I work according to my capabilities, and so far as
in me lies. More could be asked of no one; nor ought I to be
adjudged to do more.

Apropos of the organ-grinder, I may tell you, dearest, that today
I experienced a double misfortune. As I was looking at the
grinder, certain thoughts entered my head and I stood wrapped in
a reverie. Some cabmen also had halted at the spot, as well as a
young girl, with a yet smaller girl who was dressed in rags and
tatters. These people had halted there to listen to the organ-
grinder, who was playing in front of some one's windows. Next, I
caught sight of a little urchin of about ten--a boy who would
have been good-looking but for the fact that his face was pinched
and sickly. Almost barefooted, and clad only in a shirt, he was
standing agape to listen to the music--a pitiful childish figure.
Nearer to the grinder a few more urchins were dancing, but in the
case of this lad his hands and feet looked numbed, and he kept
biting the end of his sleeve and shivering. Also, I noticed that
in his hands he had a paper of some sort. Presently a gentleman
came by, and tossed the grinder a small coin, which fell straight
into a box adorned with a representation of a Frenchman and some
ladies. The instant he heard the rattle of the coin, the boy
started, looked timidly round, and evidently made up his mind
that I had thrown the money; whereupon, he ran to me with his
little hands all shaking, and said in a tremulous voice as he
proffered me his paper: "Pl-please sign this." I turned over the
paper, and saw that there was written on it what is usual under
such circumstances. "Kind friends I am a sick mother with three
hungry children. Pray help me. Though soon I shall be dead, yet,
if you will not forget my little ones in this world, neither will
I forget you in the world that is to come." The thing seemed
clear enough; it was a matter of life and death. Yet what was I
to give the lad? Well, I gave him nothing. But my heart ached for
him. I am certain that, shivering with cold though he was, and
perhaps hungry, the poor lad was not lying. No, no, he was not
lying.

The shameful point is that so many mothers take no care of their
children, but send them out, half-clad, into the cold. Perhaps
this lad's mother also was a feckless old woman, and devoid of
character? Or perhaps she had no one to work for her, but was
forced to sit with her legs crossed--a veritable invalid? Or
perhaps she was just an old rogue who was in the habit of sending
out pinched and hungry boys to deceive the public? What would
such a boy learn from begging letters? His heart would soon be
rendered callous, for, as he ran about begging, people would pass
him by and give him nothing. Yes, their hearts would be as stone,
and their replies rough and harsh. "Away with you!" they would
say. "You are seeking but to trick us." He would hear that from
every one, and his heart would grow hard, and he would shiver in
vain with the cold, like some poor little fledgling that has
fallen out of the nest. His hands and feet would be freezing, and
his breath coming with difficulty; until, look you, he would
begin to cough, and disease, like an unclean parasite, would worm
its way into his breast until death itself had overtaken him--
overtaken him in some foetid corner whence there was no chance of
escape. Yes, that is what his life would become.

There are many such cases. Ah, Barbara, it is hard to hear "For
Christ's sake!" and yet pass the suppliant by and give nothing,
or say merely: "May the Lord give unto you!" Of course, SOME
supplications mean nothing (for supplications differ greatly in
character). Occasionally supplications are long, drawn-out and
drawling, stereotyped and mechanical--they are purely begging
supplications. Requests of this kind it is less hard to refuse,
for they are purely professional and of long standing. "The
beggar is overdoing it," one thinks to oneself. "He knows the
trick too well." But there are other supplications which voice a
strange, hoarse, unaccustomed note, like that today when I took
the poor boy's paper. He had been standing by the kerbstone
without speaking to anybody-- save that at last to myself he
said, "For the love of Christ give me a groat!" in a voice so
hoarse and broken that I started, and felt a queer sensation in
my heart, although I did not give him a groat. Indeed, I had not
a groat on me. Rich folk dislike hearing poor people complain of
their poverty. "They disturb us," they say, "and are impertinent
as well. Why should poverty be so impertinent? Why should its
hungry moans prevent us from sleeping?"

To tell you the truth, my darling, I have written the foregoing
not merely to relieve my feelings, but, also, still more, to give
you an example of the excellent style in which I can write. You
yourself will recognise that my style was formed long ago, but of
late such fits of despondency have seized upon me that my style
has begun to correspond to my feelings; and though I know that
such correspondence gains one little, it at least renders one a
certain justice. For not unfrequently it happens that, for some
reason or another, one feels abased, and inclined to value
oneself at nothing, and to account oneself lower than a
dishclout; but this merely arises from the fact that at the time
one is feeling harassed and depressed, like the poor boy who
today asked of me alms. Let me tell you an allegory, dearest, and
do you hearken to it. Often, as I hasten to the office in the
morning, I look around me at the city--I watch it awaking,
getting out of bed, lighting its fires, cooking its breakfast,
and becoming vocal; and at the sight, I begin to feel smaller, as
though some one had dealt me a rap on my inquisitive nose. Yes,
at such times I slink along with a sense of utter humiliation in
my heart. For one would have but to see what is passing within
those great, black, grimy houses of the capital, and to penetrate
within their walls, for one at once to realise what good reason
there is for self-depredation and heart-searching. Of course, you
will note that I am speaking figuratively rather than literally.

Let us look at what is passing within those houses. In some dingy
corner, perhaps, in some damp kennel which is supposed to be a
room, an artisan has just awakened from sleep. All night he has
dreamt--IF such an insignificant fellow is capable of dreaming?--
about the shoes which last night he mechanically cut out. He is a
master-shoemaker, you see, and therefore able to think of nothing
but his one subject of interest. Nearby are some squalling
children and a hungry wife. Nor is he the only man that has to
greet the day in this fashion. Indeed, the incident would be
nothing--it would not be worth writing about, save for another
circumstance. In that same house ANOTHER person--a person of
great wealth-may also have been dreaming of shoes; but, of shoes
of a very different pattern and fashion (in a manner of speaking,
if you understand my metaphor, we are all of us shoemakers).
This, again, would be nothing, were it not that the rich person
has no one to whisper in his ear: "Why dost thou think of such
things? Why dost thou think of thyself alone, and live only for
thyself--thou who art not a shoemaker? THY children are not
ailing. THY wife is not hungry. Look around thee. Can'st thou not
find a subject more fitting for thy thoughts than thy shoes?"
That is what I want to say to you in allegorical language,
Barbara. Maybe it savours a little of free-thought, dearest; but,
such ideas WILL keep arising in my mind and finding utterance in
impetuous speech. Why, therefore, should one not value oneself at
a groat as one listens in fear and trembling to the roar and
turmoil of the city? Maybe you think that I am exaggerating
things--that this is a mere whim of mine, or that I am quoting
from a book? No, no, Barbara. You may rest assured that it is not
so. Exaggeration I abhor, with whims I have nothing to do, and of
quotation I am guiltless.

I arrived home today in a melancholy mood. Sitting down to the
table, I had warmed myself some tea, and was about to drink a
second glass of it, when there entered Gorshkov, the poor lodger.
Already, this morning, I had noticed that he was hovering around
the other lodgers, and also seeming to want to speak to myself.
In passing I may say that his circumstances are infinitely worse
than my own; for, only think of it, he has a wife and children!
Indeed, if I were he, I do not know what I should do. Well, he
entered my room, and bowed to me with the pus standing, as usual,
in drops on his eyelashes, his feet shuffling about, and his
tongue unable, at first, to articulate a word. I motioned him to
a chair (it was a dilapidated enough one, but I had no other),
and asked him to have a glass of tea. To this he demurred--for
quite a long time he demurred, but at length he accepted the
offer. Next, he was for drinking the tea without sugar, and
renewed his excuses, but upon the sugar I insisted. After long
resistance and many refusals, he DID consent to take some, but
only the smallest possible lump; after which, he assured me that
his tea was perfectly sweet. To what depths of humility can
poverty reduce a man! "Well, what is it, my good sir?" I inquired
of him; whereupon he replied: "It is this, Makar Alexievitch. You
have once before been my benefactor. Pray again show me the
charity of God, and assist my unfortunate family. My wife and
children have nothing to eat. To think that a father should have
to say this!" I was about to speak again when he interrupted me.
"You see," he continued, "I am afraid of the other lodgers here.
That is to say, I am not so much afraid of, as ashamed to address
them, for they are a proud, conceited lot of men. Nor would I
have troubled even you, my friend and former benefactor, were it
not that I know that you yourself have experienced misfortune and
are in debt; wherefore, I have ventured to come and make this
request of you, in that I know you not only to be kind-hearted,
but also to be in need, and for that reason the more likely to
sympathise with me in my distress." To this he added an apology
for his awkwardness and presumption. I replied that, glad though
I should have been to serve him, I had nothing, absolutely
nothing, at my disposal. "Ah, Makar Alexievitch," he went on,
"surely it is not much that I am asking of you? My-my wife and
children are starving. C-could you not afford me just a
grivennik? " At that my heart contracted, "How these people put
me to shame!" thought I. But I had only twenty kopecks left, and
upon them I had been counting for meeting my most pressing
requirements. "No, good sir, I cannot," said I. "Well, what you
will," he persisted. "Perhaps ten kopecks?" Well I got out my
cash-box, and gave him the twenty. It was a good deed. To think
that such poverty should exist! Then I had some further talk with
him. "How is it," I asked him, "that, though you are in such
straits, you have hired a room at five roubles?" He replied that
though, when he engaged the room six months ago, he paid three
months' rent in advance, his affairs had subsequently turned out
badly, and never righted themselves since. You see, Barbara, he
was sued at law by a merchant who had defrauded the Treasury in
the matter of a contract. When the fraud was discovered the
merchant was prosecuted, but the transactions in which he had
engaged involved Gorshkov, although the latter had been guilty
only of negligence, want of prudence, and culpable indifference
to the Treasury's interests. True, the affair had taken place
some years ago, but various obstacles had since combined to
thwart Gorshkov. "Of the disgrace put upon me," said he to me, "I
am innocent. True, I to a certain extent disobeyed orders, but
never did I commit theft or embezzlement." Nevertheless the
affair lost him his character. He was dismissed the service, and
though not adjudged capitally guilty, has been unable since to
recover from the merchant a large sum of money which is his by
right, as spared to him (Gorshkov) by the legal tribunal. True,
the tribunal in question did not altogether believe in Gorshkov,
but I do so. The matter is of a nature so complex and crooked
that probably a hundred years would be insufficient to unravel
it; and, though it has now to a certain extent been cleared up,
the merchant still holds the key to the situation. Personally I
side with Gorshkov, and am very sorry for him. Though lacking a
post of any kind, he still refuses to despair, though his
resources are completely exhausted. Yes, it is a tangled affair,
and meanwhile he must live, for, unfortunately, another child
which has been born to him has entailed upon the family fresh
expenses. Also, another of his children recently fell ill and
died-- which meant yet further expense. Lastly, not only is his
wife in bad health, but he himself is suffering from a complaint
of long standing. In short, he has had a very great deal to
undergo. Yet he declares that daily he expects a favourable issue
to his affair--that he has no doubt of it whatever. I am terribly
sorry for him, and said what I could to give him comfort, for he
is a man who has been much bullied and misled. He had come to me
for protection from his troubles, so I did my best to soothe him.
Now, goodbye, my darling. May Christ watch over you and preserve
your health. Dearest one, even to think of you is like medicine
to my ailing soul. Though I suffer for you, I at least suffer
gladly.--Your true friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

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