Poor Folk: Chapter 43

Chapter 43

September 18th.

MY BELOVED BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--Today there took place in this
house a most lamentable, a most mysterious, a most unlooked-for
occurrence. First of all, let me tell you that poor Gorshkov has
been entirely absolved of guilt. The decision has been long in
coming, but this morning he went to hear the final resolution
read. It was entirely in his favour. Any culpability which had
been imputed to him for negligence and irregularity was removed
by the resolution. Likewise, he was authorised to recover of the
merchant a large sum of money. Thus, he stands entirely
justified, and has had his character cleansed from all stain. In
short, he could not have wished for a more complete vindication.
When he arrived home at three o'clock he was looking as white as
a sheet, and his lips were quivering. Yet there was a smile on
his face as he embraced his wife and children. In a body the rest
of us ran to congratulate him, and he was greatly moved by the
act. Bowing to us, he pressed our hands in turn. As he did so I
thought, somehow, that he seemed to have grown taller and
straighter, and that the pus-drops seemed to have disappeared
from his eyelashes. Yet how agitated he was, poor fellow! He
could not rest quietly for two minutes together, but kept picking
up and then dropping whatsoever came to his hand, and bowing and
smiling without intermission, and sitting down and getting up,
and again sitting down, and chattering God only knows what about
his honour and his good name and his little ones. How he did
talk--yes, and weep too! Indeed, few of ourselves could refrain
from tears; although Rataziaev remarked (probably to encourage
Gorshkov) that honour mattered nothing when one had nothing to
eat, and that money was the chief thing in the world, and that
for it alone ought God to be thanked. Then he slapped Gorshkov on
the shoulder, but I thought that Gorshkov somehow seemed hurt at
this. He did not express any open displeasure, but threw
Rataziaev a curious look, and removed his hand from his shoulder.
ONCE upon a time he would not have acted thus; but characters
differ. For example, I myself should have hesitated, at such a
season of rejoicing, to seem proud, even though excessive
deference and civility at such a moment might have been construed
as a lapse both of moral courage and of mental vigour. However,
this is none of my business. All that Gorshkov said was: "Yes,
money IS a good thing, glory be to God!" In fact, the whole time
that we remained in his room he kept repeating to himself: "Glory
be to God, glory be to God!" His wife ordered a richer and more
delicate meal than usual, and the landlady herself cooked it, for
at heart she is not a bad woman. But until the meal was served
Gorshkov could not remain still. He kept entering everyone's room
in turn (whether invited thither or not), and, seating himself
smilingly upon a chair, would sometimes say something, and
sometimes not utter a word, but get up and go out again. In the
naval officer's room he even took a pack of playing-cards into
his hand, and was thereupon invited to make a fourth in a game;
but after losing a few times, as well as making several blunders
in his play, he abandoned the pursuit. "No," said he, "that is
the sort of man that I am--that is all that I am good for," and
departed. Next, encountering myself in the corridor, he took my
hands in his, and gazed into my face with a rather curious air.
Then he pressed my hands again, and moved away still smiling,
smiling, but in an odd, weary sort of manner, much as a corpse
might smile. Meanwhile his wife was weeping for joy, and
everything in their room was decked in holiday guise. Presently
dinner was served, and after they had dined Gorshkov said to his
wife: "See now, dearest, I am going to rest a little while;" and
with that went to bed. Presently he called his little daughter to
his side, and, laying his hand upon the child's head, lay a long
while looking at her. Then he turned to his wife again, and asked
her: "What of Petinka? Where is our Petinka?" whereupon his wife
crossed herself, and replied: "Why, our Petinka is dead!" "Yes,
yes, I know--of course," said her husband. "Petinka is now in the
Kingdom of Heaven." This showed his wife that her husband was not
quite in his right senses--that the recent occurrence had upset
him; so she said: "My dearest, you must sleep awhile." "I will do
so," he replied, "--at once--I am rather--" And he turned over,
and lay silent for a time. Then again he turned round and tried
to say something, but his wife could not hear what it was. "What
do you say?" she inquired, but he made no reply. Then again she
waited a few moments until she thought to herself, "He has gone
to sleep," and departed to spend an hour with the landlady. At
the end of that hour she returned-- only to find that her husband
had not yet awoken, but was still lying motionless. "He is
sleeping very soundly," she reflected as she sat down and began
to work at something or other. Since then she has told us that
when half an hour or so had elapsed she fell  into a reverie.
What she was thinking of she cannot remember, save that she had
forgotten altogether about her husband. Then she awoke with a
curious sort of sensation at her heart. The first thing that
struck her was the deathlike stillness of the room. Glancing at
the bed, she perceived her husband to be lying in the same
position as before. Thereupon she approached him, turned the
coverlet back, and saw that he was stiff and cold-- that he had
died suddenly, as though smitten with a stroke. But of what
precisely he died God only knows. The affair has so terribly
impressed me that even now I cannot fully collect my thoughts. It
would scarcely be believed that a human being could die so
simply--and he such a poor, needy wretch, this Gorshkov! What a
fate, what a fate, to be sure! His wife is plunged in tears and
panic-stricken, while his little daughter has run away somewhere
to hide herself. In their room, however, all is bustle and
confusion, for the doctors are about to make an autopsy on the
corpse. But I cannot tell you things for certain; I only know
that I am most grieved, most grieved. How sad to think that one
never knows what even a day, what even an hour, may bring forth!
One seems to die to so little purpose! .-Your own

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

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