Poor Folk: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

April 12th

DEAREST MISTRESS BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I pray you, my beloved, to
tell me what ails you. Every one of your letters fills me with
alarm. On the other hand, in every letter I urge you to be more
careful of yourself, and to wrap up yourself warmly, and to avoid
going out in bad weather, and to be in all things prudent. Yet
you go and disobey me! Ah, little angel, you are a perfect child!
I know well that you are as weak as a blade of grass, and that,
no matter what wind blows upon you, you are ready to fade. But
you must be careful of yourself, dearest; you MUST look after
yourself better; you MUST avoid all risks, lest you plunge your
friends into desolation and despair.

Dearest, you also express a wish to learn the details of my daily
life and surroundings. That wish I hasten to satisfy. Let me
begin at the beginning, since, by doing so, I shall explain
things more systematically. In the first place, on entering this
house, one passes into a very bare hall, and thence along a
passage to a mean staircase. The reception room, however, is
bright, clean, and spacious, and is lined with redwood and metal-
work. But the scullery you would not care to see; it is greasy,
dirty, and odoriferous, while the stairs are in rags, and the
walls so covered with filth that the hand sticks fast wherever it
touches them. Also, on each landing there is a medley of boxes,
chairs, and dilapidated wardrobes; while the windows have had
most of their panes shattered, and everywhere stand washtubs
filled with dirt, litter, eggshells, and fish-bladders. The smell
is abominable. In short, the house is not a nice one.

As to the disposition of the rooms, I have described it to you
already. True, they are convenient enough, yet every one of them
has an ATMOSPHERE. I do not mean that they smell badly so much as
that each of them seems to contain something which gives forth a
rank, sickly-sweet odour. At first the impression is an
unpleasant one, but a couple of minutes will suffice to dissipate
it, for the reason that EVERYTHING here smells--people's clothes,
hands, and everything else--and one grows accustomed to the
rankness. Canaries, however, soon die in this house. A naval
officer here has just bought his fifth. Birds cannot live long in
such an air. Every morning, when fish or beef is being cooked,
and washing and scrubbing are in progress, the house is filled
with steam. Always, too, the kitchen is full of linen hanging out
to dry; and since my room adjoins that apartment, the smell from
the clothes causes me not a little annoyance. However, one can
grow used to anything.

From earliest dawn the house is astir as its inmates rise, walk
about, and stamp their feet. That is to say, everyone who has to
go to work then gets out of bed. First of all, tea is partaken
of. Most of the tea-urns belong to the landlady; and since there
are not very many of them, we have to wait our turn. Anyone who
fails to do so will find his teapot emptied and put away. On the
first occasion, that was what happened to myself. Well, is there
anything else to tell you? Already I have made the acquaintance
of the company here. The naval officer took the initiative in
calling upon me, and his frankness was such that he told me all
about his father, his mother, his sister (who is married to a
lawyer of Tula), and the town of Kronstadt. Also, he promised me
his patronage, and asked me to come and take tea with him. I kept
the appointment in a room where card-playing is continually in
progress; and, after tea had been drunk, efforts were made to
induce me to gamble. Whether or not my refusal seemed to the
company ridiculous I cannot say, but at all events my companions
played the whole evening, and were playing when I left. The dust
and smoke in the room made my eyes ache. I declined, as I say, to
play cards, and was, therefore, requested to discourse on
philosophy, after which no one spoke to me at all--a result which
I did not regret. In fact, I have no intention of going there
again, since every one is for gambling, and for nothing but
gambling. Even the literary tchinovnik gives such parties in his
room--though, in his case, everything is done delicately and with
a certain refinement, so that the thing has something of a
retiring and innocent air.

In passing, I may tell you that our landlady is NOT a nice woman.
In fact, she is a regular beldame. You have seen her once, so
what do you think of her? She is as lanky as a plucked chicken in
consumption, and, with Phaldoni (her servant), constitutes the
entire staff of the establishment. Whether or not Phaldoni has
any other name I do not know, but at least he answers to this
one, and every one calls him by it. A red-haired, swine-jowled,
snub-nosed, crooked lout, he is for ever wrangling with Theresa,
until the pair nearly come to blows. In short, life is not overly
pleasant in this place. Never at any time is the household wholly
at rest, for always there are people sitting up to play cards.
Sometimes, too, certain things are done of which it would be
shameful for me to speak. In particular, hardened though I am, it
astonishes me that men WITH FAMILIES should care to live in this
Sodom. For example, there is a family of poor folk who have
rented from the landlady a room which does not adjoin the other
rooms, but is set apart in a corner by itself. Yet what quiet
people they are! Not a sound is to be heard from them. The
father--he is called Gorshkov--is a little grey-headed tchinovnik
who, seven years ago, was dismissed from public service, and now
walks about in a coat so dirty and ragged that it hurts one to
see it. Indeed it is a worse coat even than mine! Also, he is so
thin and frail (at times I meet him in the corridor) that his
knees quake under him, his hands and head are tremulous with some
disease (God only knows what!), and he so fears and distrusts
everybody that he always walks alone. Reserved though I myself
am, he is even worse. As for his family, it consists of a wife
and three children. The eldest of the latter--a boy--is as frail
as his father, while the mother--a woman who, formerly, must have
been good looking, and still has a striking aspect in spite of
her pallor--goes about in the sorriest of rags. Also I have heard
that they are in debt to our landlady, as well as that she is not
overly kind to them. Moreover, I have heard that Gorshkov lost
his post through some unpleasantness or other--through a legal
suit or process of which I could not exactly tell you the nature.
Yes, they certainly are poor--Oh, my God, how poor! At the same
time, never a sound comes from their room. It is as though not a
soul were living in it. Never does one hear even the children--
which is an unusual thing, seeing that children are ever ready to
sport and play, and if they fail to do so it is a bad sign. One
evening when I chanced to be passing the door of their room, and
all was quiet in the house, I heard through the door a sob, and
then a whisper, and then another sob, as though somebody within
were weeping, and with such subdued bitterness that it tore my
heart to hear the sound. In fact, the thought of these poor
people never left me all night, and quite prevented me from
sleeping.

Well, good-bye, my little Barbara, my little friend beyond price.
I have described to you everything to the best of my ability. All
today you have been in my thoughts; all today my heart has been
yearning for you. I happen to know, dearest one, that you lack a
warm cloak. To me too, these St. Petersburg springs, with their
winds and their snow showers, spell death. Good heavens, how the
breezes bite one! Do not be angry, beloved, that I should write
like this. Style I have not. Would that I had! I write just what
wanders into my brain, in the hope that I may cheer you up a
little. Of course, had I had a good education, things might have
been different; but, as things were, I could not have one. Never
did I learn even to do simple sums!--Your faithful and
unchangeable friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

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