Poor Folk and Other Stories (11 page)

Now, Varenka, what do you think of this bit about Yermak when he finds out that his Suleika has had her throat cut? The blind old man Kuchum has stolen into Yermak's tent in his absence, under cover of darkness, and has cut his own daughter's throat, out of a desire to deal a mortal blow to Yermak, who has done him out of his sceptre and crown:

‘I take joy in scraping iron against stone!' Yermak cried in a state of savage frenzy, whetting his damask steel dagger on the shaman's stone. ‘I must have their blood, their blood! They must be carved, cut up and quartered!!'

And after all that Yermak, unable to go on living without his Suleika, throws himself into the Irtysh, and there the story ends.

Well, and here is a little extract, an example of the humorous-descriptive genre, written specifically in order to make people laugh:

I mean, that's killing, Varenka, simply killing! We rolled about with laughter when he read us that. He's such a one, may the Lord forgive him! But you know, Varenka, although it's a bit fanciful and rather too frivolous, it's none the less innocent, without the slightest trace of free-thinking or liberal ideas. I should observe, little mother, that Ratazyayev is a man of impeccable behaviour and is for that reason a first-rate author – not like some other authors I could mention.

You know, sometimes I have an idea… well, what if I were to write something, what would come of it? Say, for example, that quite suddenly, for no particular reason, a book were to appear with the title
The Poems of Makar Devushkin
? Well, what would you say then, my little angel? How would that seem to you, what would you think? As for myself, I can tell you, little mother, that as soon as my book appeared, I should certainly not dare to show my face on the Nevsky Prospekt. I mean, just think what it would be like when everyone said: ‘There's the literary author and poet Devushkin', or ‘There is Devushkin'! When that happened, what would I do about my boots, for example? They're nearly always – I mention this in passing, little mother – covered in patches, and I have o tell you also that their soles sometimes hang open in a most unseemly manner. Well, what would happen if everyone found out that the author Devushkin's boots were covered in patches? What if some countess or duchess or other were to learn of it – what would she say, the darling? She probably would not notice it; for, the way I imagine it, countesses don't concern themselves with boots, particularly the boots of government clerks (because there are boots and boots, after all) – but she would be told about it, her friends would give me away. Yes, Ratazyayev would be the first to give me away; he would
call on the Countess V.; he says he's invited to every one of her receptions, and that he is almost like one of the family. She's a real darling, he says; literary, he says, a real lady. He's a rascal, that Ratazyayev!

But, anyway, enough of this topic: I'm really just writing all this for fun, my little angel, in order to entertain you. Goodbye, my little dove! If I've scribbled you a lot it's because I'm in such a happy frame of mind today. We all ate dinner together in Ratazyayev is room and they started passing round a Romany wine
^*
such as you've never tasted in your life (they're such frolicsome fellows, little mother!)… But why should I write to you about that? Now don't go getting the wrong idea about me, Varenka. I just tell you all these things for fun. I shall send you the books, I promise I shall… There's a novel by Paul de Kock
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going the rounds among us here, but I shall not send you Paul de Kock, little mother… No, no! Paul de Kock isn't good enough for you. They say about him, little mother, that he provokes all the St Petersburg critics to righteous indignation. I enclose a pound ofsweets – Ibought them especially for you. Eat them, my darling, and remember me each time you put one in your mouth. Only mind and suck the boiled sweets, and not crunch them, or else you will get toothache. Perhaps you like candied fruit? Do write and tell me. Well, goodbye, then, goodbye. May Christ be with you, my little dove. And I shall remain forever

Fedora says that if I am willing, there are certain people who will be pleased to take an active interest in my position, and will obtain for me a very good post as governess in a certain house. What do you think, my friend – should I accept or not? Of course, I should not then be a burden on you any longer, and the post does seem to be an advantageous one; on the other hand, though, I do not feel good about entering a house of people whom I do not know. They are some kind of country landowners. If they start trying to find out about me, asking me questions, probing me – what shall I say? Then
again, I'm so shy and unsociable; I like to go on living for a long time in the same familiar corner. It's somehow better living in the place one's used to: even though one's miserable half the time, it's still better. The place is in the country, what's more; and heaven only knows what sort of duties I will have; perhaps they'll just make me look after the children. And they're such people, too: they've had three governesses in two years. For the love of God, tell me what you think, Makar Alekseyevich, should I accept or not? And why do you never visit me? It's so seldom that you show your face. We hardly ever see each other except in church on Sundays. What an unsociable fellow you are! You're just like I am. I'm nearly a relation of yours, you know. You don't love me, Makar Alekseyevich, and I sometimes get very sad on my own. At times, especially when it's getting dark, I find myself sitting alone as alone can be. Fedora will have gone off somewhere. I sit and think andthink – I remember all the old times, the joyful ones and the sad ones, and they all pass before my eyes, flickering as through a mist. Familiar faces appear (I almost begin to see them for real), and it is Mother whom I see most frequently… And what dreams I have! I have a feeling that my health is not as good as it should be; I am so weak; this morning, for example, when I got out of bed, I started to feel peculiar; on top of that I have such a bad cough! I feel – indeed I know – that I shall die soon. Will anyone give me a funeral? Will anyone walk behind my coffin? Will anyone miss me?… And now, perhaps, I shall have to the in a strange place, in an alien corner of someone else's house… O my God, how sad life is, Makar Alekseyevich! Why do you keep stuffing me with sweets, my friend? I really don't know where you get all the money from. Oh, my friend, look after your money, for God's sake look after it. Fedora is selling the rug I have made; she can get fifty paper rubles for it. That's very good; I had thought it would be less. I shall give Fedora three silver rubles and make myself a new dress – a simple, warm one. I shall make you a waistcoat, I shall make it myself, and shall choose a good material for it.

Fedora has brought me a book –
Tales of Belkin
^*
– which I shall send you if you would like to read it. Only please don't get marks on it, or delay in returning it, as it belongs to somebody else. It's a work by Pushkin. Two years ago Mother and I read the stories in it together, and I felt so sad reading them over again now. If you have any books, please send them to me – only not if they are ones you
have got from Ratazyayev. He will probably lend you his own books, if he has had anything published. How can you like his stuff, Makar Alekseyevich? It's such rubbish… Well, goodbye! How I have prattled on! When I'm sad I like to prattle about nothing in particular. It's a kind of medicine: I at once feel better, especially if I am able to talk about everything that is in my heart. Goodbye, goodbye, my friend!

Enough of this misery! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Enough, my little angel; how is it that such thoughts come into your head? You are not ill, my darling, you are not in the slightest ill; you are blossoming, positively blossoming; a little pale, perhaps, but blossoming all the same. And what are these dreams and visions of yours? Shame on you, my little dove – enough! You must spit in the face of those dreams, yes, spit in their face. Why do you suppose I sleep well? Why do you suppose that nothing bad happens to me? You ought to look at me, little mother. I take care of myself, sleep well, am in good health, a fine figure of a man, a pleasure to look at. Enough, little darling, enough – shame on you. You must mend your ways. After all, I know how that head of yours works, little mother – as soon as the slightest thing goes wrong you start dreaming and pining. Stop it for my sake, darling. Go into service? Never! No, no and no! What can you be thinking of, whatever has got into you? And in the country, too! Oh no, little mother, I shall not permit it. I shall exert every power at my disposal in order to oppose such a plan. I will sell my old jacket and go about the streets in my shirtsleeves rather than have you want for anything. No, Varenka, no; I know you! This is folly, pure folly! And if there is one thing that's certain, it is that Fedora bears the sole responsibility: she is quite clearly a stupid peasant woman, and it is she who has put you up to all this. Don't you believe a word she says, little mother. You don't know much about her, do you, my darling?… She's a stupid peasant woman, foolish and quarrelsome; she drove her husband into
his grave. Or has she been making you lose your temper with her over there? No, no, little mother, not for anything in the world! What would happen to me if you went, what would be left for me? No, Varenka, darling, you must get this idea out of your little head. What do you lack with us? We dote upon you, you are fond ofus – sogo on living over there in your quiet way; sew or read, or, if you wish, don't sew – it's all the same, just as long as you go on living with us. Just think for yourself what life would be like here without you!… Look, I shall get some books for you, and then perhaps we'll go and take another walk somewhere together. Only enough, enough, little mother: learn some sense and don't be put off your balance by silly nonsense! I will come and visit you, and in a very short time, too; only in return you must accept my frank and honest opinion: you are wrong, my darling, you are very wrong! I, of course, am an uneducated man and know that I am uneducated, that I was brought up on a shoestring; but that is not what I am driving at, for it is not I who am at issue here, but Ratazyayev, whose side I shall take, say what you will. he is my friend, and so I take his part. He writes well, he writes very, very, very well. I do not agree with you, and there is no way in which I can agree with you. He writes floridly, in gusts, with figures of speech and all sorts of ideas; it's very fine! I think, Varenka, you must have read it without feeling, or perhaps you weren't in the right mood, you were angry with Fedora about something, or something unpleasant had happened over there. No, you read it again with feeling, preferably when you're happy and content and in a good mood, as when, for example, you have a sweet in your mouth – that's the time you should read it. I don't deny (and who would?) that there are writers who are better, even much better than Ratazyayev, but they have their good points, and so does Ratazyayev; they write well, and so does he. he is a law unto himself, he writes in his own way, and what he writes he writes very well. Well, goodbye; I can write no more; I must make haste, for duty calls. See to it now, little mother, beloved little darling, compose yourself, may the Lord be with you, and I remain

No, my friend, no, this is no life for me, here among you. I have given the matter some thought and have decided that it would be very wrong of me to refuse such an advantageous post. There I shall at least have my daily bread assured to me; I shall make an effort, I shall earn the good graces of people who are strangers to me, I shall even endeavour to alter my character, if need be. It is, of course, hard and hurtful to live among strangers, to seek their mercy, to hide one is feelings and constrain oneself, but God will help me. I must not remain a stay-at-home all my life. Similar things have happened to me in the past. I remember the days when I was a little girl and used to go to boarding-school. All Sunday I would play around at home, jumping and skipping; from time to time Mother would scold me, but I didn't care – my heart was so full of happiness, my soul was so radiant. Evening would draw near, and then a mortal sadness would descend on me: at nine o' clock I should have to return to my boarding-school, and there everything was cold, alien and strict, the schoolmistresses were so short-tempered on Mondays – my soul would fairly ache, and I would want to cry. I would go into a corner and weep all on my own, concealing my tears, as people would say I was lazy; yet the reason for my crying had nothing to do with the necessity of study. Well, in any case, I grew accustomed to the school, and then I would cry again when I had to leave it and say goodbye to my companions.

I should be acting wrongly to go on being a burden to both of you. That thought is torture to me. I tell you all this frankly, because I am used to being frank with you. Do you think I don't see the way Fedora gets up at the crack of dawn every morning to do her laundry and works until late at night? And old bones need rest, too. Do you think I don't see the way you ruin yourself over me, spending your every last copeck on me? A man of your means, my friend! You write that you will sell the last of your belongings rather than leave me in hardship. I believe you, my friend, I believe in your good heart – but those are just words. Just now you have some money you did not expect to have, you have been paid a bonus; but what will happen later, what then? You know yourself that I am constantly ill; I cannot work as you do, even though I should be truly glad to – and then there is not always work to be found. What is left for
me? To let my heart break from sorrow as I watch the two of you, kind souls that you are? How can I render you even the slightest service? And why am I so indispensable to you, my friend? What good have I ever done you? I am merely devoted to you with all my soul, I love you fiercely, strongly, with all my heart, but – O bitter fate!– am able only to love, and not to do good works, to pay you for your unselfishness. Do not try to hold me back any longer, think about what I have written and tell me your final opinion. I remain, in expectation,