Poor Folk and Other Stories (7 page)

When, on the other hand, his son received his father well, the old man would be beside himself with joy. His pleasure would make itself visible in his face, his gestures, and his movements. If his son said anything to him, the old man would invariably get up slightly from his chair and reply in a quiet, servile tone bordering on reverence, always trying to use the most refined, that is, the most ridiculous expressions. But he had no gift for words: he would always grow confused and lose his nerve, since he did not know where to put his hands or to put himself, and would whisper his side of the conversation to himself for a long time afterwards, as though he were trying to correct himself. If, on the other hand, he had succeeded in answering well, the old man would preen himself, straighten his waistcoat, tie and jacket and assume an air that suggested he knew his own worth. It occasionally happened that he recovered his spirits to such an extent and grew so emboldened that he slowly rose from his chair, went over to the bookshelf, took down a book at random, and read aloud from it right there and then, whatever he had chanced to select. All this he did with an air of pretended indifference and detachment, as though he could always behave in such a lordly fashion with his son's books, as though he found nothing remarkable about his having been treated kindly by him. I once, however, chanced to witness how frightened the poor man became when
Pokrovsky asked him not to touch the books. He grew confused, began to fuss around, replaced the book upside down, then tried to put it back the right way up, turned it round and replaced it with its spine facing inward, smiled, blushed and was at a loss how to cover up his crime. By his counselling, Pokrovsky managed to wean the old man away from his self-destructive habits, and as soon as he saw him sober, let us say, on three successive occasions, then the next time the old man visited him he would give on parting a twenty-five copeck piece, a fifty-copeck piece, or more. He would sometimes buy him boots, a tie or a waistcoat. The old man would be as proud as a turkey-cock in his new clothes. Sometimes he would come to our room. He would bring cockerel-shaped honey-cakes, and apples, for Sasha and myself, and would spend all the time telling us about Petenka. He would ask us to study attentively and be obedient, saying that Petenka was a good son, an exemplary son and, what was more, a learned son. As he did so, he would wink at us ridiculously with his left eye and make such comical faces that we were unable to restrain our hilarity and laughed at him for all we were worth. Mother was very fond of him. But the old man hated Anna Fyodorovna, even though in her presence he was as quiet as a mouse.

Soon I stopped taking lessons with Pokrovsky. He still viewed me as a child, a naughty little girl, on a par with Sasha. This hurt me considerably, as I was doing my utmost to make up for my previous behaviour. But no one paid any attention to that. That irritated me more and more. I practically never spoke to Pokrovsky outside of lessons, nor could I speak. I blushed, was confused, and afterwards wept in a corner from disappointment.

I do not know how all this would have ended, had not a certain strange circumstance contrived to bring us close to each other. One evening, when Mother was talking to Anna Fyodorovna, I quietly entered Pokrovsky is room. I knew that he was not at home, and I do not really know why I took it into my head to go in. Until that time I had never paid him even the briefest visit, even though we had been living next door to each other for more than a year. On this occasion my heart beat so violently that I thought it might burst out of me. I looked around me with intense curiosity. Pokrovsky's room was very shabbily furnished; it was not very tidy. Five long bookshelves containing books had been nailed to the walls. The table and the chairs were heaped with papers. Books and papers! I
suddenly had a strange thought, and at the same time a nasty sense of disappointment took hold of me. It seemed that my friendship and my loving heart were of little account to him. He was educated, while I was stupid and knew nothing, had read nothing, not a single book… At this point I cast an envious glance at the long shelves sagging with books. I was seized with disappointment, depression, a kind of rage. I conceived a desire, which I acted on at once, to read his books, every single one of them, as quickly as possible. I am not sure, but perhaps I thought that if I learned everything he knew, I should be more worthy of his friendship. I rushed to the first shelf; without thinking, without hesitating, I seized the first dusty old tome that fell into my hands and, blushing, trembling with fear and agitation, carried the stolen book off to my room, having decided to read it at night, by the glow from the night-light, when mother was asleep.

Great, however, was my disappointment when, on regaining our room, I hurriedly opened the book and discovered that it was some ancient, semi-decomposed, utterly worm-eaten treatise in Latin. I lost no time in taking it back. Just as I was about to replace the book on its shelf, I heard a noise in the corridor, and someone's footsteps, quite close. I tried to be as quick as I could, but the wretched book had been so firmly wedged in its row that when I took it out all the others displaced themselves and closed ranks in such a way that there was now no room for their former companion. I had not the strength to squeeze the book back in. But I did push the other books back as hard as I was able. The rusty nail by which the shelf was fixed to the wall and which seemed to have been awaiting precisely that moment in order to snap, snapped. The shelf collapsed at one end, and the books went noisily scattering all over the floor. The door opened, and Pokrovsky entered the room.

I should observe that he could not abide anyone interfering with his possessions. Woe betide anyone who laid a finger on his books! Consider, then, my sense of horror when those books – large and small, of every imaginable format, size and thickness – came hurtling down from the shelf and went careering and fluttering under the table, under the chairs, all over the room. I would have made my escape, but it was too late. ‘I'm finished,' I thought, ‘finished! It's all up with me, I'm for it! I'm being silly and naughty like a child of ten years old: I'm just a stupid little girl! A big idiot!' Pokrovsky flew into the most dreadful rage. ‘Well, that's all that was wanting!'
he cried. ‘Well, aren't you ashamed to play silly pranks like this?… Won't you ever learn any sense?' And he rushed to pick up the books. I began to stoop down in order to help him. ‘Don't, don't!' he cried. ‘You would do better not to go where you have not been invited.' Then, however, slightly mollified by my submissive behaviour, he continued more quietly, in his customary teacher's voice, taking advantage of his customary teacher's authority: ‘Well, when are you going to learn some self-control and start to behave sensibly, for a change? I mean, just look at you, you're not a child, you're not a little girl any longer – you're fifteen years old!' And at this point, doubtless in an endeavour to make sure that I really was no longer a little girl, he cast a glance at me and blushed to the roots of his hair. At first, I did not understand; I stood in front of him, staring at him in amazement. He got up, approached me with an air of embarrassment, grew horribly confused, and started to speak: he was evidently apologizing for something, perhaps for only now having noticed that I was such a big girl. At last I understood. I can't remember what happened to me then; I grew confused, flustered, blushed even deeper than Pokrovsky, covered my face with my hands and ran out of the room.

I did not know what there was left for me to do, or where to hide my head in shame. The mere fact that he had caught me in his room! For three entire days I was unable to bring myself even to look at him. I kept blushing to the point of tears. The strangest, most ridiculous thoughts kept whirling about in my head. One of them, the wildest, was a desire to go to him, have it out with him, confess everything to him, frankly tell him all and convince him that I had behaved not as a stupid little girl, but with good intentions. I had almost made up my mind to do this, but, thank God, found that I did not possess the necessary courage. I can imagine what a fool of myself I should have made! Even now I have pangs of conscience at the memory of the whole episode.

A few days later Mother suddenly fell dangerously ill. She lay in bed for two days, and on the third night she developed a fever and delirium. I had already lost one night of sleep looking after her, sitting by her bedside, bringing her water to drink and giving her her medicine at the prescribed times. By the second night I was completely exhausted. At times sleep overcame me, my eyes went dark, my head grew dizzy, and I was constantly on the point of collapsing with weariness; but Mother's feeble groaning kept rousing
me, and I would start and wake up for a moment before slumber once again got the better of me. I was in torment. I do not know how it was – I cannot remember – but at the agonizing moment of sleep's struggle with wakefulness a terrible vision, a monstrous dream visited my confused head. I woke up in horror. The room was in darkness, the night-light was going out; suddenly the whole room was bathed in stripes of light, which at one moment flashed across the wall and at the next disappeared entirely. For some reason I grew dreadfully afraid, I was attacked by a sense of horror; my fantasy had been aroused by the terrible dream I had had; anguish constricted my heart… I leapt up from my chair and let out an involuntary shriek, brought on by my sense of claustrophobic, agonized terror. At that moment the door opened, and Pokrovsky came into our room.

The only thing I remember is that when I regained consciousness I was in his arms. He sat me down in a chair, gave me a glass of water, and showered me with questions. I do not remember what I replied. ‘You are ill, too, you are very ill,' he said taking my hand. ‘You have a fever, you are damaging yourself, you must be kinder to your health; make your mind easy. Lie down, go to sleep. I shall wake you in two hours' time, try to get a little rest… Lie down, I say, lie down!' he continued, not letting me say a single word in objection. Tiredness had robbed me of the last of my strength; my eyes were closing from weakness. I lay down on the sofa, determined to sleep for only half an hour, and slept until morning. Pokrovksy did not wake me up until it was time for me to give Mother her medicine.

At about eleven o'clock the following evening when, having managed to rest a little in the afternoon, I was once again preparing to sit on the sofa by Mother's bedside, this time firmly resolving not to fall asleep, Pokrovsky knocked at the door of our room. ‘It'll be boring for you sitting up on your own,' he said. ‘Here's a book for you; take it; you won't get so bored then.' I took it; I don't remember what book it was; I hardly glanced at it then, even though I did not sleep all night. A strange inner agitation would not allow me to sleep; I was unable to remain in the same place; several times I got up from the
chaise-longue
and began to walk about the room. A kind of inner satisfaction spread itself throughout my entire being. I was so delighted by Pokrovsky's attentions. I took pride in his anxiety and concern about me. All night I thought and dreamed. Pokrovsky did
not look in again; I knew he would not come, and I made guesses about the following evening.

Next evening, when everyone in the house had gone to bed, Pokrovsky opened his door and began to talk to me, standing on the threshold of his room. I do not remember now a single word of what we said to each other; all I remember is that I was shy and confused, that I was annoyed with myself and awaited the end of our conversation with impatience, even though I had desired it with all my heart, had spent the whole day dreaming about it and preparing my questions and replies… The beginnings of our friendship dated from that evening. Throughout the entire duration of Mother's illness we spent several hours of every night in each other's company. Little by little I overcame my shyness, although after each of our conversations I would always find something to be annoyed with myself about. However that may have been, I none the less saw with secret delight and proud satisfaction that he was forgetting his wretched books because of me. Quite casually, almost in jest, our conversation once touched on the subject of their fall from the shelf. It was a strange moment – I was almost
too
open and candid; the heat of the moment and a strange enthusiasm carried me away, and I confessed everything to him… that I wanted to study, to know a few things, that I found it annoying to be regarded as a little girl, a child… I repeat that I was in a very strange mood; my heart was soft, there were tears in my eyes – I hid nothing and told him everything, everything – about my feelings of friendship for him, about my desire to live with him united in love, to console him, to calm him. He gave me a strange look which contained both embarrassment and amazement, and did not say a word. I suddenly felt terribly hurt and sad. It seemed to me that he did not understand me, that he might even be laughing at me. I suddenly started to cry like a child, sobbing, unable to control myself; it was as though I had succumbed to a kind of fit. He seized my hands, kissed them, held them to his breast, tried to reassure me, to console me; he was deeply moved. I do not remember what he said to me, only that I both wept and laughed, and once more wept, blushed, and was unable to utter a word for joy. Yet for all my emotional turmoil, I observed that Pokrovsky was still tense and embarrassed. He seemed to be unable to stop wondering at my animation, my enthusiasm, my so suddenly manifested, warm, ardent feelings of affection for him. Perhaps initially he had been merely curious; subsequently his
lack of resolve disappeared, and he accepted, with the same simple directness as I, my attachment to him, my friendly words and my attention, and responded to it all with the same degree of attention, as kindly and amicably as if he were my sincere friend, my own brother. My heart felt so warm, so good!… I made no attempt to conceal my feelings from him, I kept nothing back; he saw it all, and with every day that passed became more attached to me.