Poor Folk and Other Stories (9 page)

But now it is the sad, painful memories that come to mind; the story of my dark days is beginning. Perhaps that is why my pen is starting to move more slowly, as if it were refusing to write any more.
That is why, perhaps, I have with such enthusiasm and such fondness gone over in my mind the most insignificant details of my insignificant life in those happy days of mine. They were so brief, those days; they were succeeded by sorrow, black sorrow, and God alone knows when it will end.

My misfortunes began with Pokrovsky's illness and death.

He fell ill two months after the latest events I have described. During those two months he had been tirelessly waging a struggle for the means of subsistence, for he still had no reliable position. He was offered a schoolmaster's job somewhere; but he had an aversion for that trade. He was unable, on account of his poor health, to serve in a government position anywhere. In addition, he would have had to wait too long for the first instalment of his salary. In short, Pokrovsky met with lack of success wherever he turned; he was losing his good spirits. His health was going from bad to worse, but he gave it no attention. Every day he would go out in his thin overcoat to chase up his business, to ask and beg for a job somewhere, anywhere – something that caused him inner torture; he would get his feet wet, be soaked in the rain and, at last, had to take to his bed, from which he never got up again… He died in the depths of autumn, at the end of October.

I practically never left his room throughout the entire duration of his illness, looking after him and nursing him. I frequently did not sleep for whole nights on end. He was seldom in possession of his faculties; frequently he would be in delirium; he would talk about God knows what; his job, his books, about me, about his father… at this time, too, I heard much about his circumstances which previously I had not known and had not even guessed. During the early period of his illness everyone used to give me rather strange looks; Anna Fyodorovna would shake her head. But I used to look everyone straight in the eye, and they stopped frowning upon my concern for Pokrovsky – or at least Mother did.

Sometimes Pokrovsky would recognize me, but this was rare. For much the greater part of the time he was unconscious. Sometimes for whole nights on end he would talk to someone at great length, his words unclear and obscure, his hoarse voice resonating hollowly in his cramped room as in a coffin; at such times I would grow afraid. On his last night, in particular, he was like a man in a frenzy; he suffered horribly, in a misery of anguish; his groans tormented my soul. Everyone in the house was in a state of fright. Anna Fyodo rovna kept praying that God would take him quickly. The doctor was summoned. The doctor said that by morning the patient would certainly be dead.

Old man Pokrovsky spent the whole night out in the passage, right by the door to his son's room; some bast-matting had been spread on the floor for him there. Every minute or so he would enter the room; it was terrible to see him. So crushed by grief was he that he seemed completely inane and insensate. His head shook with fear. He was quivering all over, and kept whispering something to himself, carrying on some private argument with himself. I thought he might go crazy with grief.

Towards dawn, worn out by mental agony, the old man fell into an inert torpor. At some time between seven and eight in the morning the son's death throes began; I woke the father. Pokrovsky was fully conscious, and said farewell to all of us. It was strange; I could not weep, but my soul was torn to pieces.

It was, however, his last moments which caused me the greatest degree of anguish and torture. With his stiffening tongue he kept asking for something over and over again, but I could not make out any of his words. My heart nearly broke with affliction. For a whole hour he was restless, kept fretting about something, trying to make some sign or other with his frigid hands, and then once more began plaintively asking for something in a hoarse, hollow voice; but his words came out as incoherent sounds, and once again I was unable to make out what he was trying to say. I brought every member of our household to his bedside, I gave him water to drink, but all he did was keep sadly shaking his head. At last I realized what he wanted. He was asking me to draw the window-curtain and open the shutters, probably in a desire to take one last look at the day, at God is world and the sun. I tugged the curtain to one side; but the incipient day was sad and melancholy, like the poor, fading life of the dying man. There was no sun. The clouds had spread the sky with a misty shroud; it was so rainy, gloomy, melancholy, that sky. A drizzling rain had found its way to the window-panes and was sluicing them with rivulets of cold, dirty water; all was dark and dreary. The wan daylight only just managed to penetrate the room, scarcely vying with the trembling glow of the lamp that had been lit in front of the icon. The dying man gave me a look of utter melancholy and shook his head. A minute later he was dead.

The arrangements for the funeral were made personally by Anna
Fyodorovna. A coffin of the very plainest kind was bought, and a drayman hired. In order to meet the expenses, Anna Fyodorovna laid claim to all the dead man's books and personal effects. The old man argued with her, kicked up a row, took back from her as many books as he could, stuffed all his pockets with them, put them into his hat, or wherever else he could think of, went around with them for a whole three days and would not even part with them when he had to go to church. For all those days he was like someone unconscious, like someone who has been stupefied, and kept fussing near the coffin with a strange solicitude: now he would straighten the wreath on the corpse, now he would light or snuff the candles. It was evident that his thoughts could not rest on anything in an ordered manner. Neither Mother nor Anna Fyodorovna were present in the church during the funeral service. Mother was sick, and Anna Fyodorovna, though she had got herself all ready to go, had quarrelled with old man Pokrovsky and had remained at home. The only people present were the old man and myself. During the service I was attacked by a sense of terror – a kind of premonition of the future. I could barely manage to stay on my feet in church. Finally the coffin was shut, nailed up, placed in the drayman's cart and hauled away. I accompanied it only to the end of the street. The drayman was making his horse go at a trot. The old man ran after him, weeping loudly, his wailing shaken and punctuated by his running. The poor fellow had lost his hat and had not stopped to pick it up. His hair was sodden with rain; the wind was getting up; the sleet was lashing and stinging his face. The old man seemed insensible to the foul weather, and ran wailing from one side of the cart to the other. The skirts of his threadbare coat fluttered in the wind like wings. Books peeped from every one of his pockets; in his arms he was carrying an enormous tome, to which he clung tightly. Passers-by would remove their hats and cross themselves. Some people stopped and stared in wonder at the poor old man. Every so often books would fall out of his pockets and land in the mud. People would stop and point to them; he would pick them up and then scramble off in pursuit of the coffin once more. At the corner of the street an old beggar woman tagged along after him, keeping him company. At last the cart turned the corner and disappeared from view. I went home. When I got there, I threw myself on Mother's breast in a terrible state of anguish. I pressed her in my arms as close as I possibly could, kissed her and sobbed violently,
anxiously nestling against her as though in my embraces seeking to retain my last friend, and not surrender her to death. But death was already overshadowing poor Mother…

Why, little mother, there was I thinking you were going to describe everything we saw yesterday in proper verses, yet all you have produced is one single small sheet of prose. I say this because although you do not say much in your little letter, it is none the less uncommonly well and pleasingly described. The natural surroundings, the various rural scenes, and all the rest about feelings – you really have described all that very well. You see, I have no talent for that kind of thing. Even though I fill ten pages with my scribbling, nothing comes of it. I am unable to describe anything. I have already tried. My dear, you tell me that I am a good man, lacking in malice, incapable of harming his fellow creatures and possessing an understanding of the Lord is grace as it is manifested in nature, and you end by showering me with various forms of praise. All that is true, little mother, all that is completely true; I really am as you say, I know it myself; but when a man reads the kind of thing you write, his heart is moved, and then various painful thoughts come into his mind. But now listen to me, little mother, while I tell you something, my dear.

I was only seventeen when I first went into the service – soon I will have spent more than thirty years in this walk of life. Well, indeed, I have worn out enough dress uniforms in my time; I have grown to man's estate, acquired some shrewdness, and seen something of people; I have lived, and I can say that I have lived in the world, to the extent that once I was even nominated to receive a medal. Perhaps you will not believe me, but I assure you that this is so. And what became of it, little mother? Evil men brought it all to nothing. But I will tell you, my darling, that even though I may be an ignorant man, a stupid man, my heart is the same as anyone else's. Do you know what an evil man did to me, Varenka? It is shameful to tell what he did – you will ask why he did it. He did it because I am a meek little soul, because I am a quiet, a good little soul! I did not appeal to his taste, and so he let fly at me. It began with him saying things to me like ‘You are this and that, Makar Alekseyevich'; then this turned into: ‘Oh, it is no good asking Makar Alekseyevich!' And finally this became: ‘It's all Makar Alekseyevich is fault, of course.' You see, my darling, how it went; everything was laid at Makar Alekseyevich is door; the name of Makar Alekseyevich
became a watchword throughout our entire department. And it was not enough that they made me into a watchword, into a term of abuse, almost – they latched on to my boots, my uniform, my hair, the shape of my body: none of these were to their liking, they must all be changed. And I mean, all this has been repeated every single day of the week since God knows when. I have grown accustomed to it, because I can grow accustomed to anything, because I am a meek man, because I am a little man; but, I ask, what is the reason for it all? What wrong have I ever done anyone? Have I stolen promotion from anyone? Have I ever slandered anyone to the higher-ups? Asked for a bonus I did not deserve? Made up tales? It would be unjust of you even to think of such a thing, little mother. Why would I ever do anything like that? Just look at me, my darling. Do I look as though I had a leaning for perfidy and ambition? So why have such disasters befallen me, in the name of God? After all, you consider me a worthy man, and you are immeasurably better than all of them, little mother. I mean, what is the greatest civic virtue? Yevstafy Ivanovich said the other day in a private conversation I had with him that the most important civic virtue is to know how to make a lot of money. He said, jokingly (I know he was joking), that moral education consists merely in learning how not to be a burden on anyone; and I'm not a burden on anyone! My crust of bread is my own; it's true that it's a plain crust of bread, at times even a dry one; but there it is, earned by my labours and consumed lawfully and unexceptionably. Well, what can one do? I mean, I know that the copying I do is not much of a job; yet, even so, I am proud of it: I work in the sweat of my brow. So what is wrong with the fact that I earn my living by copying? Is copying a sin? ‘He just copies documents,' they say. ‘That rat of a government clerk makes his living by copying!' Yet what is dishonourable about it? My handwriting is clear, well-formed and pleasant to look at, and His Excellency is satisfied with it; I copy his most important documents for him. Of course, I have no literary style, I mean, I know I have none, curse it; that is why I have not succeeded in rising in the service, and why even now, my darling, I write to you in this plain manner, with no frills, just as the thoughts come into my heart… All this I know; and indeed, if everyone were to start being an author, who would do the copying? That is the question I ask you, and I beg you to answer it, little mother. Well, so now I am aware that I am necessary, that I am indispensable, and that a man is silly to be upset by non
sense. All right, let me be a rat, since they've found a resemblance! But this rat is needed, this rat is of use, this rat is relied upon, and this rat receives a bonus – that's the sort of rat it's! But enough of this subject, my darling; I did not really wish to speak of it, but got carried away a little in the heat of the moment. All the same, it is pleasant to do oneself justice from time to time. Goodbye, my darling, my little dove, my kind consoler! I will come and see you, I promise I will; I shall call on you, my treasure. And in the meantime, don't pine. I shall bring you a book. Well, goodbye, Varenka.