Well, goodbye, my little treasure of a friend, Varenka! I have described it all for you to the best of my ability. All day I have thought of nothing but you. My heart has been pining for you, my dear. After all, my darling, I know that you have no warm coat. These St Petersburg springs with their wind and rain mixed with snow – they’ll be the death of me, Varenka! Such temperate weather* that the Lord preserve us! Don’t be too hard on my writing, darling; I have no style, Varenka, no style at all. If only I had just a little bit! I write what wanders into my mind, so as to provide you with some diversion. If only I had done some studying, everything would be different; but what kind of studying have I done? Not even enough to scrape by on.
Your constant and faithful friend,
MAKAR DEVUSHKIN
April 25
Makar Alekseyevich, Sir,
Today I met my cousin Sasha! What a terrible thing to happen! She too will be ruined, poor woman! I also heard from the certain quarter that Anna Fyodorovna is still making enquiries about me. I do not think she will ever stop trying to make my life a misery. She says she wants to forgive me, to forget all that has been, and that she will come to visit me. She says that your are no relation to me at all, that she is a closer relation, that you have no right to enter into our family affairs and that I ought to be ashamed and embarrassed to live on your charity and your salary… she says I have forgotten her hospitality, that she probably saved mother and me from death by starvation, that she fed us and looked after us and was out of pocket on our account for more than two-and-a-half years, that in addition to all that she agreed to overlook a debt we owed her. And she hadn’t a good word to say for mother! Oh, if poor mother only knew what they have done to me! God sees it!… Anna Fyodorovna says I was too stupid to and on to my luck, that she took me down the right path, that she is not to blame for any of the other things that have happened and that it was I who was either unable or, possibly, unwilling to stand up for my own honour. But who was to blame for that, Great God in Heaven? She says that Mr Bykov was entirely in the right, and that a man doesn’t simply go and marry the first woman who… but why should I write about that? It is cruel to hear such slanders, Makar Alekseyevich! I do not know what is happening to me right now. I am trembling, weeping, sobbing; it has taken me two hours to write you this letter. I thought that at least she would admit her guilt in my regard; and look how she is behaving now! For God’s sake, don’t worry, my friend, my only well-wisher! Fedora exaggerates everything: I am not ill. I simply caught a slight cold yesterday when I went to Volkovo for mother’s funeral. Why did you not come with me? I told you that I wanted you to, so badly. Oh, my poor, poor mother, if only you were able to rise from your coffin, if only you knew, if only you could see what they have done to me!…
V. D.
May 20
Darling Varenka!
I send you a few grapes, my darling; they are said to be good for those who are convalescing, and the doctor recommends them for the alleviation of thirst – especially for thirst, as it were. You expressed a wish for roses the other day, little mother; so now I send you some herewith. Do you have an appetite, my darling? – that is the most important thing. Anyway, thank God that all that is over and done with, and that our misfortunes are also drawing to a decisive close. Let us offer thanks to Heaven! But as for books, I have so far been unable to obtain them anywhere. There is said to be one particularly good book, written in a very fine style; it is supposed to be good, I have not read it myself, but everyone here sings its praises. I have ordered it, and have received the promise that it will be dispatched to me. Only will you read it? In my experience, you are hard to please in these matters; it is difficult to satisfy your taste, I know it well, my little dove; I expect what you want is poetry, lovers’ complaints, amours – well, I shall obtain poetry for you, I shall obtain everything; they have a notebook with verses copied in it there.
As for myself, I am well. Please do not worry about me, little mother. What Fedora told you about me is all nonsense; you tell her that she’s been spreading lies about me, the gossip!… I certainly have not sold my new uniform. I mean, judge for yourself, what on earth would induce me to go and do that? They tell me that I’m to receive forty rubles in bonus pay soon, so why should I need to sell my uniform? Don’t you let yourself be upset, little mother; she is mistrustful, that Fedora, she has a suspicious mind. We shall be all right, my little dove! Only, my angel, you must get better, do you hear, you must get better, and not make an old man unhappy. Who told you that I have grown thin?
Slander, more slander! I am thoroughly healthy and have put on so much weight that I have a bad conscience about it – I am stuffed full to the gullet; all I want is for you to get better! Well, goodbye my little angel; I kiss each one of your fingers and remain,
Your eternal, constant friend,
MAKAR DEVUSHKIN
PS Oh, my darling, why do you write this again?… What game are you playing with me? How can I visit you so often, little mother, how? I ask you. Perhaps under cover of darkness; but it hardly gets dark at nights now,* at this time of the year. You know, my little mother, little angel, I hardly left your side during all the time you were ill, when you lay unconscious; even now I don’t really know how I managed to do all that I did; and afterwards I stopped visiting you, because people had started to get nosy and ask questions. Even without all that, there had been some kind of gossip going around here. I put my faith in Teresa; she knows how to hold her tongue; but even so, little mother, imagine how it will be when they find out everything about us, what they will think and what they will say. So you must be strong, my darling, and wait until you are better again; and then we shall arrange a rendezvous somewhere out of doors.
June 1
Dearest Makar Alekseyevich,
I so much want to do something nice for you in return for all the effort and trouble you have put yourself to because of me, and in recognition of your love for me, that I have finally determined to get the better of my reluctance to rummage around in my locker and fish out my exercise-book, which I am sending you now. I began it at a happy time in my life. You often used to ask with curiosity about the way I used to live, about my mother, about Pokrovsky, about the time I spent in the home of Anna Fyodorovna and about my recent troubles, and you were so impatient in your wish to read this exercise-book, in which I had the idea, heaven knows why, of jotting down random moments of my life, that I have no doubt my parcel will bring you great enjoyment. As for myself, however – reading it over made me feel sad. I seem to have aged twice over since the time I wrote the last line of these notes. They were all written at different times. Goodbye, Makar Alekseyevich! I feel terribly low just now, and I am frequently tormented by insomnia. What a tiresome convalescence!
V. D.
I
I was only fourteen years old when Father died. My childhood was the happiest time of my life. It began not here, but far away, in the provinces, in the wilds. Father was the manager of the enormous estate belonging to Prince P., in the province of T. We lived in one of the Prince’s villages, and our life was quiet, unobserved, and happy… I was ever such a playful little child; all I ever did was run around the fields, the woods and the orchard, and no one ever paid me the slightest attention. Father was constantly preoccupied with business matters, and my mother took care of the household; no one tried to give me any education, for which I was grateful. I can remember that from the earliest morning onwards I would be running off to the pond, or the wood, or the haymaking, or the reapers – and never mind that the sun was baking down, that I had wandered heaven only knows where away from the village, was covered in scratches from the bushes, and had torn my clothes – I would be given a scolding at home later on, but I did not care. And I think that I should have been truly happy if it had been necessary for me to spend my entire life never leaving the village and staying in the same place. As it turned out, I had to leave my native corner while still a child. I was only twelve whe
n we moved to St Petersburg. Oh, with what sadness I recall our melancholy preparations. How I wept as I said goodbye to all that was so dear to me. Father began to shout at me, and Mother cried; she said that there was nothing for it, that Father’s business demanded it. Old Prince P. had died. The inheritors had dismissed Father from his position. Father had some money which was being circulated among private individuals in St Petersburg. In the hope of easing his financial difficulties, he decided it would be best for him to be present here in the capital himself. I found all this out from Mother later on. We settled here on the St Petersburg Side* and lived in the same place right up until Father is death. How difficult I found it to accustom myself to my new life! We went to St Petersburg in the autumn. The day we left the village was such a bright, warm, clear one; the work on the farms was drawing to a close; enormous stacks of grain were already piling up on the threshing floors, and shrill flocks of birds were wheeling about; everything was so serene and cheerful. Yet here, as we arrived in the city, we were greeted by rain, a damp autumn drizzle, foul weather, sleet and a host of new, unfamiliar faces – hostile, malcontent, and angry! Somehow we settled in. I remember that we were all in such a state of excitement, constantly fussing about as we set up our new home. Father was, as usual, not at home, and Mother had not a single free moment – I was completely ignored. I felt sad when I got up in the morning after my first night in our new quarters. Our windows looked out on to some kind of yellow fencing. The street was in a perpetual state of mire. Passers-by were few, and they were always well wrapped up, everyone felt the cold so. In our home a terrible sense of depression and tedium would reign for whole days on end. We had practically no relatives or close acquaintances. Father was on bad terms with Anna Fyodorovna. (He owed her a certain amount of money.) People did come to see us quite frequently on business, but they usually spent the time arguing, making a fuss and shouting. After each visit Father would become so ill-pleased and angry; I can remember that he used to pace the floor hour after hour, frowning, and never exchanging a word with anyone. At such times Mother did not dare to speak to him, and she kept silent. I would sit down somewhere in a corner with a book, as quiet as a mouse, not daring to make the slightest movement. Three months after we arrived in St Petersburg, I was sent to a girls’ boarding-school. How sad I felt initially at being among strangers! Everything was so cold, so unfriendly – the governesses were such shouters, the girls were such scoffers, and I was such a savage. It was so strict and severe! The fixed times for everything, the communal eating, the obnoxious teachers – at first I found all that utterly tormenting. I could not sleep there, either. I would cry all night, all the long, cold, dreary night. In the evenings the girls usually repeated their lessons aloud, or learned them by heart; I would sit with my French conversations or vocabulary, not daring to stir a limb, and constantly thinking about our bit of home, about Father and Mother, about our old nurse, about nurse’s stories… Oh, how depressed I would feel! I would find myself remembering even the most trivial objects in the house with affection. I would think and think: how good it would be to be at home now! I would sit in our little room, by the samovar, together with my own folk; it would be so warm, so good, so familiar. How tightly, how warmly I would embrace Mother, I would think. I would think and think, and quietly start to cry from heartbreak, choking back the tears, and forgetting all my vocabulary. It was always impossible for me to learn my lesson for the following day; all night I would dream of the male teacher, the madame, the girls; all night I would repeat my lessons in my sleep, but next day my head would be empty. I would be made to kneel, and given only one dish for my main meal. I was such a dull, miserable creature. At first the other girls kept laughing at me, teasing me, putting me off when I was saying my lessons, pinching me when we walked in lines to take our main meal, or tea, made complaints about me to the governess for no reason at all. On the other hand, what a paradise it was when nurse would come for me on Saturday evenings. I would hug the old woman in an ecstasy of joy. She would help me to put on my coat and shoes, and see that I was well wrapped up, and then would be unable to keep up with me as we walked, and I would chatter and chatter to her, telling her everything. I would arrive home cheerful and joyful, and would hug all the members of our household fiercely, as though I had been away for ten years. Gossip, conversations and stories would begin; I would say hello to everyone, laugh, giggle, skip and run about. I would have serious talks with Father about my studies, about our teachers, about the French language, about Lomond’s grammar* – and we would all be so pleased, so happy. Even now I feel happy just remembering those moments. I did all that I could to apply myself to my studies and thus please Father. I could see that he was sacrificing the last of his money for my sake, and was struggling to get by, God knew how. With every day that passed he grew more gloomy, more ill-humoured, angrier; his character had been quite ruined; his business affairs were not going well, and there was a multitude of debts. Mother would be afraid to cry, afraid to say a word, in case she angered Father; she grew ill; became thinner and thinner and developed a nasty cough. I would arrive home from my boarding-school to such sad faces; Mother would be crying quietly to herself, and Father would be angry. There would be admonitions and rebukes. Father would say that I had brought him no joy, no consolation; that they were depriving themselves of the last that they owned because of me, yet still I could not speak French; in other words, all his failures, all his misfortunes, all, all were unloaded on to Mother and me. And how could he torment poor Mother? My heart used to break just at the sight of her: her cheeks had grown sunken, her eyes had retreated into their sockets, her face bore a consumptive hue. I was the one who caught it more often than not. It would always start with trivia, but would subsequently develop into heaven only knows what; often I did not even understand what it was all about. What was there that was not the matter? That I could not speak French, that I was a great numbskull, and that the headmistress of our boarding-school was a stupid, negligent woman, who paid no attention to our morals; that Father still could not find a job, and that Lomond’s grammar was no good, Zapolsky’s* was far better; that they had thrown away a lot of money on me for nothing; that it was plain to see I was unfeeling, with a heart of stone – in other words, I, poor girl, struggled with all my might to do my lessons and vocabularies, but was guilty for everything, responsible for everything! And this was not at all because Father did not love me: he loved both Mother and me deeply. It was just what had happened to his character.
Poor Father’s worries, troubles and failures tortured him in the extreme: he became mistrustful and splenetic; he was frequently close to despair, began to neglect his health, caught a cold and suddenly fell ill. His sufferings did not last long; he died so abruptly and so without warning that for several days we were all stunned by the blow. Mother was in a kind of rigid trance; I even feared for her sanity. No sooner had Father died than his creditors appeared before us as if they had sprung from the ground; they hurled themselves upon us in a crowd. We had to give them everything we possessed. Even our little house on the St Petersburg Side, the one Father had bought six months after we moved to St Petersburg, was sold. I don’t know how the rest of the business was settled, but we ourselves were left without a roof over our heads, without anywhere to go, and without our daily bread. Mother was suffering from a wasting disease, we were unable to provide for ourselves, and before us lay ruin. At that time I was only just fourteen years old. It was at this juncture that Anna Fyodorovna paid us a visit. She kept saying that she was some kind of landowner, and also that she was some kind of relative of ours. Mother, too, said that Anna Fyodorovna was a relative of ours, only a very distant one. Anna Fyodorovna had never come to see us while Father was alive. She appeared with tears in her eyes, said that she had the greatest sympathy for us; she commiserated with us in our loss and in our wretched position, and added that Father himself had been to blame: that he had not lived according to his means, had overreached himself
and had placed too much faith in his own powers. She confessed a desire to get to know us better, offered to forget our mutual disagreements; and when Mother declared that she had never had any bad feelings for her, she shed a few tears, took Mother into a church and ordered a requiem mass for the ‘darling man’ (that was how she referred to Father). Having done that, she solemnly made her peace with Mother.
After many lengthy preambles and forewarnings, Anna Fyodorovna, having depicted to us in vivid colours our wretched position, our orphaned state, our hopelessness and helplessness, invited us, as she put it, to take shelter with her. Mother thanked her, but was for a long time unable to make up her mind; but as there was nothing to be done, and no other way of making any satisfactory arrangements, she finally announced to Anna Fyodorovna that we would accept her proposal with gratitude. I can still now remember the morning on which we moved from the St Petersburg Side to Vassilevsky Island. It was a clear, dry, frosty autumn morning. Mother was in tears; I felt terribly sad; my breast felt as though it were bursting, and my heart ached with a dreadful, inexplicable pain… It was a distressing time…
Poor Folk and Other Stories Page 4