Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (603 page)

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To complete my picture of Makar Ivanovitch I’ll repeat some of his stories, choosing those taken from private life.  These stories were of a strange character.  It was impossible to extract any sort of moral or general tendency from them, except perhaps that they were all more or less touching.  There were some, however, which were not touching, some, in fact, were quite gay, others even made fun of certain foolish monks, so that he actually discredited his own convictions by telling them.  I pointed this out to him, but he did not understand what I meant.  Sometimes it was difficult to imagine what induced him to tell the story, so that at times I wondered at his talkativeness and put it down to the loquacity of old age and his feverish condition.

“He is not what he used to be,” Versilov whispered to me once, “he was not quite like this in the old days.  He will soon die, much sooner than we expect, and we must be prepared.”

I have forgotten to say that we had begun to have something like “evenings.”  Besides my mother, who never left him, Versilov was in his little room every evening; I came too — and indeed I had nowhere else to go.  Of late Liza, too, had always been present, though she came a little later than the rest of us, and always sat in silence.  Tatyana Pavlovna came too, and, though more rarely, the doctor.  Somehow I suddenly began to get on with the doctor, and though we were never very friendly there were no further scenes between us.  I liked a sort of simple-mindedness which I detected in him, and the attachment he showed to our family, so that I made up my mind at last to forgive him his professional superciliousness, and, moreover, I taught him to wash his hands and clean his nails, even if he couldn’t put on clean linen.  I explained to him bluntly that this was not a sign of foppishness or of elegant artificiality, but that cleanliness is a natural element of the trade of a doctor, and I proved it to him.  Finally, Lukerya often came out of the kitchen and stood at the door listening to Makar Ivanovitch’s stories.  Versilov once called her in from the door, and asked her to sit down with us.  I liked his doing this, but from that time she gave up coming to the door.  Her sense of the fitting!

I quote one of his stories, selecting it simply because I remember it more completely.  It is a story about a merchant, and I imagine that such incidents occur by thousands in our cities and country towns, if only one knew how to look for them.  The reader may prefer to skip the story, especially as I quote it in the old man’s words.

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I’ll tell you now of a wonderful thing that happened in our town, Afimyevsk.  There was a merchant living there, his name was Skotoboynikov, Maxim Ivanovitch, and there was no one richer than he in all the countryside.  He built a cotton factory, and he kept some hundreds of hands, and he exalted himself exceedingly.  And everything, one may say, was at his beck and call, and even those in authority hindered him in nothing, and the archimandrite thanked him for his zeal: he gave freely of his substance to the monastery, and when the fit came upon him he sighed and groaned over his soul and was troubled not a little over the life to come.  A widower he was and childless; of his wife there were tales that he had beaten her from the first year of their marriage, and that from his youth up he had been apt to be too free with his hands.  Only all that had happened long ago; he had no desire to enter into the bonds of another marriage.  He had a weakness for strong drink, too, and when the time came he would run drunk about the town, naked and shouting; the town was of little account and was full of iniquity.  And when the time was ended he was moved to anger, and all that he thought fit was good, and all he bade them do was right.  He paid his people according to his pleasure, he brings out his reckoning beads, puts on his spectacles:  “How much for you, Foma?”  “I’ve had nothing since Christmas, Maxim Ivanovitch; thirty-nine roubles is my due.”  “Ough! what a sum of money!  That’s too much for you!  It’s more than you’re worth altogether; it would not be fitting for you; ten roubles off the beads and you take twenty-nine.”  And the man says nothing; no one dares open his lips; all are dumb before him.

“I know how much I ought to give him,” he says.  “It’s the only way to deal with the folk here.  The folk here are corrupt.  But for me they would have perished of hunger, all that are here.  The folk here are thieves again.  They covet all that they behold, there is no courage in them.  They are drunkards too; if you pay a man his money he’ll take it to the tavern and will sit in the tavern till he’s naked — not a thread on him, he will come out as bare as your hand.  They are mean wretches.  A man will sit on a stone facing the tavern and begin wailing:  ‘Oh mother, my dear mother, why did you bring me into the world a hopeless drunkard?  Better you had strangled me at birth, a hopeless drunkard like me!’  Can you call that a man?  That’s a beast, not a man.  One must first teach him better, and then give him money.  I know when to give it him.”

That’s how Maxim Ivanovitch used to talk of the folk of Afimyevsk.  Though he spoke evil of them, yet it was the truth.  The folk were froward and unstable.

There lived in the same town another merchant, and he died.  He was a young man and light-minded.  He came to ruin and lost all his fortune.  For the last year he struggled like a fish on the sand, and his life drew near its end.  He was on bad terms with Maxim Ivanovitch all the time, and was heavily in debt to him.  And he left behind a widow, still young, and five children.  And for a young widow to be left alone without a husband, like a swallow without a refuge, is a great ordeal, to say nothing of five little children, and nothing to give them to eat.  Their last possession, a wooden house, Maxim Ivanovitch had taken for a debt.  She set them all in a row at the church porch, the eldest a boy of seven, and the others all girls, one smaller than another, the biggest of them four, and the youngest babe at the breast.  When Mass was over Maxim Ivanovitch came out of church, and all the little ones, all in a row, knelt down before him — she had told them to do this beforehand — and they clasped their little hands before them, and she behind them, with the fifth child in her arms, bowed down to the earth before him in the sight of all the congregation:  “Maxim Ivanovitch, have mercy on the orphans!  Do not take away their last crust!  Do not drive them out of their home!”  And all who were present were moved to tears, so well had she taught them.  She thought that he would be proud before the people and would forgive the debt, and give back the house to the orphans.  But it did not fall out so.  Maxim Ivanovitch stood still.  “You’re a young widow,” said he, “you want a husband, you are not weeping over your orphans.  Your husband cursed me on his deathbed.”  And he passed by and did not give up the house.  “Why follow their foolishness (that is, connive at it)?  If I show her benevolence they’ll abuse me more than ever.  All that nonsense will be revived and the slander will only be confirmed.”

For there was a story that ten years before he had sent to that widow before she was married, and had offered her a great sum of money (she was very beautiful), forgetting that that sin is no less than defiling the temple of God.  But he did not succeed then in his evil design.  Of such abominations he had committed not a few, both in the town and all over the province, and indeed had gone beyond all bounds in such doings.

The mother wailed with her nurselings.  He turned the orphans out of the house, and not from spite only, for, indeed, a man sometimes does not know himself what drives him to carry out his will.  Well, people helped her at first and then she went out to work for hire.  But there was little to be earned, save at the factory; she scrubs floors, weeds in the garden, heats the bath-house, and she carries the babe in her arms, and the other four run about the streets in their little shirts.  When she made them kneel down at the church porch they still had little shoes, and little jackets of a sort, for they were merchant’s children but now they began to run barefoot.  A child soon gets through its little clothes we know.  Well, the children didn’t care: so long as there was sunshine they rejoiced, like birds, did not feel their ruin, and their voices were like little bells.  The widow thought “the winter will come and what shall I do with you then?  If God would only take you to Him before then!”  But she had not to wait for the winter.  About our parts the children have a cough, the whooping-cough, which goes from one to the other.  First of all the baby died, and after her the others fell ill, and all four little girls she buried that autumn one after the other; one of them, it’s true, was trampled by the horses in the street.  And what do you think?  She buried them and she wailed.  Though she had cursed them, yet when God took them she was sorry.  A mother’s heart!

All she had left was the eldest, the boy, and she hung over him trembling.  He was weak and tender, with a pretty little face like a girl’s, and she took him to the factory to the foreman who was his godfather, and she herself took a place as nurse.

But one day the boy was running in the yard, and Maxim Ivanovitch suddenly drove up with a pair of horses, and he had just been drinking; and the boy came rushing down the steps straight at him, and slipped and stumbled right against him as he was getting out of the droshky, and hit him with both hands in the stomach.  He seized the boy by the hair and yelled, “Whose boy is it?  A birch!  Thrash him before me, this minute.”  The boy was half-dead with fright.  They began thrashing him; he screamed.  “So you scream, too, do you?  Thrash him till he leaves off screaming.”  Whether they thrashed him hard or not, he didn’t give up screaming till he fainted altogether.  Then they left off thrashing him, they were frightened.  The boy lay senseless, hardly breathing.  They did say afterwards they had not beaten him much, but the boy was terrified.  Maxim Ivanovitch was frightened!  “Whose boy is he?” he asked.  When they told him, “Upon my word!  Take him to his mother.  Why is he hanging about the factory here?”  For two days afterwards he said nothing.  Then he asked again:  “How’s the boy?”  And it had gone hard with the boy.  He had fallen ill, and lay in the corner at his mother’s, and she had given up her job to look after him, and inflammation of the lungs had set in.

“Upon my word!” said Maxim Ivanovitch, “and for so little.  It’s not as though he were badly beaten.  They only gave him a bit of a fright.  I’ve given all the others just as sound a thrashing and never had this nonsense.”  He expected the mother to come and complain, and in his pride he said nothing.  As though that were likely!  The mother didn’t dare to complain.  And then he sent her fifteen roubles from himself, and a doctor; and not because he was afraid, but because he thought better of it.  And then soon his time came and he drank for three weeks.

Winter passed, and at the Holy Ascension of Our Lord, Maxim Ivanovitch asks again:  “And how’s that same boy?”  And all the winter he’d been silent and not asked.  And they told him, “He’s better and living with his mother, and she goes out by the day.”  And Maxim Ivanovitch went that day to the widow.  He didn’t go into the house, but called her out to the gate while he sat in his droshky.  “See now, honest widow,” says he.  “I want to be a real benefactor to your son, and to show him the utmost favour.  I will take him from here into my house.  And if the boy pleases me I’ll settle a decent fortune on him; and if I’m completely satisfied with him I may at my death make him the heir of my whole property as though he were my own son, on condition, however, that you do not come to the house except on great holidays.  If this suits you, bring the boy to-morrow morning, he can’t always be playing knuckle-bones.”  And saying this, he drove away, leaving the mother dazed.  People had overheard and said to her, “When the boy grows up he’ll reproach you himself for having deprived him of such good fortune.”  In the night she cried over him, but in the morning she took the child.  And the lad was more dead than alive.

Maxim Ivanovitch dressed him like a little gentleman, and hired a teacher for him, and sat him at his book from that hour forward; and it came to his never leaving him out of his sight, always keeping him with him.  The boy could scarcely begin to yawn before he’d shout at him, “Mind your book!  Study!  I want to make a man of you.”  And the boy was frail; ever since the time of that beating he’d had a cough.  “As though we didn’t live well in my house!” said Maxim Ivanovitch, wondering; “at his mother’s he used to run barefoot and gnaw crusts; why is he more puny than before?”  And the teacher said, “Every boy,” says he, “needs to play about, not to be studying all the time; he needs exercise,” and he explained it all to him reasonably.  Maxim Ivanovitch reflected.  “That’s true,” he said.  And that teacher’s name was Pyotr Stepanovitch; the Kingdom of Heaven be his!  He was almost like a crazy saint, he drank much, too much indeed, and that was the reason he had been turned out of so many places, and he lived in the town on alms one may say, but he was of great intelligence and strong in science.  “This is not the place for me,” he thought to himself, “I ought to be a professor in the university; here I’m buried in the mud, my very garments loathe me.”  Maxim Ivanovitch sits and shouts to the child, “Play!” and he scarcely dares to breathe before him.  And it came to such a pass that the boy could not hear the sound of his voice without trembling all over.  And Maxim Ivanovitch wondered more and more.  “He’s neither one thing nor the other; I picked him out of the mud, I dressed him in drap de dames with little boots of good material, he has embroidered shirts like a general’s son, why has he not grown attached to me?  Why is he as dumb as a little wolf?”  And though people had long given up being surprised at Maxim Ivanovitch, they began to be surprised at him again — the man was beside himself: he pestered the little child and would never let him alone.  “As sure as I’m alive I’ll root up his character.  His father cursed me on his deathbed after he’d taken the last sacrament.  It’s his father’s character.”  And yet he didn’t once use the birch to him (after that time he was afraid to).  He frightened him, that’s what he did.  He frightened him without a birch.