Poor Folk and Other Stories (3 page)

Yesterday I was happy – inordinately, impossibly happy! For once in your life, you stubborn girl, you have done as I asked. In the evening, at about eight, I woke up (you know, little mother, how I like to sleep for an hour or two after the completion of my duties). I had found a candle and some paper, and was sharpening my pen, when suddenly I happened to raise my eyes – and I will tell you that my heart fairly gave a leap! So you had guessed, after all, what it was my poor heart desired! I saw that one tiny corner of the curtain at your window had been pulled up and hitched onto the pot of balsams, precisely, oh, precisely in the way I had hinted you might do it when we met that time; I at once fancied that I saw your little face
at the window for a moment, that you were looking down at me from your little room, that you were thinking about me. And oh, my little dove, how disappointed I was when I simply could not discern your charming little face properly! There was a time, little mother, when I, too, had good eyesight. Age is no joke, my darling! Even now my eyes seem to swim all the time; you do a bit of work of an evening, write a bit, and the next morning your eyes are all red, with the tears streaming down your face so you're ashamed to be seen by strangers. But anyway, in my imagination your smile fairly shone, my little angel – your kind, affectionate little smile and in my heart I had exactly the same sensation as that time I kissed you, Varenka, do you remember, my little angel? Do you know, my little dove, I even fancied that I saw you wag your finger at me up there! Did you, you mischievous girl? Please give me a detailed account of all this in your letter without fail. Well, what do you think of our little arrangement concerning your curtain, Varenka? It's charming, don't you think? Whatever I am doing – sitting at work, going to bed or waking up, I know that you are up there thinking about me, remembering me, and are yourself well and in good spirits. If you've lowered the curtain, that means: ‘Good night, Makar Alekseyevich, it's bedtime!' If you've raised it, that means: ‘Good morning, Makar Alekseyevich, did you sleep well?' or ‘How are you today, Makar Alekseyevich? As for myself, thanks be to the Creator, I am well and happy!' Do you see, my little darling, what a skilful arrangement this is? You don't even need to write me letters! It's clever, isn't it? And what's more it was my idea. I'm rather good at these things, Varvara Alekseyevna, don't you agree?

I am able to report to you, Varvara Alekseyevna, my little mother, that last night, contrary to expectation, I slept in regular order and am accordingly most satisfied; it is always difficult to sleep in new lodgings one has just moved into; there is always something that is not quite right. I rose this morning as fresh as a daisy – happy and cheerful! What a wonderful morning it was, my dear. Our window had been opened; the sun was shining, the birds were chirruping, the scents of spring were wafting on the air, and all nature was wakening to life – well, and everything else was likewise in corresponding manner; everything was in order, spring-fashion. I even had some rather nice dreams today, and they were all about you, Varenka. I compared you to a bird of the air, made for the delight of human beings and as an ornament for nature. It suddenly
occurred to me, Varenka, that we human beings who live in care and trouble ought to envy the carefree and innocent happiness of the birds of the air – well, and so on, and so forth; i.e., I continued to make similar far-fetched comparisons. I have a book here, Varenka, which says the same sort of thing – all described in the greatest detail. I am writing this to you, little mother, because I have so many different dreams. And also because it's spring now: one's thoughts are pleasant, witty, fanciful, and one has such tender dreams; everything bears a rosy tinge. That's why I've written all this; though in fact I got it all out of my book. There the author displays the same desire in verses, and writes:

I have already written to you about the Teresa we have here – also a kind and reliable woman. And there was I getting so worried about our letters. How would they ever be delivered? And then, to our good fortune, the Lord sent us Teresa. She is a kind, meek, gentle woman. But our landlady is simply without mercy. She wears Teresa out with work as though she were an old rag.

My, what a slum I have landed in, Varvara Alekseyevna! Well, it's a lodging house! Before I used to live like a real hermit, you remember – peacefully, quietly; you could hear a pin drop. Here, on the other hand, there is nothing but noise, shouting, uproar! But then of course you don't know how everything is arranged here. Imagine, if you will, a long corridor, utterly dark and filthy. To your right there is a blank wall, and to your left nothing but doors and
doors, like numbered hotel rooms, stretching away in a row. Well, these are for rent, and behind each number there is one little room; people live in them in twos or in threes. Don't expect things to be tidy – it's a proper Noah's ark! However, the people seem all right: they're all educated, learned folk. There's a civil servant (he works in the literary department somewhere), a well-read man: he talks about Homer, Brambeus,
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and various other of those authors of theirs, he talks about everything – a clever man! There are two officers who are forever playing cards. There's a naval warrant-officer; and an Englishman who's a teacher. Just wait, and I shall amuse you, little mother; in my next letter I will describe them satirically, i.e. tell you what they are like in every detail. Our landlady is a very small and very dirty old woman – all day long she goes about in her slippers and dressing-gown, and all day long she shouts at Teresa. I live in the kitchen, or rather it would be more correct to put it this way: right next door to the kitchen here there is a room (I should, perhaps, tell you that our kitchen is clean, light and excellently appointed), a small room, a modest little corner… i.e. to put it even better, the kitchen has three windows, and I have a partition that runs parallel with the transverse wall, making as it were another room, a supernumerary one; it is spacious and comfortable, there is a window, and everything – all conveniences, in fact. Well, that is my little corner. So, little mother, don't you go away with the idea that I'm hiding something and that there's more to it than what I've described; don't say to yourself: ‘but it's a kitchen!' – it's perfectly true that I live in the kitchen, behind a partition, but that doesn't matter; I live apart from everyone, so-so, on the quiet. I have provided myself with a bed, a table, a chest of drawers and a couple of chairs, and have hung up an icon. It is true that there are better – possibly even much better – lodgings to be found; but convenience is what matters. And indeed I have done all this for the sake of my own convenience, and you must not think that it has been for any other purpose. Your window is opposite, across the yard; the yard is narrow, and one sees you passing – it is all more cheerful for a hapless fellow like myself, and it's cheaper, too. The lowliest room in our house here, with board, costs thirty-five paper rubles
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a month. That's more than I can afford! But my place costs me only seven paper rubles, plus five silver rubles for board: that makes a total of twenty-four and a half, whereas before I was paying around thirty, and had to go without a good many things accord
ingly; I didn't even drink tea regularly, yet now I save enough to be able to afford both tea and sugar. You know, my darling, it is rather embarrassing not to be able to afford to drink tea; the people here are all well-off, so one feels embarrassed. Varenka, one drinks tea for the sake of others, for form's sake, in order to keep up appearances; for myself I couldn't care less, I'm not fussy. Look at it like this: one needs something for ready cash, something for boots and something for clothes – do you think that leaves much over? It all has to come out of my salary. But I don't complain and am satisfied. It is sufficient. It has been sufficient for several years now; there is also the occasional perk. Well, goodbye, my little angel. I have bought a couple of pots of balsam and a potted geranium at that place – they didn't cost much. Are you fond of mignonette? They have mignonette, too. Do write and tell me; yes, you know, write as fully as you can. But don't get any false ideas, little mother, and don't worry about my having taken a room such as this. I say it again: it was convenience that made me do it, and convenience alone was what tempted me. After all, my dear, I am saving money, I am setting money aside; I have quite a tidy little sum. Don't get the notion that I am such a meek soul that a fly could knock me over. No, little mother, I'm a bright fellow, and I possess a strength of character fitting in one whose soul is resolute and untroubled. Goodbye, my little angel! I have written you nearly two pages, and I ought to have set off for work long ago. I kiss your fingers, little mother, and remain,

Do you know that you have at last forced me into a quarrel with
you? Upon my word, good Makar Alekseyevich, I find it hard to accept your presents. I know what they cost you, what deprivations and denials to yourself of the very necessities of life they involve. How many times have I told you that I need nothing, nothing at all; that I have not the wherewithal to repay you for the good deeds with which you have showered me to date. And why these pots of flowers? I mean, the balsams are all right, but why the geranium? I have only to utter one unguarded word, as for example about that geranium, and immediately you go out and buy it; yet I am sure it was expensive, was it not? What wonderful flowers it has! Crimson, like little crosses. Wherever did you get such a pretty geranium? I have put it in the centre of the window, where it may best be seen; I shall put a bench on the floor and place the rest of the flowers on the bench; just wait until I, too, grow rich! Fedora dotes upon them; our room is now like paradise – so clean and bright! But listen – why sweets as well? Indeed, I guessed at once from your letter that all was not quite right with you – all those bits about paradise, and spring, and scents wafting, and birds chirping. What's this, I thought, it's poetry, isn't it? It's true, you know: all your letter lacks is a little poetry, Makar Alekseyevich! All the rest is there: the tender feelings, the rosy-tinted dreams! About the curtain – Inever gave it any thought; I expect it must have got hitched up of itself when I was moving the pots of flowers; well I never!

Oh, Makar Alekseyevich! Whatever you say, however much you calculate your profits in order to deceive me, in order to prove that they are all spent on you alone, you will not deceive me and will not succeed in concealing anything from me. You are obviously depriving yourself of necessities for my sake. Whatever were you thinking of, for example, when you rented such a room? I mean, others are disturbing you, harrassing you; you're cramped and uncomfortable. You like seclusion, yet here you have heaven knows what all around you! Yet you could live much better than this, judging by your salary. Fedora says the way you used to live was better by far. Have you really spent all your life like this, in solitude, in hardship and joylessness, without a friendly word, renting corners from strangers? Oh, my good friend, how sorry I am for you! At least look after yourself, Makar Alekseyevich! You say that your eyes are growing weak – then do not write by candlelight; why write? I am sure that your devotion to your duty is already well known to your superiors.

Once again I beg you: please do not spend so much money on me. I know that you love me, but you are not well off… I also rose this morning in a cheerful frame of mind. I was so pleased; Fedora has been working for ages, and has managed to get me some work, too. I was so happy; I just slipped out to buy the silk, and then settled down to work. All morning my mood was as light as air, I felt in such good spirits! But now all my thoughts are black and sad again; my heart has done nothing but pine away.

Oh, what is to become of me, what will be my fate? The worst of it is that I am in a state of such uncertainty, that I have no future, that I cannot even guess what will become of me. I am afraid to look back, too. There is such misery there that its mere recollection is enough to make my heart tear at the seams.

Darkness is falling. I must be getting on with my work. There is much I should like to have written to you about, but I have no time – the work must be completed by a specified date. I must hurry. Of course I agree that letters are a good thing; they make life less tedious. But why do you never come to see us? Why, Makar Alekseyevich? It's not far for you to come, now, and you must occasionally have some free time. Do come and see us! I saw your Teresa. She looks so sickly; I felt sorry for her and gave her twenty copecks. Oh yes, I nearly forgot: you must write to me as fully as possible about all the details of your daily life and surroundings. What sort of people do you have around you, and do you get along with them? I very much want to know about all that. See that you do it, now, and write to me. Today I will hitch up a corner of the curtain intentionally. Go to bed a bit earlier; last night I saw your candle was lit until midnight. Well, goodbye. Today I feel nothing but anguish, tedium and sadness. It is simply that kind of a day! Goodbye.