Throughout his illness I scarcely ever left his room, but waited
on him hand and foot. Often he could not sleep for several nights
at a time. Often, too, he was unconscious, or else in a delirium;
and at such times he would talk of all sorts of things--of his
work, of his books, of his father, of myself. At such times I
learned much which I had not hitherto known or divined about his
affairs. During the early part of his illness everyone in the
house looked askance at me, and Anna Thedorovna would nod her
head in a meaning manner; but, I always looked them straight in
the face, and gradually they ceased to take any notice of my
concern for Pokrovski. At all events my mother ceased to trouble
her head about it.
Sometimes Pokrovski would know who I was, but not often, for more
usually he was unconscious. Sometimes, too, he would talk all
night with some unknown person, in dim, mysterious language that
caused his gasping voice to echo hoarsely through the narrow room
as through a sepulchre; and at such times, I found the situation
a strange one. During his last night he was especially
lightheaded, for then he was in terrible agony, and kept rambling
in his speech until my soul was torn with pity. Everyone in the
house was alarmed, and Anna Thedorovna fell to praying that God
might soon take him. When the doctor had been summoned, the
verdict was that the patient would die with the morning.
That night the elder Pokrovski spent in the corridor, at the door
of his son's room. Though given a mattress to lie upon, he spent
his time in running in and out of the apartment. So broken with
grief was he that he presented a dreadful spectacle, and appeared
to have lost both perception and feeling. His head trembled with
agony, and his body quivered from head to foot as at times he
murmured to himself something which he appeared to be debating.
Every moment I expected to see him go out of his mind. Just
before dawn he succumbed to the stress of mental agony, and fell
asleep on his mattress like a man who has been beaten; but by
eight o'clock the son was at the point of death, and I ran to
wake the father. The dying man was quite conscious, and bid us
all farewell. Somehow I could not weep, though my heart seemed to
be breaking.
The last moments were the most harassing and heartbreaking of
all. For some time past Pokrovski had been asking for something
with his failing tongue, but I had been unable to distinguish his
words. Yet my heart had been bursting with grief. Then for an
hour he had lain quieter, except that he had looked sadly in my
direction, and striven to make some sign with his death-cold
hands. At last he again essayed his piteous request in a hoarse,
deep voice, but the words issued in so many inarticulate sounds,
and once more I failed to divine his meaning. By turns I brought
each member of the household to his bedside, and gave him
something to drink, but he only shook his head sorrowfully.
Finally, I understood what it was he wanted. He was asking me to
draw aside the curtain from the window, and to open the
casements. Probably he wished to take his last look at the
daylight and the sun and all God's world. I pulled back the
curtain, but the opening day was as dull and mournful--looking as
though it had been the fast-flickering life of the poor invalid.
Of sunshine there was none. Clouds overlaid the sky as with a
shroud of mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening
under a fine drizzle which was beating against the window-panes,
and streaking their dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold,
dirty moisture. Only a scanty modicum of daylight entered to war
with the trembling rays of the ikon lamp. The dying man threw me
a wistful look, and nodded. The next moment he had passed away.
The funeral was arranged for by Anna Thedorovna. A plain coffin
was bought, and a broken-down hearse hired; while, as security
for this outlay, she seized the dead man's books and other
articles. Nevertheless, the old man disputed the books with her,
and, raising an uproar, carried off as many of them as he could--
stuffing his pockets full, and even filling his hat. Indeed, he
spent the next three days with them thus, and refused to let them
leave his sight even when it was time for him to go to church.
Throughout he acted like a man bereft of sense and memory. With
quaint assiduity he busied himself about the bier--now
straightening the candlestick on the dead man's breast, now
snuffing and lighting the other candles. Clearly his thoughts
were powerless to remain long fixed on any subject. Neither my
mother nor Anna Thedorovna were present at the requiem, for the
former was ill and the latter was at loggerheads with the old
man. Only myself and the father were there. During the service a
sort of panic, a sort of premonition of the future, came over me,
and I could hardly hold myself upright. At length the coffin had
received its burden and was screwed down; after which the bearers
placed it upon a bier, and set out. I accompanied the cortege
only to the end of the street. Here the driver broke into a trot,
and the old man started to run behind the hearse--sobbing loudly,
but with the motion of his running ever and anon causing the sobs
to quaver and become broken off. Next he lost his hat, the poor
old fellow, yet would not stop to pick it up, even though the
rain was beating upon his head, and a wind was rising and the
sleet kept stinging and lashing his face. It seemed as though he
were impervious to the cruel elements as he ran from one side of
the hearse to the other--the skirts of his old greatcoat flapping
about him like a pair of wings. From every pocket of the garment
protruded books, while in his hand he carried a specially large
volume, which he hugged closely to his breast. The passers-by
uncovered their heads and crossed themselves as the cortege
passed, and some of them, having done so, remained staring in
amazement at the poor old man. Every now and then a book would
slip from one of his pockets and fall into the mud; whereupon
somebody, stopping him, would direct his attention to his loss,
and he would stop, pick up the book, and again set off in pursuit
of the hearse. At the corner of the street he was joined by a
ragged old woman; until at length the hearse turned a corner, and
became hidden from my eyes. Then I went home, and threw myself,
in a transport of grief, upon my mother's breast--clasping her in
my arms, kissing her amid a storm of sobs and tears, and clinging
to her form as though in my embraces I were holding my last
friend on earth, that I might preserve her from death. Yet
already death was standing over her....
June 11th
How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar
Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was
everything! And I had not seen anything green for such a long
time! During my illness I used to think that I should never get
better, that I was certainly going to die. Judge, then, how I
felt yesterday! True, I may have seemed to you a little sad, and
you must not be angry with me for that. Happy and light-hearted
though I was, there were moments, even at the height of my
felicity, when, for some unknown reason, depression came sweeping
over my soul. I kept weeping about trifles, yet could not say why
I was grieved. The truth is that I am unwell--so much so, that I
look at everything from the gloomy point of view. The pale, clear
sky, the setting sun, the evening stillness--ah, somehow I felt
disposed to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart seemed
to be over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it.
But why should I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart
to express itself; still more difficult for it to forego self-
expression. Yet possibly you may understand me. Tears and
laughter! . . . How good you are, Makar Alexievitch! Yesterday
you looked into my eyes as though you could read in them all that
I was feeling--as though you were rejoicing at my happiness.
Whether it were a group of shrubs or an alleyway or a vista of
water that we were passing, you would halt before me, and stand
gazing at my face as though you were showing me possessions of
your own. It told me how kind is your nature, and I love you for
it. Today I am again unwell, for yesterday I wetted my feet, and
took a chill. Thedora also is unwell; both of us are ailing. Do
not forget me. Come and see me as often as you can.--Your own,
BARBARA ALEXIEVNA.
June 12th.
MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA--I had supposed that you meant to
describe our doings of the other day in verse; yet from you there
has arrived only a single sheet of writing. Nevertheless, I must
say that, little though you have put into your letter, that
little is not expressed with rare beauty and grace. Nature, your
descriptions of rural scenes, your analysis of your own feelings-
-the whole is beautifully written. Alas, I have no such talent!
Though I may fill a score of pages, nothing comes of it-- I might
as well never have put pen to paper. Yes, this I know from
experience.
You say, my darling, that I am kind and good, that I could not
harm my fellow-men, that I have power to comprehend the goodness
of God (as expressed in nature's handiwork), and so on. It may
all be so, my dearest one--it may all be exactly as you say.
Indeed, I think that you are right. But if so, the reason is that
when one reads such a letter as you have just sent me, one's
heart involuntarily softens, and affords entrance to thoughts of
a graver and weightier order. Listen, my darling; I have
something to tell you, my beloved one.
I will begin from the time when I was seventeen years old and
first entered the service--though I shall soon have completed my
thirtieth year of official activity. I may say that at first I
was much pleased with my new uniform; and, as I grew older, I
grew in mind, and fell to studying my fellow-men. Likewise I may
say that I lived an upright life--so much so that at last I
incurred persecution. This you may not believe, but it is true.
To think that men so cruel should exist! For though, dearest one,
I am dull and of no account, I have feelings like everyone else.
Consequently, would you believe it, Barbara, when I tell you what
these cruel fellows did to me? I feel ashamed to tell it you--and
all because I was of a quiet, peaceful, good-natured disposition!
Things began with "this or that, Makar Alexievitch, is your
fault." Then it went on to "I need hardly say that the fault is
wholly Makar Alexievitch's." Finally it became "OF COURSE Makar
Alexievitch is to blame." Do you see the sequence of things, my
darling? Every mistake was attributed to me, until "Makar
Alexievitch" became a byword in our department. Also, while
making of me a proverb, these fellows could not give me a smile
or a civil word. They found fault with my boots, with my uniform,
with my hair, with my figure. None of these things were to their
taste: everything had to be changed. And so it has been from that
day to this. True, I have now grown used to it, for I can grow
accustomed to anything (being, as you know, a man of peaceable
disposition, like all men of small stature)-- yet why should
these things be? Whom have I harmed? Whom have I ever supplanted?
Whom have I ever traduced to his superiors? No, the fault is that
more than once I have asked for an increase of salary. But have I
ever CABALLED for it? No, you would be wrong in thinking so, my
dearest one. HOW could I ever have done so? You yourself have had
many opportunities of seeing how incapable I am of deceit or
chicanery.
Why then, should this have fallen to my lot? . . . However, since
you think me worthy of respect, my darling, I do not care, for
you are far and away the best person in the world. . . . What do
you consider to be the greatest social virtue? In private
conversation Evstafi Ivanovitch once told me that the greatest
social virtue might be considered to be an ability to get money
to spend. Also, my comrades used jestingly (yes, I know only
jestingly) to propound the ethical maxim that a man ought never
to let himself become a burden upon anyone. Well, I am a burden
upon no one. It is my own crust of bread that I eat; and though
that crust is but a poor one, and sometimes actually a maggoty
one, it has at least been EARNED, and therefore, is being put to
a right and lawful use. What therefore, ought I to do? I know
that I can earn but little by my labours as a copyist; yet even
of that little I am proud, for it has entailed WORK, and has
wrung sweat from my brow. What harm is there in being a copyist?
"He is only an amanuensis," people say of me. But what is there
so disgraceful in that? My writing is at least legible, neat, and
pleasant to look upon--and his Excellency is satisfied with it.
Indeed, I transcribe many important documents. At the same time,
I know that my writing lacks STYLE, which is why I have never
risen in the service. Even to you, my dear one, I write simply
and without tricks, but just as a thought may happen to enter my
head. Yes, I know all this; but if everyone were to become a fine
writer, who would there be left to act as copyists? . . .
Whatsoever questions I may put to you in my letters, dearest, I
pray you to answer them. I am sure that you need me, that I can
be of use to you; and, since that is so, I must not allow myself
to be distracted by any trifle. Even if I be likened to a rat, I
do not care, provided that that particular rat be wanted by you,
and be of use in the world, and be retained in its position, and
receive its reward. But what a rat it is!
Enough of this, dearest one. I ought not to have spoken of it,
but I lost my temper. Still, it is pleasant to speak the truth
sometimes. Goodbye, my own, my darling, my sweet little
comforter! I will come to you soon--yes, I will certainly come to
you. Until I do so, do not fret yourself. With me I shall be
bringing a book. Once more goodbye.--Your heartfelt well-wisher,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
June 20th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I am writing to you post-haste--I
am hurrying my utmost to get my work finished in time. What do
you suppose is the reason for this? It is because an opportunity
has occurred for you to make a splendid purchase. Thedora tells
me that a retired civil servant of her acquaintance has a uniform
to sell--one cut to regulation pattern and in good repair, as
well as likely to go very cheap. Now, DO not tell me that you
have not got the money, for I know from your own lips that you
HAVE. Use that money, I pray you, and do not hoard it. See what
terrible garments you walk about in! They are shameful--they are
patched all over! In fact, you have nothing new whatever. That
this is so, I know for certain, and I care not WHAT you tell me
about it. So listen to me for once, and buy this uniform. Do it
for MY sake. Do it to show that you really love me.
You have sent me some linen as a gift. But listen to me, Makar
Alexievitch. You are simply ruining yourself. Is it a jest that
you should spend so much money, such a terrible amount of money,
upon me? How you love to play the spendthrift! I tell you that I
do not need it, that such expenditure is unnecessary. I know, I
am CERTAIN, that you love me-- therefore, it is useless to remind
me of the fact with gifts. Nor do I like receiving them, since I
know how much they must have cost you. No-- put your money to a
better use. I beg, I beseech of you, to do so. Also, you ask me
to send you a continuation of my memoirs--to conclude them. But I
know not how I contrived even to write as much of them as I did;
and now I have not the strength to write further of my past, nor
the desire to give it a single thought. Such recollections are
terrible to me. Most difficult of all is it for me to speak of my
poor mother, who left her destitute daughter a prey to villains.
My heart runs blood whenever I think of it; it is so fresh in my
memory that I cannot dismiss it from my thoughts, nor rest for
its insistence, although a year has now elapsed since the events
took place. But all this you know.
Also, I have told you what Anna Thedorovna is now intending. She
accuses me of ingratitude, and denies the accusations made
against herself with regard to Monsieur Bwikov. Also, she keeps
sending for me, and telling me that I have taken to evil courses,
but that if I will return to her, she will smooth over matters
with Bwikov, and force him to confess his fault. Also, she says
that he desires to give me a dowry. Away with them all! I am
quite happy here with you and good Thedora, whose devotion to me
reminds me of my old nurse, long since dead. Distant kinsman
though you may be, I pray you always to defend my honour. Other
people I do not wish to know, and would gladly forget if I could.
. . . What are they wanting with me now? Thedora declares it all
to be a trick, and says that in time they will leave me alone.
God grant it be so!
B. D.
June 21st.
MY OWN, MY DARLING,--I wish to write to you, yet know not where
to begin. Things are as strange as though we were actually living
together. Also I would add that never in my life have I passed
such happy days as I am spending at present. 'Tis as though God
had blessed me with a home and a family of my own! Yes, you are
my little daughter, beloved. But why mention the four sorry
roubles that I sent you? You needed them; I know that from
Thedora herself, and it will always be a particular pleasure to
me to gratify you in anything. It will always be my one happiness
in life. Pray, therefore, leave me that happiness, and do not
seek to cross me in it. Things are not as you suppose. I have now
reached the sunshine since, in the first place, I am living so
close to you as almost to be with you (which is a great
consolation to my mind), while, in the second place, a neighbour
of mine named Rataziaev (the retired official who gives the
literary parties) has today invited me to tea. This evening,
therefore, there will be a gathering at which we shall discuss
literature! Think of that my darling! Well, goodbye now. I have
written this without any definite aim in my mind, but solely to
assure you of my welfare. Through Theresa I have received your
message that you need an embroidered cloak to wear, so I will go
and purchase one. Yes, tomorrow I mean to purchase that
embroidered cloak, and so give myself the pleasure of having
satisfied one of your wants. I know where to go for such a
garment. For the time being I remain your sincere friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
