September 5th.
MY BELOVED BARBARA,--Today I have undergone a variety of experiences. In
the first place, my head has been aching, and towards evening I went out
to get a breath of fresh air along the Fontanka Canal. The weather was
dull and damp, and even by six o’clock, darkness had begun to set in.
True, rain was not actually falling, but only a mist like rain, while
the sky was streaked with masses of trailing cloud. Crowds of people
were hurrying along Naberezhnaia Street, with faces that looked strange
and dejected. There were drunken peasants; snub-nosed old harridans in
slippers; bareheaded artisans; cab drivers; every species of beggar;
boys; a locksmith’s apprentice in a striped smock, with lean, emaciated
features which seemed to have been washed in rancid oil; an ex-soldier
who was offering penknives and copper rings for sale; and so on, and
so on. It was the hour when one would expect to meet no other folk than
these. And what a quantity of boats there were on the canal. It made
one wonder how they could all find room there. On every bridge were
old women selling damp gingerbread or withered apples, and every woman
looked as damp and dirty as her wares. In short, the Fontanka is a
saddening spot for a walk, for there is wet granite under one’s feet,
and tall, dingy buildings on either side of one, and wet mist below and
wet mist above. Yes, all was dark and gloomy there this evening.
By the time I had returned to Gorokhovaia Street darkness had fallen
and the lamps had been lit. However, I did not linger long in that
particular spot, for Gorokhovaia Street is too noisy a place. But
what sumptuous shops and stores it contains! Everything sparkles and
glitters, and the windows are full of nothing but bright colours and
materials and hats of different shapes. One might think that they were
decked merely for display; but no,--people buy these things, and give
them to their wives! Yes, it IS a sumptuous place. Hordes of German
hucksters are there, as well as quite respectable traders. And the
quantities of carriages which pass along the street! One marvels that
the pavement can support so many splendid vehicles, with windows like
crystal, linings made of silk and velvet, and lacqueys dressed in
epaulets and wearing swords! Into some of them I glanced, and saw that
they contained ladies of various ages. Perhaps they were princesses and
countesses! Probably at that hour such folk would be hastening to balls
and other gatherings. In fact, it was interesting to be able to look so
closely at a princess or a great lady. They were all very fine. At
all events, I had never before seen such persons as I beheld in those
carriages....
Then I thought of you. Ah, my own, my darling, it is often that I think
of you and feel my heart sink. How is it that YOU are so unfortunate,
Barbara? How is it that YOU are so much worse off than other people? In
my eyes you are kind-hearted, beautiful, and clever--why, then, has
such an evil fate fallen to your lot? How comes it that you are left
desolate--you, so good a human being! While to others happiness comes
without an invitation at all? Yes, I know--I know it well--that I ought
not to say it, for to do so savours of free-thought; but why should that
raven, Fate, croak out upon the fortunes of one person while she is yet
in her mother’s womb, while another person it permits to go forth in
happiness from the home which has reared her? To even an idiot of
an Ivanushka such happiness is sometimes granted. “You, you fool
Ivanushka,” says Fate, “shall succeed to your grandfather’s money-bags,
and eat, drink, and be merry; whereas YOU (such and such another one)
shall do no more than lick the dish, since that is all that you are
good for.” Yes, I know that it is wrong to hold such opinions, but
involuntarily the sin of so doing grows upon one’s soul. Nevertheless,
it is you, my darling, who ought to be riding in one of those carriages.
Generals would have come seeking your favour, and, instead of being
clad in a humble cotton dress, you would have been walking in silken
and golden attire. Then you would not have been thin and wan as now,
but fresh and plump and rosy-cheeked as a figure on a sugar-cake. Then
should I too have been happy--happy if only I could look at your lighted
windows from the street, and watch your shadow--happy if only I could
think that you were well and happy, my sweet little bird! Yet how are
things in reality? Not only have evil folk brought you to ruin, but
there comes also an old rascal of a libertine to insult you! Just
because he struts about in a frockcoat, and can ogle you through a
gold-mounted lorgnette, the brute thinks that everything will fall into
his hands--that you are bound to listen to his insulting condescension!
Out upon him! But why is this? It is because you are an orphan, it is
because you are unprotected, it is because you have no powerful friend
to afford you the decent support which is your due. WHAT do such facts
matter to a man or to men to whom the insulting of an orphan is an
offence allowed? Such fellows are not men at all, but mere vermin, no
matter what they think themselves to be. Of that I am certain. Why,
an organ-grinder whom I met in Gorokhovaia Street would inspire more
respect than they do, for at least he walks about all day, and suffers
hunger--at least he looks for a stray, superfluous groat to earn him
subsistence, and is, therefore, a true gentleman, in that he supports
himself. To beg alms he would be ashamed; and, moreover, he works for
the benefit of mankind just as does a factory machine. “So far as in me
lies,” says he, “I will give you pleasure.” True, he is a pauper, and
nothing but a pauper; but, at least he is an HONOURABLE pauper. Though
tired and hungry, he still goes on working--working in his own peculiar
fashion, yet still doing honest labour. Yes, many a decent fellow whose
labour may be disproportionate to its utility pulls the forelock to no
one, and begs his bread of no one. I myself resemble that organ-grinder.
That is to say, though not exactly he, I resemble him in this respect,
that I work according to my capabilities, and so far as in me lies. More
could be asked of no one; nor ought I to be adjudged to do more.
Apropos of the organ-grinder, I may tell you, dearest, that today
I experienced a double misfortune. As I was looking at the grinder,
certain thoughts entered my head and I stood wrapped in a reverie. Some
cabmen also had halted at the spot, as well as a young girl, with a
yet smaller girl who was dressed in rags and tatters. These people had
halted there to listen to the organ-grinder, who was playing in front
of some one’s windows. Next, I caught sight of a little urchin of about
ten--a boy who would have been good-looking but for the fact that his
face was pinched and sickly. Almost barefooted, and clad only in a
shirt, he was standing agape to listen to the music--a pitiful childish
figure. Nearer to the grinder a few more urchins were dancing, but
in the case of this lad his hands and feet looked numbed, and he kept
biting the end of his sleeve and shivering. Also, I noticed that in his
hands he had a paper of some sort. Presently a gentleman came by, and
tossed the grinder a small coin, which fell straight into a box adorned
with a representation of a Frenchman and some ladies. The instant he
heard the rattle of the coin, the boy started, looked timidly round, and
evidently made up his mind that I had thrown the money; whereupon, he
ran to me with his little hands all shaking, and said in a tremulous
voice as he proffered me his paper: “Pl-please sign this.” I turned over
the paper, and saw that there was written on it what is usual under
such circumstances. “Kind friends I am a sick mother with three hungry
children. Pray help me. Though soon I shall be dead, yet, if you will
not forget my little ones in this world, neither will I forget you in
the world that is to come.” The thing seemed clear enough; it was a
matter of life and death. Yet what was I to give the lad? Well, I gave
him nothing. But my heart ached for him. I am certain that, shivering
with cold though he was, and perhaps hungry, the poor lad was not lying.
No, no, he was not lying. The shameful point is that so many mothers
take no care of their children, but send them out, half-clad, into the
cold. Perhaps this lad’s mother also was a feckless old woman, and
devoid of character? Or perhaps she had no one to work for her, but was
forced to sit with her legs crossed--a veritable invalid? Or perhaps she
was just an old rogue who was in the habit of sending out pinched and
hungry boys to deceive the public? What would such a boy learn from
begging letters? His heart would soon be rendered callous, for, as he
ran about begging, people would pass him by and give him nothing. Yes,
their hearts would be as stone, and their replies rough and harsh. “Away
with you!” they would say. “You are seeking but to trick us.” He would
hear that from every one, and his heart would grow hard, and he would
shiver in vain with the cold, like some poor little fledgling that has
fallen out of the nest. His hands and feet would be freezing, and his
breath coming with difficulty; until, look you, he would begin to cough,
and disease, like an unclean parasite, would worm its way into his
breast until death itself had overtaken him--overtaken him in some
foetid corner whence there was no chance of escape. Yes, that is what
his life would become. There are many such cases. Ah, Barbara, it is
hard to hear “For Christ’s sake!” and yet pass the suppliant by and give
nothing, or say merely: “May the Lord give unto you!” Of course, SOME
supplications mean nothing (for supplications differ greatly in
character). Occasionally supplications are long, drawn-out and drawling,
stereotyped and mechanical--they are purely begging supplications.
Requests of this kind it is less hard to refuse, for they are purely
professional and of long standing. “The beggar is overdoing it,” one
thinks to oneself. “He knows the trick too well.” But there are other
supplications which voice a strange, hoarse, unaccustomed note, like
that today when I took the poor boy’s paper. He had been standing by the
kerbstone without speaking to anybody--save that at last to myself he
said, “For the love of Christ give me a groat!” in a voice so hoarse and
broken that I started, and felt a queer sensation in my heart, although
I did not give him a groat. Indeed, I had not a groat on me. Rich folk
dislike hearing poor people complain of their poverty. “They disturb
us,” they say, “and are impertinent as well. Why should poverty be so
impertinent? Why should its hungry moans prevent us from sleeping?”
To tell you the truth, my darling, I have written the foregoing not
merely to relieve my feelings, but, also, still more, to give you an
example of the excellent style in which I can write. You yourself will
recognise that my style was formed long ago, but of late such fits of
despondency have seized upon me that my style has begun to correspond
to my feelings; and though I know that such correspondence gains one
little, it at least renders one a certain justice. For not unfrequently
it happens that, for some reason or another, one feels abased, and
inclined to value oneself at nothing, and to account oneself lower than
a dishclout; but this merely arises from the fact that at the time one
is feeling harassed and depressed, like the poor boy who today asked of
me alms. Let me tell you an allegory, dearest, and do you hearken to it.
Often, as I hasten to the office in the morning, I look around me at
the city--I watch it awaking, getting out of bed, lighting its fires,
cooking its breakfast, and becoming vocal; and at the sight, I begin to
feel smaller, as though some one had dealt me a rap on my inquisitive
nose. Yes, at such times I slink along with a sense of utter humiliation
in my heart. For one would have but to see what is passing within those
great, black, grimy houses of the capital, and to penetrate within their
walls, for one at once to realise what good reason there is for self-
depredation and heart-searching. Of course, you will note that I am
speaking figuratively rather than literally. Let us look at what is
passing within those houses. In some dingy corner, perhaps, in some damp
kennel which is supposed to be a room, an artisan has just awakened from
sleep. All night he has dreamt--IF such an insignificant fellow is
capable of dreaming?--about the shoes which last night he mechanically
cut out. He is a master-shoemaker, you see, and therefore able to think
of nothing but his one subject of interest. Nearby are some squalling
children and a hungry wife. Nor is he the only man that has to greet the
day in this fashion. Indeed, the incident would be nothing--it would not
be worth writing about, save for another circumstance. In that same
house ANOTHER person--a person of great wealth--may also have been
dreaming of shoes; but, of shoes of a very different pattern and fashion
(in a manner of speaking, if you understand my metaphor, we are all of
us shoemakers). This, again, would be nothing, were it not that the rich
person has no one to whisper in his ear: “Why dost thou think of such
things? Why dost thou think of thyself alone, and live only for thyself-
-thou who art not a shoemaker? THY children are not ailing. THY wife is
not hungry. Look around thee. Can’st thou not find a subject more
fitting for thy thoughts than thy shoes?” That is what I want to say to
you in allegorical language, Barbara. Maybe it savours a little of free-
thought, dearest; but, such ideas WILL keep arising in my mind and
finding utterance in impetuous speech. Why, therefore, should one not
value oneself at a groat as one listens in fear and trembling to the
roar and turmoil of the city? Maybe you think that I am exaggerating
things--that this is a mere whim of mine, or that I am quoting from a
book? No, no, Barbara. You may rest assured that it is not so.
Exaggeration I abhor, with whims I have nothing to do, and of quotation
I am guiltless.
I arrived home today in a melancholy mood. Sitting down to the table, I
had warmed myself some tea, and was about to drink a second glass of it,
when there entered Gorshkov, the poor lodger. Already, this morning,
I had noticed that he was hovering around the other lodgers, and also
seeming to want to speak to myself. In passing I may say that his
circumstances are infinitely worse than my own; for, only think of it,
he has a wife and children! Indeed, if I were he, I do not know what
I should do. Well, he entered my room, and bowed to me with the pus
standing, as usual, in drops on his eyelashes, his feet shuffling about,
and his tongue unable, at first, to articulate a word. I motioned him to
a chair (it was a dilapidated enough one, but I had no other), and asked
him to have a glass of tea. To this he demurred--for quite a long time
he demurred, but at length he accepted the offer. Next, he was for
drinking the tea without sugar, and renewed his excuses, but upon
the sugar I insisted. After long resistance and many refusals, he DID
consent to take some, but only the smallest possible lump; after which,
he assured me that his tea was perfectly sweet. To what depths of
humility can poverty reduce a man! “Well, what is it, my good sir?” I
inquired of him; whereupon he replied: “It is this, Makar Alexievitch.
You have once before been my benefactor. Pray again show me the charity
of God, and assist my unfortunate family. My wife and children have
nothing to eat. To think that a father should have to say this!” I was
about to speak again when he interrupted me. “You see,” he continued,
“I am afraid of the other lodgers here. That is to say, I am not so much
afraid of, as ashamed to address them, for they are a proud, conceited
lot of men. Nor would I have troubled even you, my friend and former
benefactor, were it not that I know that you yourself have experienced
misfortune and are in debt; wherefore, I have ventured to come and make
this request of you, in that I know you not only to be kind-hearted, but
also to be in need, and for that reason the more likely to sympathise
with me in my distress.” To this he added an apology for his awkwardness
and presumption. I replied that, glad though I should have been to
serve him, I had nothing, absolutely nothing, at my disposal. “Ah, Makar
Alexievitch,” he went on, “surely it is not much that I am asking of
you? My-my wife and children are starving. C-could you not afford me
just a grivennik?” At that my heart contracted, “How these people put me
to shame!” thought I. But I had only twenty kopecks left, and upon them
I had been counting for meeting my most pressing requirements. “No, good
sir, I cannot,” said I. “Well, what you will,” he persisted. “Perhaps
ten kopecks?” Well I got out my cash-box, and gave him the twenty. It
was a good deed. To think that such poverty should exist! Then I had
some further talk with him. “How is it,” I asked him, “that, though you
are in such straits, you have hired a room at five roubles?” He replied
that though, when he engaged the room six months ago, he paid three
months’ rent in advance, his affairs had subsequently turned out badly,
and never righted themselves since. You see, Barbara, he was sued at
law by a merchant who had defrauded the Treasury in the matter of a
contract. When the fraud was discovered the merchant was prosecuted, but
the transactions in which he had engaged involved Gorshkov, although
the latter had been guilty only of negligence, want of prudence, and
culpable indifference to the Treasury’s interests. True, the affair had
taken place some years ago, but various obstacles had since combined
to thwart Gorshkov. “Of the disgrace put upon me,” said he to me, “I am
innocent. True, I to a certain extent disobeyed orders, but never did
I commit theft or embezzlement.” Nevertheless the affair lost him
his character. He was dismissed the service, and though not adjudged
capitally guilty, has been unable since to recover from the merchant a
large sum of money which is his by right, as spared to him (Gorshkov)
by the legal tribunal. True, the tribunal in question did not altogether
believe in Gorshkov, but I do so. The matter is of a nature so complex
and crooked that probably a hundred years would be insufficient to
unravel it; and, though it has now to a certain extent been cleared up,
the merchant still holds the key to the situation. Personally I side
with Gorshkov, and am very sorry for him. Though lacking a post of any
kind, he still refuses to despair, though his resources are completely
exhausted. Yes, it is a tangled affair, and meanwhile he must live, for,
unfortunately, another child which has been born to him has entailed
upon the family fresh expenses. Also, another of his children recently
fell ill and died--which meant yet further expense. Lastly, not only is
his wife in bad health, but he himself is suffering from a complaint of
long standing. In short, he has had a very great deal to undergo. Yet he
declares that daily he expects a favourable issue to his affair--that he
has no doubt of it whatever. I am terribly sorry for him, and said what
I could to give him comfort, for he is a man who has been much bullied
and misled. He had come to me for protection from his troubles, so I did
my best to soothe him. Now, goodbye, my darling. May Christ watch over
you and preserve your health. Dearest one, even to think of you is like
medicine to my ailing soul. Though I suffer for you, I at least suffer
gladly.--Your true friend,