I have never since experienced such a feeling of compassion towards men
and of aversion towards myself, as I felt in Liapin's house. I was now
filled with the desire to carry out the scheme I had already begun and
to do good to the men whom I had met.
And, strange to say, though it might seem that to do good and to give
money to those in want of it was a good deed, and ought to dispose men
to universal love, it turned out quite the reverse; calling up in me
bitter feelings and disposition to censure them. Even during our first
tour a scene occurred similar to that in Liapin's house; but it failed
to produce again the same effect and created a very different
impression.
It began with my finding in one of the lodgings a miserable person who
required immediate help,--a woman who had not eaten food for two days.
It happened thus: In one very large and almost empty night-lodging, I
asked an old woman whether there were any poor people who had nothing to
eat. She hesitated a moment and then named two; then suddenly, as if
recollecting herself, she said, "Yes, there lies one of them," pointing
to a pallet. "This one," she added, "indeed, has nothing to eat."
"You don't say so! Who is she?"
"She has been a lost woman; but as nobody takes her now, she can't earn
anything. The landlady has had pity on her, but now she wants to turn
her out.--Agafia! I say, Agafia!" cried the old woman.
We went a little nearer, and saw something rise from the pallet. This
was a grey-haired, dishevelled woman, thin as a skeleton, in a dirty,
torn chemise, and with peculiarly glittering, immovable eyes. She looked
fixedly beyond us, tried to snatch up her jacket behind her in order to
cover her bony chest, and growled out like a dog, "What? what?"
I asked her how she managed to live. For some time she was unable to see
the drift of my words and said, "I don't know myself; they are going to
turn me out."
I asked again; and oh, how ashamed of myself I feel! my hand can
scarcely write it! I asked her whether it was true that she was
starving. She replied in the same feverish, excited manner, "I had
nothing to eat yesterday; I have had nothing to eat to-day."
The miserable aspect of this woman impressed me deeply, but quite
differently from those in Liapin's house: there, out of pity for them, I
felt embarrassed and ashamed of myself; but here, I rejoiced that I had
at last found what I had been looking for,--a hungry being.
I gave her a ruble and I remember how glad I felt that the others had
seen it.
The old woman forthwith asked me also for money. It was so pleasant to
me to give that I handed her some also, without thinking whether it was
necessary or not. She accompanied me to the door, and those who were in
the corridor heard how she thanked me. Probably my questions about the
poor provoked expectations, for some of the inmates began to follow us
wherever we went.
Among those that begged, there were evidently drunkards, who gave me a
most disagreeable impression; but having once given to the old woman I
thought I had no right to refuse them, and I began to give away more.
This only increased the number of applicants, and there was a stir
throughout the whole lodging-house.
On the stairs and in the galleries, people appeared dogging my steps.
When I came out of the yard, a boy ran quickly down the stairs, pushing
through the people. He did not notice me and said hurriedly,--
"He gave a ruble to Agafia!"
Having reached the ground, he, too, joined the crowd that was following
me. I came out into the street. All sorts of people crowded round
begging for money. Having given away all I had in coppers, I entered a
shop and asked the proprietor to give me change for ten rubles.
Here occurred a scene similar to that which took place in Liapin's
house. A dreadful confusion ensued. Old women, seedy gentlefolk,
peasants, children, all crowded about the shop, stretching out their
hands; I gave, and asked some of them about their position and means,
and entered all in my note-book. The shopkeeper, having turned up the
fur collar of his great-coat, was sitting like a statue, glancing now
and then at the crowd, and again staring beyond it. He apparently felt
like everyone else, that all this was very foolish, but he dared not say
so.
In Liapin's house the misery and humiliation of the people had
overwhelmed me; and I felt myself to blame for it, and also the desire
and the possibility of becoming a better man. But though the scene here
was similar, it produced quite a different effect. In the first place, I
felt angry with many of those who assailed me, and then anxious as to
what the shopmen and the dvorniks might think of me. I returned home
that day with a weight on my mind. I knew that what I had done was
foolish and inconsistent; but, as usual when my conscience was troubled,
I talked the more about my projected plan, as if I had no doubt whatever
as to its success.
The next day I went alone to those whom I had noted down, and who seemed
the most miserable, thinking they could be more easily helped than
others.
As I have already mentioned, I was not really able to help any of these
people. It turned out that to do so was more difficult than I had
imagined: in short, I only tormented these men and helped no one.
Before the last visiting-tour I went several times to Rzhanoff's house,
and each time the same thing occurred: I was assailed by a crowd of men
and women in the midst of whom I utterly lost my presence of mind.
I felt the impossibility of doing anything because there were so many of
them; besides, each of them, taken separately, did not awaken any
sympathy in me. I felt that every one lied, or at least prevaricated,
and regarded me only as a purse out of which money could be drawn. It
often seemed to me that the very money extorted from me did not improve
their position but only made it worse.
The oftener I went to these houses, the closer the intercourse which I
had with the inmates, the more apparent became the impossibility of
doing anything; but notwithstanding this, I did not give up my plan
until after the last night tour with the census-takers.
I feel more ashamed of this visit than of any other. Formerly I had gone
alone, but now twenty of us went together. At seven o'clock all who
wished to take part in this last tour began to assemble in my house.
They were almost all strangers to me. Some students, an officer, and two
of my fashionable acquaintances, who, after having repeated the usual
phrase, "C'est très intéressant!" asked me to put them into the number
of the census-takers.
These fashionable friends of mine had dressed themselves in
shooting-jackets and tall travelling boots, which they thought more
suited to the visit than their ordinary clothes. They carried with them
peculiar pocket-books and extraordinary-looking pencils. They were in
that agitated state of mind which one experiences just before going to a
hunt, or to a duel, or into a battle. The falseness and foolishness of
our enterprise was now more apparent to me in looking at them; but were
we not all in the same ridiculous position?
Before starting we had a conference, somewhat like a council of war, as
to what we should begin with, how to divide ourselves, and so on. This
conference was just like all other official councils, meetings, and
committees: each spoke, not because he had anything to say, or to ask,
but because every one tried to find something to say in order not to be
behind the rest. But during the conversation no one alluded to the acts
of benevolence to which I had so many times referred; and however much
ashamed I felt, I found it was needful to remind them that we must carry
out our charitable intentions by writing down, during the visiting-tour,
the names of all whom we should find in a destitute condition.
I had always felt ashamed to speak about these matters; but here, in the
midst of our hurried preparations for the expedition, I could scarcely
utter a word about them. All listened to me and seemed touched, all
agreed with me in words; but it was evident that each of them knew that
it was folly, and that it would lead to nothing, and so they began at
once to talk about other subjects, and continued doing so until it was
time for us to start.
We came to the dark tavern, aroused the waiters, and began to sort out
papers. When we were told that the people, having heard about this
visiting-tour, had begun to leave their lodgings, we asked the landlord
to shut the gate, and we ourselves went to the yard to persuade those to
remain who wanted to escape, assuring them that no one would ask to see
their passports.
I remember the strange and painful impression produced upon me by these
frightened night-lodgers. Ragged and half-dressed, they all appeared
tall by the light of the lantern in the dark court-yard. Frightened and
horrible in their terror, they stood in a small knot round the
pestilential out-house, listening to our persuasions, but not believing
us; and, evidently, like hunted animals, prepared to do anything to
escape from us.
Gentlemen of all kinds, town and country policemen, public coroner and
judges, had, all their lives, been hunting them in towns and villages,
on the roads and in the streets, in the taverns and in the
lodging-houses, and suddenly these gentlemen had come at night and shut
the gate, only, forsooth, in order to count them! They found this as
difficult to believe as it would be for hares to believe that the dogs
had come out not to catch but to count them.
But the gates were shut, and the frightened night-lodgers returned to
their places; and we, having separated into groups, began our visit.
With me were my fashionable acquaintances and two students. Ványa, with
a lantern, went before us in a great-coat and white trousers, and we
followed. We entered lodgings well known to me. The place was familiar,
some of the persons also; but the majority were new to me, and the
spectacle was also a new and dreadful one,--still more dreadful than
that which I had seen at Liapin's house. All the lodgings were filled,
all the pallets occupied, and not only by one, but often by two persons.
The sight was dreadful, because of the closeness with which these people
were huddled together, and because of the indiscriminate commingling of
men and women. Such of the latter as were not dead-drunk were sleeping
with men. Many women with children slept with strange men on narrow
beds.
The spectacle was dreadful, owing to the misery, dirt, raggedness, and
terror of these people; and chiefly because there were so many of them.
One lodging, then another, then a third, a tenth, a twentieth, and so
on, without end. And everywhere the same fearful stench, the same
suffocating exhalation, the same confusion of sexes, men and women,
drunk, or in a state of insensibility; the same terror, submissiveness,
and guilt stamped on all faces, so that I felt deeply ashamed and
grieved, as I had before at Liapin's. At last I understood that what I
was about to do was disgusting, foolish, and therefore impossible; so I
left off writing down their names and questioning them, knowing now that
nothing would come of it.
I felt deeply hurt.
At Liapin's I had been like a man who sees a horrible wound on the body
of another. He feels sorry for the man, ashamed of not having relieved
him before, yet he can still hope to help the sufferer; but now I was
like a doctor who comes with his own medicines to the patient, uncovers
his wound only to mangle it, and to confess to himself that all he has
done has been done in vain, and that his remedy is ineffectual.