Pokrovsky was a poor, very poor young man; his health did not permit
of his attending regularly to his studies, and so it was only by way
of custom that we called him a student. He lived modestly, peaceably,
quietly, so that we could not even hear him from our room. He was very
queer in appearance; he walked so awkwardly, bowed so uncouthly, spoke
in such a peculiar manner, that at first I could not look at him
without laughing. Moreover, he was of an irritable character, was
constantly getting angry, flew into a rage at the slightest trifle,
shouted at us, complained of us, and often went off to his own room in
a fit of wrath without finishing our lesson. He had a great many
books, all of them expensive, rare books. He gave lessons somewhere
else also, received some remuneration, and just as soon as he had a
little money, he went off and bought more books.
In time I learned to understand him better. He was the kindest, the
most worthy man, the best man I ever met. My mother respected him
highly. Later on, he became my best friend--after my mother, of
course....
From time to time a little old man made his appearance at our house--a
dirty, badly dressed, small, gray-haired, sluggish, awkward old
fellow; in short, he was peculiar to the last degree. At first sight
one would have thought that he felt ashamed of something, that his
conscience smote him for something. He writhed and twisted constantly;
he had such tricks of manner and ways of shrugging his shoulders, that
one would not have been far wrong in assuming that he was a little
crazy. He would come and stand close to the glazed door in the
vestibule, and not dare to enter. As soon as one of us, Sasha or I or
one of the servants whom he knew to be kindly disposed toward him,
passed that way, he would begin to wave his hands, and beckon us to
him, and make signs; and only when we nodded to him or called to
him,--the signal agreed upon, that there was no stranger in the house
and that he might enter when he pleased,--only then would the old man
softly open the door, with a joyous smile, rubbing his hands together
with delight, and betake himself to Pokrovsky's room. He was his
father.
Afterward I learned in detail the story of this poor old man. Once
upon a time he had been in the government service somewhere or other,
but he had not the slightest capacity, and his place in the service
was the lowest and most insignificant of all. When his first wife died
(the mother of the student Pokrovsky), he took it into his head to
marry again, and wedded a woman from the petty-merchant class. Under
the rule of this new wife, everything was at sixes and sevens in his
house; there was no living with her; she drew a tight rein over
everybody. Student Pokrovsky was a boy at that time, ten years of age.
His stepmother hated him. But fate was kind to little Pokrovsky.
Bykoff, a landed proprietor, who was acquainted with Pokrovsky the
father and had formerly been his benefactor, took the child under his
protection and placed him in a school. He took an interest in him
because he had known his dead mother, whom Anna Feodorovna had
befriended while she was still a girl, and who had married her off to
Pokrovsky. From school young Pokrovsky entered a gymnasium, and then
the University, but his impaired health prevented his continuing his
studies there. Mr. Bykoff introduced him to Anna Feodorovna,
recommended him to her, and in this way young Pokrovsky had been taken
into the house as a boarder, on condition that he should teach Sasha
all that was necessary.
But old Pokrovsky fell into the lowest dissipation through grief at
his wife's harshness, and was almost always in a state of drunkenness.
His wife beat him, drove him into the kitchen to live, and brought
matters to such a point that at last he got used to being beaten and
ill-treated, and made no complaint. He was still far from being an old
man, but his evil habits had nearly destroyed his mind. The only sign
in him of noble human sentiments was his boundless love for his son.
It was said that young Pokrovsky was as like his dead mother as two
drops of water to each other. The old man could talk of nothing but
his son, and came to see him regularly twice a week. He dared not come
more frequently, because young Pokrovsky could not endure his father's
visits. Of all his failings, the first and greatest, without a doubt,
was his lack of respect for his father. However, the old man certainly
was at times the most intolerable creature in the world. In the first
place he was dreadfully inquisitive; in the second, by his chatter and
questions he interfered with his son's occupations; and lastly, he
sometimes presented himself in a state of intoxication. The son broke
the father, in a degree, of his faults,--of his inquisitiveness and
his chattering; and ultimately brought about such a condition of
affairs that the latter listened to all he said as to an oracle, and
dared not open his mouth without his permission.
There were no bounds to the old man's admiration of and delight in his
Petinka, as he called his son. When he came to visit him he almost
always wore a rather anxious, timid expression, probably on account of
his uncertainty as to how his son would receive him, and generally
could not make up his mind for a long time to go in; and if I happened
to be present, he would question me for twenty minutes: How was
Petinka? Was he well? In what mood was he, and was not he occupied in
something important? What, precisely, was he doing? Was he writing, or
engaged in meditation? When I had sufficiently encouraged and soothed
him, the old man would at last make up his mind to enter, and would
open the door very, very softly, very, very cautiously, and stick his
head in first; and if he saw that his son was not angry, and nodded to
him, he would step gently into the room, take off his little coat, and
his hat, which was always crumpled, full of holes and with broken
rims, and hang them on a hook, doing everything very softly, and
inaudibly. Then he would seat himself cautiously on a chair and never
take his eyes from his son, but would watch his every movement in his
desire to divine the state of his Petinka's temper. If the son was not
exactly in the right mood, and the old man detected it, he instantly
rose from his seat and explained, "I only ran in for a minute,
Petinka. I have been walking a good ways, and happened to be passing
by, so I came in to rest myself." And then silently he took his poor
little coat and his wretched little hat, opened the door again very
softly, and went away, forcing a smile in order to suppress the grief
which was seething up in his soul, and not betray it to his son.
But when the son received his father well, the old man was beside
himself with joy. His satisfaction shone forth in his face, in his
gestures, in his movements. If his son addressed a remark to him, the
old man always rose a little from his chair, and replied softly,
cringingly, almost reverently, and always made an effort to employ the
most select, that is to say, the most ridiculous expressions. But
he had not the gift of language; he always became confused and
frightened, so that he did not know what to do with his hands, or
what to do with his person, and went on, for a long time afterward,
whispering his answer to himself, as though desirous of recovering his
composure. But if he succeeded in making a good answer, the old man
gained courage, set his waistcoat to rights, and his cravat and his
coat, and assumed an air of personal dignity. Sometimes his courage
rose to such a point, his daring reached such a height, that he rose
gently from his chair, went up to the shelf of books, took down a
book. He did all this with an air of artificial indifference and
coolness, as though he could always handle his son's books in this
proprietary manner, as though his son's caresses were no rarity to
him. But I once happened to witness the old man's fright when
Pokrovsky asked him not to touch his books. He became confused,
hurriedly replaced the book upside down, then tried to put it right,
turned it round and set it wrong side to, leaves out, smiled,
reddened, and did not know how to expiate his crime.
One day old Pokrovsky came in to see us. He chatted with us for a long
time, was unusually cheerful, alert, talkative; he laughed and joked
after his fashion, and at last revealed the secret of his raptures,
and announced to us that his Petinka's birthday fell precisely a week
later, and that it was his intention to call upon his son, without
fail, on that day; that he would don a new waistcoat, and that his
wife had promised to buy him some new boots. In short, the old man was
perfectly happy, and chattered about everything that came into his
head.
His birthday! That birthday gave me no peace, either day or night. I
made up my mind faithfully to remind Pokrovsky of my friendship, and
to make him a present. But what? At last I hit upon the idea of giving
him some books. I knew that he wished to own the complete works of
Pushkin, in the latest edition. I had thirty rubles of my own, earned
by my handiwork. I had put this money aside for a new gown. I
immediately sent old Matryona, our cook, to inquire the price of a
complete set. Alas! The price of the eleven volumes, together with the
expenses of binding, would be sixty rubles at the very least. I
thought and thought, but could not tell what to do. I did not wish to
ask my mother. Of course she would have helped me; but, in that case
every one in the house would have known about our gift; moreover, the
gift would have been converted into an expression of gratitude, a
payment for Pokrovsky's labors for the whole year. My desire was to
make the present privately, unknown to any one. And for his toilsome
lessons to me I wished to remain forever indebted to him, without any
payment whatever. At last I devised an escape from my predicament. I
knew that one could often buy at half price from the old booksellers
in the Gostinny Dvor, if one bargained well, little used and almost
entirely new books. I made up my mind to go to the Gostinny Dvor
myself. So it came about; the very next morning both Anna Feodorovna
and we needed something. Mamma was not feeling well, and Anna
Feodorovna, quite opportunely, had a fit of laziness, so all the
errands were turned over to me, and I set out with Matryona.
To my delight I soon found a Pushkin, and in a very handsome binding.
I began to bargain for it. How I enjoyed it! But alas! My entire
capital consisted of thirty rubles in paper, and the merchant would
not consent to accept less than ten rubles in silver. At last I began
to entreat him, and I begged and begged, until eventually he yielded.
But he only took off two rubles and a half, and swore that he had done
so only for my sake, because I was such a nice young lady, and that he
would not have come down in his price for any one else. Two rubles and
a half were still lacking! I was ready to cry with vexation. But the
most unexpected circumstance came to my rescue in my grief. Not far
from me, at another stall, I caught sight of old Pokrovsky. Four or
five old booksellers were clustered about him; he had completely lost
his wits, and they had thoroughly bewildered him. Each one was
offering him his wares, and what stuff they were offering, and what
all was he not ready to buy! I stepped up to him and asked him what he
was doing there? The old man was very glad to see me; he loved me
unboundedly,--no less than his Petinka, perhaps. "Why, I am buying a
few little books, Varvara Alexievna," he replied; "I am buying some
books for Petinka." I asked him if he had much money? "See here,"--and
the poor old man took out all his money, which was wrapped up in a
dirty scrap of newspaper; "here's a half-ruble, and a twenty-kopek
piece, and twenty kopeks in copper coins." I immediately dragged him
off to my bookseller. "Here are eleven books, which cost altogether
thirty-two rubles and a half; I have thirty; put your two rubles and a
half with mine, and we will buy all these books and give them to him
in partnership." The old man was quite beside himself with joy, and
the bookseller loaded him down with our common library.
The next day the old man came to see his son, sat with him a little
while, then came to us and sat down beside me with a very comical air
of mystery. Every moment he grew more sad and uneasy; at last he could
hold out no longer.
"Listen, Varvara Alexievna," he began timidly, in a low voice: "do you
know what, Varvara Alexievna?" The old man was dreadfully embarrassed.
"You see, when his birthday comes, do you take ten of those little
books and give them to him yourself, that is to say, from yourself, on
your own behalf; then I will take the eleventh and give it from
myself, for my share. So you see, you will have something to give, and
I shall have something to give; we shall both have something to give."
I was awfully sorry for the old man. I did not take long to think it
over. The old man watched me anxiously. "Listen to me, Zakhar
Petrovitch," I said: "do you give him all."--"How all? Do you mean all
the books?"--"Yes, certainly, all the books."--"And from
myself?"--"From yourself."--"From myself alone--that is, in my own
name?"--"Yes, in your own name." I thought I was expressing myself
with sufficient clearness, but the old man could not understand me for
a long time.
"You see," he explained to me at last, "I sometimes indulge myself,
Varvara Alexievna,--that is to say, I wish to state to you that I
nearly always indulge myself,--I do that which is not right,--that is,
you know, when it is cold out of doors, and when various unpleasant
things happen at times, or when I feel sad for any reason, or
something bad happens,--then sometimes, I do not restrain myself, and
I drink too much. This is very disagreeable to Petrushka, you see,
Varvara Alexievna; he gets angry, and he scolds me and reads me moral
lectures. So now I should like to show him by my gift that I have
reformed, and am beginning to conduct myself well; that I have been
saving up my money to buy a book, saving for a long time, because I
hardly ever have any money, except when it happens that Petrushka
gives me some now and then. He knows that. Consequently, he will see
what use I have made of my money, and he will know that I have done
this for his sake alone."...
"Well, yes," he said, after thinking it over, "yes! That will be very
fine, that would be very fine indeed,--only, what are you going to
do, Varvara Alexievna?"--"Why, I shall not give anything."--"What!"
cried the old man almost in terror; "so you will not give Petinka
anything, so you do not wish to give him anything?" He was alarmed. At
that moment it seemed as though he were ready to relinquish his own
suggestions, so that I might have something to give his son. He was a
kind-hearted old man! I explained that I would be glad to give
something, only I did not wish to deprive him of the pleasure.
* * * * *
On the festive day he made his appearance at precisely eleven o'clock,
straight from the mass, in his dress coat, decently patched, and
actually in a new waistcoat and new boots. We were all sitting in the
hall with Anna Feodorovna, and drinking coffee (it was Sunday). The
old man began, I believe, by saying that Pushkin was a good poet; then
he lost the thread of his discourse and got confused, and suddenly
jumped to the assertion that a man must behave well, and that if he
does not behave himself well, then it simply means that he indulges
himself; he even cited several terrible examples of intemperance, and
wound up by stating that for some time past he had been entirely a
reformed character, and that he now behaved with perfect propriety.
That even earlier he had recognized the justice of his son's
exhortations, and had treasured them all in his heart, and had
actually begun to be sober. In proof of which he now presented these
books, which had been purchased with money which he had been hoarding
up for a long time.
I could not refrain from tears and laughter, as I listened to the poor
old fellow; he knew well how to lie when the occasion demanded! The
books were taken to Pokrovsky's room and placed on the shelf.
Pokrovsky immediately divined the truth.
* * * * *
Pokrovsky fell ill, two months after the events which I have described
above. During those two months he had striven incessantly for the
means of existence, for up to that time he had never had a settled
position. Like all consumptives, he bade farewell only with his last
breath to the hope of a very long life.... Anna Feodorovna herself
made all the arrangements about the funeral. She bought the very
plainest sort of a coffin, and hired a truckman. In order to repay
herself for her expenditure, Anna Feodorovna took possession of all
the dead man's books and effects. The old man wrangled with her,
raised an uproar, snatched from her as many books as possible, stuffed
all his pockets with them, thrust them into his hat and wherever he
could, carried them about with him all the three days which preceded
the funeral, and did not even part with them when the time came to go
to the church. During all those days he was like a man stunned, who
has lost his memory, and he kept fussing about near the coffin with a
certain strange anxiety; now he adjusted the paper band upon the dead
man's brow, now he lighted and snuffed the candles. It was evident
that he could not fix his thoughts in orderly manner on anything.
Neither my mother nor Anna Feodorovna went to the funeral services in
the church. My mother was ill, but Anna Feodorovna quarreled with old
Pokrovsky just as she was all ready to start, and so stayed away. The
old man and I were the only persons present. A sort of fear came over
me during the services--like the presentiment of something which was
about to happen. I could hardly stand out the ceremony in church. At
last they put the lid on the coffin and nailed it down, placed it on
the cart and drove away. I accompanied it only to the end of the
street. The truckman drove at a trot. The old man ran after the cart,
weeping aloud; the sound of his crying was broken and shaken by his
running. The poor man lost his hat and did not stop to pick it up. His
head was wet with the rain; the sleet lashed and cut his face. The old
man did not appear to feel the bad weather, but ran weeping from one
side of the cart to the other. The skirts of his shabby old coat waved
in the wind like wings. Books protruded from every one of his pockets;
in his hands was a huge book, which he held tightly clutched. The
passers-by removed their hats and made the sign of the cross. Some
halted and stared in amazement at the poor old man. Every moment the
books kept falling out of his pockets into the mud, People stopped
him, and pointed out his losses to him; he picked them up, and set out
again in pursuit of the coffin. At the corner of the street an old
beggar woman joined herself to him to escort the coffin. At last the
cart turned the corner, and disappeared from my eyes. I went home, I
flung myself, in dreadful grief, on my mother's bosom.