Dostoevsky poor people read online in full. Poor people - Fyodor Dostoevsky
POOR PEOPLE
Oh, these storytellers! There is no way to write something useful, pleasant, delightful, otherwise they will tear out all the ins and outs of the ground!.. I would have forbidden them to write! Well, what is it like: you read... you involuntarily start thinking, and then all sorts of rubbish comes to mind; I really should have forbidden them to write; I would simply ban it altogether.
Book V. F. Odoevsky
My priceless Varvara Alekseevna!
Yesterday I was happy, extremely happy, extremely happy! For once in your life, stubborn one, you listened to me. In the evening, at about eight o'clock, I wake up (you know, little mother, that I like to sleep for an hour or two after work), I took out a candle, got my papers ready, fixed my pen, suddenly, by chance, I raised my eyes - really, my heart started jumping like that ! So you understood what I wanted, what my heart wanted! I see that the corner of the curtain by your window is folded and attached to a pot of balsam, exactly as I hinted to you then; It immediately seemed to me that your little face flashed by the window, that you too were looking at me from your little room, that you too were thinking about me. And how annoyed I was, my dear, that I couldn’t get a good look at your pretty face! There was a time when we saw the light, little mother. Old age is not a joy, my dear! And now everything somehow dazzles in the eyes; you work a little in the evening, write something, and the next morning your eyes will be red, and tears will flow so that you even feel ashamed in front of strangers. However, in my imagination your smile, little angel, your kind, friendly smile just lit up; and in my heart there was exactly the same feeling as when I kissed you, Varenka - do you remember, little angel? Do you know, my darling, it even seemed to me that you shook your finger at me there? Is that right, minx? You will certainly describe all this in more detail in your letter.
Well, what is our idea about your curtain, Varenka? Nice, isn't it? Whether I’m sitting at work, whether I’m going to bed, whether I’m waking up, I already know that you too are thinking about me, you remember me, and you yourself are healthy and cheerful. Lower the curtain - it means goodbye, Makar Alekseevich, it’s time to sleep! If you wake up, it means good morning, Makar Alekseevich, how did you sleep, or: how is your health, Makar Alekseevich? As for me, I, thank the Creator, am healthy and prosperous! You see, my darling, how cleverly this was invented; no letters needed! Tricky, isn't it? But the idea is mine! And what, what am I like about these matters, Varvara Alekseevna?
I will report to you, my little mother, Varvara Alekseevna, that I slept well this night, contrary to expectations, with which I am very pleased; although in new apartments, since housewarming, I always somehow can’t sleep; everything is right and wrong! Today I woke up like such a bright falcon - it’s fun! What a good morning it is today, little mother! Our window was opened; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air breathes with spring aromas, and all nature is reviving - well, everything else there was also corresponding; everything is fine, like spring. I even dreamed quite pleasantly today, and all my dreams were about you, Varenka. I compared you to a bird of heaven, created for the joy of people and for the decoration of nature. I immediately thought, Varenka, that we, people who live in care and worry, should also envy the carefree and innocent happiness of the birds of the sky - well, and the rest is the same, the same; that is, I made all such distant comparisons. I have one book there, Varenka, so it’s the same thing, everything is described in great detail. I’m writing because there are different dreams, little mother. But now it’s spring, and all the thoughts are so pleasant, sharp, intricate, and tender dreams come; everything is in pink. That’s why I wrote all this; However, I took it all from a book. There the writer discovers the same desire in poetry and writes -
Why am I not a bird, not a bird of prey!
Well, etc. There are still different thoughts, but God bless them! But where did you go this morning, Varvara Alekseevna? I haven’t even gotten ready to take office yet, and you, truly like a spring bird, fluttered out of the room and walked around the yard looking so cheerful. I had so much fun looking at you! Ah, Varenka, Varenka! you are not sad; Tears cannot help grief; I know this, my little mother, I know this from experience. Now you feel so calm, and your health has improved a little. Well, what about your Fedora? Oh, what a kind woman she is! Varenka, write to me how you and she are living there now and are you happy with everything? Fedora is a little grouchy; Don’t look at it, Varenka. God be with her! She's so kind.
I have already written to you about Teresa here, who is also a kind and faithful woman. And how I worried about our letters! How will they be transmitted? And here’s how God sent Teresa to our happiness. She is a kind, meek, dumb woman. But our hostess is simply ruthless. He rubs it into his work like some kind of rag.
Well, what a slum I ended up in, Varvara Alekseevna! Well, it's an apartment! Before, I lived like such a wood grouse, you know: calmly, quietly; It happened to me that a fly flies, and you can hear the fly. And here there is noise, screaming, hubbub! But you still don’t know how it all works here. Imagine, roughly, a long corridor, completely dark and unclean. On his right hand there will be a blank wall, and on his left all the doors and doors, like numbers, all stretching out in a row. Well, they hire these rooms, and they have one room in each; they live in one and in twos and threes. Don't ask for order - Noah's Ark! However, it seems that the people are good, they are all so educated and scientists. There is one official (he is somewhere in the literary department), a well-read man: he talks about Homer, and about Brambeus, and about their various writers, he talks about everything - an intelligent man! Two officers live and everyone plays cards. The midshipman lives; The English teacher lives. Wait, I’ll amuse you, little mother; I will describe them in a future letter satirically, that is, how they are there on their own, in all detail. Our landlady, a very small and unclean old woman, walks around all day in shoes and a dressing gown and shouts at Teresa all day long. I live in the kitchen, or it would be much more correct to say this: here next to the kitchen there is one room (and we, you should note, the kitchen is clean, bright, very good), the room is small, the corner is so modest... that is, or Better yet, the kitchen is large with three windows, so I have a partition along the transverse wall, so it looks like another room, a supernumerary number; everything is spacious, comfortable, there is a window, and that’s it - in a word, everything is comfortable. Well, this is my little corner. Well, don’t think, little mother, that there is anything different or a mysterious meaning here; what, they say, is the kitchen! - that is, I, perhaps, live in this very room behind the partition, but that’s nothing; I live apart from everyone, I live little by little, I live quietly. I set up a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, a couple of chairs, and hung up an icon. True, there are better apartments - perhaps there are much better ones - but convenience is the main thing; After all, this is all for convenience, and don’t think that it’s for anything else. Your window is opposite, across the yard; and the yard is narrow, you’ll see you in passing - it’s all the more fun for me, the wretched one, and it’s also cheaper. We have the very last room here, with a table, it costs thirty-five rubles in banknotes. Can't afford it! And my apartment costs me seven rubles in banknotes, and a table of five rubles: that’s twenty-four and a half, and before I paid exactly thirty, but I denied myself a lot; I didn’t always drink tea, but now I’ve saved money on tea and sugar. You know, my dear, it’s somehow a shame not to drink tea; All the people here are wealthy, it’s a shame. For the sake of strangers you drink it, Varenka, for appearance, for tone; but for me it doesn’t matter, I’m not whimsical. Put it this way, for pocket money - whatever you need - well, some boots, a dress - will there be much left? That's all my salary. I don’t complain and I’m happy. It's enough. It's been enough for a few years now; There are also awards. Well, goodbye, my little angel. I bought a couple of pots of impatiens and geranium there - inexpensively. Maybe you also like mignonette? So there is mignonette, you know; yes, you know, write everything down in as much detail as possible. However, don’t think anything and don’t doubt me, little mother, that I hired such a room. No, this convenience forced me, and this convenience alone seduced me. After all, little mother, I save money, I put it aside: I have some money. Don’t you look at the fact that I’m so quiet that it seems like a fly will knock me over with its wing. No, little mother, I am not a failure, and my character is exactly the same as befits a person with a strong and serene soul. Goodbye, my little angel! I signed for you on almost two sheets of paper, but it’s high time for service. I kiss your fingers, little mother, and remain
your humble servant and truest friend
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. I ask one thing: answer me, my angel, in as much detail as possible. With this, Varenka, I am sending you a pound of sweets; so eat them for your health, and, for God’s sake, don’t worry about me and don’t be complaining. Well, then goodbye, little mother.
Dear Sir, Makar Alekseevich!
Do you know that I will finally have to completely quarrel with you? I swear to you, good Makar Alekseevich, that it’s even hard for me to accept your gifts. I know what they cost you, what deprivations and denials of the most essential things to yourself. How many times have I told you that I don’t need anything, absolutely nothing; that I am not able to repay you for the benefits that you have showered me with so far. And why do I need these pots? Well, balsamins are nothing, but why geranium? If you say one word carelessly, like about this geranium, you will immediately buy it; isn't it expensive? What a beauty the flowers are on her! Punch crosses. Where did you get such a pretty geranium? I placed it in the middle of the window, in the most visible place; I’ll put a bench on the floor, and I’ll put more flowers on the bench; Just let me get rich myself! Fedora couldn't be happier; It’s like heaven in our room now - clean, bright! Well, why candy? And really, I immediately guessed from the letter that something was wrong with you - paradise, and spring, and fragrances were flying, and birds were chirping. What is this, I think, are there any poems here? After all, really, only poetry is missing in your letter, Makar Alekseevich! Both tender sensations and rose-colored dreams - everything is here! I didn’t even think about the curtain; she probably got caught on her own when I was rearranging the pots; here you go!
Ah, Makar Alekseevich! No matter what you say, no matter how you calculate your income in order to deceive me, in order to show that they all go entirely to you alone, you will not hide or hide anything from me. It is clear that you are deprived of what you need because of me. Why did you get it into your head, for example, to rent such an apartment? After all, they bother you, disturb you; you feel cramped and uncomfortable. You love solitude, but here something is not near you! And you could live much better, judging by your salary. Fedora says that you used to live far better than now. Have you really lived your whole life like this, alone, in deprivation, without joy, without a friendly, welcoming word, taking corners from strangers? Ah, good friend, how I feel sorry for you! At least spare your health, Makar Alekseevich! You say that your eyes are weakening, so don’t write by candlelight; why write? Your jealousy for service is probably already known to your superiors.
Once again I beg you, do not spend so much money on me. I know that you love me, but you yourself are not rich... Today I also got up cheerfully. I felt so good; Fedora had been working for a long time, and she gave me a job too. I was so happy; I just went to buy some silk and got to work. The whole morning I felt so light in my soul, I was so cheerful! And now again all the black thoughts, sad; my whole heart ached.
Ah, something will happen to me, what will be my fate! The hard thing is that I am in such uncertainty, that I have no future, that I cannot even predict what will happen to me. It's scary to look back. There is such grief there that the heart is torn in half at the mere memory. I will forever cry over the evil people who destroyed me!
It's getting dark. It's time to get to work. I would like to write to you about a lot of things, but I don’t have time, I have work to do. We need to hurry. Of course, letters are a good thing; everything is not so boring. Why don’t you ever come to us yourself? Why is this, Makar Alekseevich? After all, now it’s close to you, and sometimes you have free time. Please come in! I saw your Teresa. She seems so sick; I felt sorry for her; I gave her twenty kopecks. Yes! I almost forgot: be sure to write everything, in as much detail as possible, about your life. What kind of people are around you, and do you live well with them? I really want to know all this. Look, be sure to write! Today I’m going to turn a corner on purpose. Go to bed early; Yesterday I saw your fire until midnight. Well, goodbye. Today is melancholy, boring, and sad! You know, this is the day! Farewell.
Varvara Dobroselova.
Dear Madam,
Varvara Alekseevna!
Yes, little mother, yes, my dear, you know, such a day has turned out to be such a miserable one for me! Yes; you were playing a joke on me, an old man, Varvara Alekseevna! However, it’s his own fault, it’s everyone else’s fault! In old age, with a tuft of hair, you shouldn’t go into cupid and equivocation... And I’ll also say, little mother: sometimes a person is wonderful, very wonderful. And, my saints! Whatever he talks about, he will sometimes bring it up! And what comes out, what follows from this? Yes, absolutely nothing follows, but what comes out is such rubbish that God save me! I, little mother, I’m not angry, but it’s just so annoying to remember everything, it’s annoying that I wrote to you so figuratively and stupidly. And I went into office today as such a dandy Gogol; there was such a radiance in my heart. For no apparent reason there was such a holiday in my soul; it was fun! He began to work on the papers diligently - but what came of it later! Only then, as soon as I looked around, everything became the same - both gray and dark. All the same ink stains, all the same tables and papers, and I’m still the same; the same way it was, and remained exactly the same - so what was there to ride on Pegasus? Where did all this come from? That the sun came out and the sky roared! from this, or what? And what kind of aromas are there when something doesn’t happen to be in our yard under the windows! You know, it all seemed to me foolishly. But sometimes it happens that a person gets lost in his own feelings and becomes delusional. This comes from nothing other than excessive, stupid ardor of the heart. I didn’t come home, but trudged along; out of the blue I got a headache; this, you know, is all one to one. (It hit me in the back or something.) I was happy about the spring, I was a fool, but I went in a cold overcoat. And you were mistaken in my feelings, my dear! Their outpouring was taken in a completely different direction. Fatherly affection animated me, the only pure fatherly affection, Varvara Alekseevna; for I take the place of my own father in you, due to your bitter orphanhood; I say this from the soul, from a pure heart, in a kindred way. Be that as it may, I am even a distant relative to you, even according to the proverb, and the seventh water on jelly, but still a relative, and now your closest relative and patron; for where you most closely had the right to seek protection and protection, you found betrayal and insult. And as for the poems, I’ll tell you, little mother, that in my old age it is indecent for me to practice composing poetry. Poems are nonsense! Children are now whipped for writing poems in schools too... that’s it, my dear.
What are you writing to me, Varvara Alekseevna, about convenience, about peace and about all sorts of things? My little mother, I am not grumpy or demanding, I have never lived better than now; So why be picky in your old age? I am fed, dressed, shod; and where should we get started! Not of the count's family! My parent was not of the nobility and with his entire family was poorer in income than me. I'm not a sissy! However, if the truth is true, then in my old apartment everything was much better; It was more free, little mother. Of course, my current apartment is good, even in some respects more cheerful and, if you like, more varied; I’m not saying anything against this, but it’s all a pity for the old one. We, old people, that is, elderly people, get used to old things as if they were our own. The apartment was, you know, so small; the walls were... well, what can I say! - the walls were like all walls, it’s not about them, but the memories of everything that was before make me sad... It’s a strange thing - it’s hard, but the memories are like as if they were pleasant. Even what was bad, about which I was sometimes annoyed, is somehow cleared of the bad in my memories and appears to my imagination in an attractive form. We lived quietly, Varenka; I and my mistress, the old lady, the deceased. Now I remember my old lady with a sad feeling! She was a good woman and paid inexpensive rent. She used to knit everything from scraps of different blankets on yard-long knitting needles; That's all I did. She and I held the fire together, so we worked at the same table. Her granddaughter Masha was - I still remember her as a child - about thirteen years old she will now be a girl. She was such a playful little girl, she made us laugh all the time; This is how the three of us lived. It used to be that on a long winter evening we would sit down at the round table, drink some tea, and then get down to business. And the old lady, so that Masha would not be bored and so that the naughty girl would not play pranks, would start telling fairy tales. And what fairy tales there were! Not like a child, a sensible and intelligent person will listen. What! I myself would sometimes light myself a pipe and listen so much that I would forget about the matter. And the child, our minx, will become thoughtful; he will prop up his pink cheek with his little hand, his pretty little mouth will open and, like a slightly scary fairy tale, he presses and presses closer to the old woman. But we liked to look at her; and you won’t see how the candle burns out, you won’t hear how the blizzard sometimes gets angry and the blizzard blows in the yard. It was good for us to live, Varenka; and this is how we lived together for almost twenty years. Why am I chatting here! Perhaps you don’t like such matter, and it’s not so easy for me to remember, especially now: the time of twilight. Teresa is fiddling with something, my head hurts, and my back hurts a little, and my thoughts are so wonderful, as if they hurt too; I'm sad today, Varenka! What are you writing, my dear? How can I come to you? My dear, what will people say? After all, if you need to cross the yard, our people will notice, they will start asking questions - rumors will start, gossip will start, they will give the matter a different meaning. No, my angel, I’d rather see you tomorrow at the all-night vigil; it will be more prudent and harmless for both of us. Don’t blame me, little mother, for writing you such a letter; As I re-read it, I see that everything is so incoherent. I, Varenka, am an old, unlearned man; I didn’t learn from a young age, and now nothing will come into my mind if I start learning again. I confess, little mother, that I am not a master of description, and I know, without anyone else’s instructions or ridicule, that if I want to write something more intricate, I will end up with nonsense. I saw you at the window today, I saw how you lowered the window. Farewell, farewell, God bless you! Goodbye, Varvara Alekseevna.
Your selfless friend
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. I, my dear, don’t write satire about anyone now. I have become old, mother, Varvara Alekseevna, so that in vain: -, grin my teeth! and they will laugh at me, according to the Russian proverb: whoever, they say, digs a hole for another, so he... and goes there himself.
Dear Sir,
Makar Alekseevich!
Well, shame on you, my friend and benefactor, Makar Alekseevich, to get so twisted and capricious. Are you really offended? Ah, I am often careless. but I didn’t think that you would take my words for a caustic joke. Rest assured that I will never dare to joke about your years or your character. It all happened because of my frivolity, and more because I was terribly bored, and because of boredom, what can’t you take up? I thought that you yourself wanted to laugh in your letter. I felt terribly sad when I saw that you were unhappy with me. No, my good friend and benefactor, you will be mistaken if you suspect me of insensitivity and ingratitude. I know how to appreciate in my heart everything that you have done for me, protecting me from evil people, from their persecution and hatred. I will forever pray to God for you, and if my prayer reaches God and heaven heeds it, then you will be happy.
I feel very unwell today. I feel hot and cold alternately. Fedora is very worried about me. You should not be ashamed to come to us, Makar Alekseevich. Who cares? You know us, and that’s the end of it!.. Goodbye, Makar Alekseevich. There’s nothing more to write about now, and I can’t: I’m terribly unwell. I ask you once again not to be angry with me and to be confident in the everlasting respect and affection with which I have the honor of being your most devoted and humble servant.
Varvara Dobroselova.
Dear Madam,
Varvara Alekseevna!
April 12.
Oh, my mother, what’s wrong with you! After all, every time you scare me so much. I write to you in every letter that you should be careful, that you should wrap yourself up, that you should not go out in bad weather, that you should be careful in everything, but you, my little angel, do not listen to me. Oh, my darling, well, it’s like you’re some kind of child! After all, you are weak, as weak as a straw, I know that. Just a little breeze and you'll be sick. So you need to be careful, take care of yourself, avoid dangers and not lead your friends into grief or despondency.
You express a desire, little mother, to learn in detail about my life and existence and everything around me. With joy I hasten to fulfill your wish, my dear. I’ll start from the beginning, little mother: there will be more order. Firstly, in our house, at the clean entrance, the stairs are very mediocre; especially the front door - clean, light, wide, all cast iron and mahogany. But don’t even ask about the black one: it’s screw-shaped, damp, dirty, the steps are broken, and the walls are so greasy that your hand sticks when you lean on them. On every landing there are broken chests, chairs and cabinets, twigs hung, broken windows; the basins are filled with all kinds of evil spirits, with dirt, with rubbish, with eggshells and with fish bladders; the smell is bad... in a word, not good.
I have already described to you the arrangement of the rooms; it’s, there’s nothing to say, comfortable, that’s true, but somehow it’s stuffy in them, that is, it’s not that it smells bad, but, so to speak, a slightly rotten, pungently sweetened smell. At first the impression is unfavorable, but that’s all right; If you only stay with us for two minutes, it will pass, and you won’t feel how everything will pass, because you yourself will smell somehow bad, and your dress will smell, and your hands will smell, and everything will smell - well, you’ll get used to it. Our little siskins are dying. The midshipman is already buying a fifth - they don’t live in our air, and that’s all. Our kitchen is large, spacious, and bright. True, it’s a little fudgy in the morning when they’re frying fish or beef, and they’re pouring it and soaking it everywhere, but in the evening it’s heaven. In our kitchen we always have old laundry hanging on the lines; and since my room is not far, that is, almost adjacent to the kitchen, the smell from the linen bothers me a little; but it’s okay: you’ll live and get used to it.
From the very early morning, Varenka, the fuss begins with us, they get up, walk, knock - everyone who needs it gets up, some in the service or so, on their own; everyone starts drinking tea. Our samovars are the owner's, for the most part, there are only a few of them, so we always keep a line; and whoever gets out of line with his teapot will now have his head washed. Here I was for the first time, yes... but what can I write about! That's where I met everyone. I met the midshipman first; so frank, he told me everything: about the priest, about the mother, about the sister, who is behind the Tula assessor, and about the city of Kronstadt. He promised to patronize me in everything and immediately invited me to his place for tea. I found him in the very room where we usually play cards. There they gave me tea and they certainly wanted me to play a game of chance with them. Whether they laughed or not at me, I don’t know; only they themselves lost all night long, and when I came in they were playing like that too. Chalk, cards, smoke was floating all over the room, it stung my eyes. I didn’t play, and now they noticed that I was talking about philosophy. Then no one spoke to me all the time; Yes, to be honest, I was glad about that. I won’t go to them now; They have excitement, pure excitement! The literary official also has meetings in the evenings. Well, that one is good, modest, innocent and delicate; everything is on a thin foot.
Well, Varenka, I’ll also note to you in passing that our hostess is a nasty woman, and a real witch, too. Have you seen Teresa? Well, what is she really? Skinny, like a plucked, stunted chicken. There are only two people in the house: Teresa and Faldoni, the master's servant. I don’t know, maybe he has another name, but he only responds to this; everyone calls him that. He's red-haired, kind of ugly, crooked, snub-nosed, rude: he keeps quarreling with Teresa, almost fighting. Generally speaking, living here is not so good for me... For everyone to fall asleep and calm down at once at night - this never happens. They are always sitting somewhere and playing, and sometimes things happen that are shameful to tell. Now I’m still used to it, but I’m surprised how family people get along in such a sodom. A whole family of poor people rents a room from our landlady, only not next to the other rooms, but on the other side, in the corner, separately. People are humble! Nobody hears anything about them. They live in one room, surrounded by a partition. He is some kind of official without a position, expelled from the service about seven years ago for something. His last name is Gorshkov; so gray and small; walks around in such a greasy, worn-out dress that it hurts to look at him; much worse than mine! Such a pathetic, frail one (we sometimes meet him in the corridor); his knees are trembling, his hands are trembling, his head is trembling, from an illness or something, God knows; timid, afraid of everyone, walks away; I’m shy sometimes, but this one is even worse. He has a family - a wife and three children. The older boy, just like his father, is also so stunted. The wife was once quite good-looking, and now it’s noticeable; she walks, poor thing, in such pitiful rabble. They, I heard, owed the landlady; She's not very kind to them. I also heard that Gorshkov himself has some kind of trouble, for which he lost his job... the trial is not a trial, on trial not on trial, under some kind of investigation, or something - I really can’t tell you. They are poor, poor - my God, my God! It’s always quiet and peaceful in their room, as if no one lives. You can't even hear the children. And it doesn’t happen that the children will ever frolic and play, and this is a bad sign. One evening I happened to walk past their door; at that time the house became unusually quiet; I hear sobbing, then a whisper, then sobbing again, as if they were crying, so quietly, so pitifully, that my whole heart broke, and then the thought of these poor people did not leave me all night, so I couldn’t sleep well.
Well, goodbye, my priceless friend, Varenka! I described everything to you as best I could. Today all day I think only about you. My whole heart ached for you, my dear. After all, my darling, I know that you don’t have a warm coat. These St. Petersburg springs for me, the winds and rain and snow, are my death, Varenka! Such a blessing in the air that God protect me! Do not exact it, my dear, from writing; There is no syllable, Varenka, there is no syllable. At least there was one! I write whatever comes to mind, just to amuse you with something. After all, if I had studied somehow, it would be a different matter; But how did I study? not even with copper money.
Your always and faithful friend
Makar Devushkan.
Dear Sir,
Makar Alekseevich!
April 25.
Today I met my cousin Sasha! Horror! and she will perish, poor thing! I also heard from the outside that Anna Fedorovna was finding out everything about me. She never seems to stop haunting me. She says that she wants to forgive me, forget everything that happened, and that she will certainly visit me herself. She says that you are not my relative at all, that she is closer to me, that you have no right to enter into our family relations and that it is shameful and indecent for me to live on your alms and on your support... she says that I forgot her bread - The salt is that she, perhaps, saved my mother and me from starvation, that she gave us food and water and for over two and a half years incurred a loss on us, that on top of all this she forgave us the debt. And she didn’t want to spare my mother! And if poor mother knew what they did to me! God sees!.. Anna Fedorovna says that due to my stupidity I did not know how to hold on to my happiness, that she herself brought me to happiness, that she was not to blame for anything else and that I myself, for my honor, did not know how, and maybe and didn’t want to intervene. And who is to blame here, great God! She says that Mr. Bykov is absolutely right and that you can’t marry just anyone who... what can I say! It’s cruel to hear such a lie, Makar Alekseevich! I don't know what's happening to me now. I tremble, I cry, I sob; I wrote this letter to you for two hours. I thought that she at least recognized her guilt before me; and this is how she is now! For God's sake, don't worry, my friend, my only well-wisher! Fedora exaggerates everything: I’m not sick. I just caught a little cold yesterday when I went to my mother’s memorial service in Volkovo. Why didn't you come with me? I asked you so. Oh, my poor, poor mother, if you only got up from the storm, if you knew, if you saw what they did to me!..
V.D. My darling, Varenka!
I’m sending you some grapes, darling; For a woman recovering, they say, this is good, and the doctor recommends it to quench thirst, but only for thirst. You wanted some roses the other day, little mother; So now I’m sending them to you. Do you have an appetite, darling? - that's the main thing. However, thank God that everything is over and over and that our misfortunes are also completely over. Let us give thanks to heaven! As for books, I can’t get them anywhere for now. There is, they say, a good book here, written in a very high style; They say it’s good, I haven’t read it myself, but here it’s highly praised. I asked for it for myself; promised to forward. Will you just read it? You are a picky person about this; difficult to please your taste; I already know you, my dear; You probably need all the poetry, sighs, cupids - well, I’ll get poetry, I’ll get everything; There is a notebook there, one copied.
I live well. You, little mother, don’t worry about me, please. And what Fedora told you about me is all nonsense; you tell her that she lied, be sure to tell her, the gossip!.. I didn’t sell the new uniform at all. And why, judge for yourself, why sell? Now, they say, I get forty rubles in silver for the award, so why sell it? You, little mother, don’t worry; she is suspicious, Fedorato, she is suspicious. We will live, my dear! Just you, little angel, get well, for God’s sake, get well, don’t upset the old man. Who is this telling you that I have lost weight? Slander, slander again! he is healthy and has grown so fat that he himself becomes ashamed, full and satisfied; If only you would get better! Well, goodbye, my little angel; I kiss all your fingers and remain your eternal, unchanging friend
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. Oh, my darling, what are you really starting to write again?.. what are you blissing about! But how can I go to you so often, little mother? I'm asking you. Is it taking advantage of the darkness of the night? Yes, now there are almost no nights: this is the time. Even then, my little angel, my little mother, I almost never left you at all during the entire time of your illness, during your unconsciousness; but even here I myself don’t know how I handled all these matters; and even then he stopped walking; for they began to be curious and question. There's already some gossip going on here. I hope for Teresa; she is not talkative; but still, you judge for yourself, little mother, what will it be like when they find out everything about us? What will they think and what will they say then? So, you hold your heart together, little mother, and wait until you get better; and then we’ll give a rendezvous somewhere outside the house.
Dear Makar Alekseevich!
I so want to do something pleasing and pleasant to you for all your troubles and efforts about me, for all your love for me, that I finally decided, out of boredom, to rummage through my chest of drawers and find my notebook, which I am now sending to you. I started it back in a happy time in my life. You often asked with curiosity about my former life, about my mother, about Pokrovsky, about my stay with Anna Fedorovna and, finally, about my recent misfortunes and so impatiently wanted to read this notebook, where I decided, God knows why, to note some moments from my life that I have no doubt will bring you great pleasure with my sending. I was somehow sad to re-read this. It seems to me that I have already aged twice as long since I wrote the last line in these notes. All this was written at different times. Farewell, Makar Alekseevich! I'm terribly bored now and often suffer from insomnia. What a boring recovery!
I was only fourteen years old when my father died. My childhood was the happiest time of my life. It didn’t start here, but far from here, in the provinces, in the wilderness. Father was the manager of the huge estate of Prince P-th, in the T-th province. We lived in one of the prince’s villages, and lived quietly, inaudibly, happily... I was such a playful little thing; All I did was run through the fields, through the groves, through the garden, and no one cared about me. Father was constantly busy with business, mother took care of the housework; They didn’t teach me anything, and I was glad of that. It happened that from the very early morning I would run away either to the pond, or to the grove, or to the hayfield, or to the reapers - and there was no need, that the sun was baking, that you would run you don’t know where from the village, scratch yourself on the bushes, tear your dress - at home Afterwards they scold me, but nothing to me.
And it seems to me that I would be so happy if I had to never leave the village and live in one place for the rest of my life. Meanwhile, when I was still a child, I was forced to leave my native place. I was only twelve years old when we moved to St. Petersburg. Oh, how sadly I remember our sad gatherings! How I cried when I said goodbye to everything that was so dear to me. I remember that I threw myself on the priest’s neck and with tears begged him to stay at least a little in the village. Father shouted at me, mother cried; She said that it was necessary, that business required it. Old Prince P died. The heirs refused the priest from his position. The priest had some money in circulation in the hands of private individuals in St. Petersburg. Hoping to improve his circumstances, he considered it necessary for his personal presence here. I learned all this later from my mother. We settled here on the Petersburg side and lived in one place until the priest’s death.
How hard it was for me to get used to my new life! We moved to St. Petersburg in the fall. When we left the village, the day was so bright, warm, bright; rural work ended; Huge stacks of grain were already piled up on the threshing floors and noisy flocks of birds were crowding around; everything was so clear and cheerful, but here, at our entrance to the city, there was rain, rotten autumn frost, bad weather, slush and a crowd of new, unfamiliar faces, inhospitable, dissatisfied, angry! Somehow we got settled. I remember everyone was so fussed around here, everyone was busy, getting a new household. Father was still not at home, mother had no quiet moment - I was completely forgotten. I was sad to get up in the morning, after the first night at our housewarming party. Our windows looked out onto some kind of yellow fence. There was always dirt on the street. Passers-by were rare, and they were all wrapped up so tightly, everyone was so cold.
And at home we had terrible melancholy and boredom all day long. We had almost no relatives or close friends. Father was in a quarrel with Anna Fedorovna. (He owed her something.) People came to us quite often on business. They usually argued, made noise, and shouted. After each visit, the priest became so dissatisfied and angry; He used to walk for hours at a time, from corner to corner, frowning, and would not utter a word to anyone. Mother did not dare to speak to him then and remained silent. I would sit somewhere in a corner with a book - quietly, quietly, sometimes I didn’t dare move.
Three months later, after our arrival in St. Petersburg, I was sent to a boarding school. That’s what made me sad at first when I was around strangers! Everything was so dry and unfriendly - the governesses were so loud, the girls were such mockers, and I was such a savage. Strictly, exactingly! The allotted hours, a common table, boring teachers - all this tormented me at first, tormented me. I couldn't even sleep there. I used to cry all night, a long, boring, cold night. It used to be that in the evenings everyone would repeat or learn lessons; I sit in conversation or vocabulary, I don’t dare move, but I keep thinking about our home corner, about my father, about my mother, about my old nanny, about my nanny’s fairy tales... oh, how sad it will be! The emptiest thing in the house, and that one you remember with pleasure. You think and think: how nice it would be at home now! I would sit in our small room, by the samovar, with our people; it would be so warm, good, familiar. How do you think she hugged mother now, tightly, tightly, hotly, hotly! You think and think, and you cry quietly with anguish, choking the tears in your chest, and vocabulary doesn’t come to mind. It’s like you won’t learn a lesson by tomorrow; I dream about the teacher, madam, girls all night; You repeat your lessons all night in your sleep, but the next day you don’t know anything. They will make you kneel and give you one meal. I was so sad and boring. At first, all the girls laughed at me, teased me, knocked me down when I told my lessons, pinched me when we walked in rows to dinner or tea, complained about me for no reason to the governess. But what a paradise when the nanny used to come for me on Saturday evening. I used to hug my old lady in a frenzy of joy. She dresses me, wraps me up, doesn’t keep up with me on the way, and I keep chatting, chatting, telling her. I’ll come home cheerful, joyful, I’ll hug our family tightly, as if after a ten-year separation. Rumors, conversations, stories will begin; You say hello to everyone, you laugh, you laugh, you run, you jump. Serious conversations will begin with the priest, about science, about our teachers, about the French language, about Lomond's grammar - and we are all so cheerful, so happy. Even now it’s fun for me to remember these minutes. I tried my best to study and please my father. I saw that he gave his last to me, and he fought God knows how. Every day he became gloomier, more dissatisfied, angrier; His character completely deteriorated: his business was not working out, he had an abyss of debts. Mother, it happened, was afraid to cry, she was afraid to say a word, so as not to anger the priest; I became so sick; I kept losing weight and losing weight and started coughing badly. I used to come home from the boarding house and everyone would have such sad faces; Mother is slowly crying, Father is angry. Reproaches and reproaches will begin. Father will begin to say that I do not give him any joy, any consolation; that because of me they are losing the latter, and I still don’t speak French; in a word, all the failures, all the misfortunes, everything, everything was taken out on me and mother. How could you torture poor mother? Looking at her, my heart broke, it happened: her cheeks were sunken, her eyes were sunken, her face had such a consumptive color. I got it the most. It always started with nothing, and then God knows what it got to; Often I didn’t even understand what was going on. What was not due!.. And the French language, and that I am a big fool, and that the owner of our boarding house is a careless, stupid woman; that she doesn’t care about our morality; that the priest still cannot find service for himself and that Lomond’s grammar is bad grammar, and Zapolsky’s is much better; that a lot of money was wasted on me; that I was apparently insensitive, stony - in a word, I, poor thing, struggled with all my might, repeating conversations and vocabulary, but I was to blame for everything, was responsible for everything! And this is not at all because the father did not love me: he did not hear the soul in me and mother. But that’s how it is, the character was like that.
Worries, grief, and failures exhausted the poor priest to the extreme: he became distrustful and bilious; he was often close to despair, began to neglect his health, caught a cold and suddenly fell ill, suffered for a short time and died so suddenly, so suddenly that we were all beside ourselves from the blow for several days. Mother was in a kind of daze; I was even afraid for her sanity. My father had just passed away, and creditors came to us as if from the earth, pouring in in a crowd. We gave everything we had. Our house on the Petersburg side, which my father bought six months after we moved to Petersburg, was also sold. I don’t know how the rest was settled, but we ourselves were left homeless, without shelter, without food. Matupka suffered from a debilitating illness, we could not feed ourselves, we had nothing to live on, and there was death ahead. I was only fourteen years old then. It was here that Anna Fedorovna visited us. She keeps saying that she is some kind of landowner and we are related to some kind of relatives. Mother also said that she was related to us, only very distant. During the priest’s life, she never came to see us. She appeared with tears in her eyes, saying that she was taking a great part in us; She condoled our loss, our plight, and added that it was Father’s own fault: that he lived beyond his strength, climbed far, and that he relied too much on his own strength. She showed a desire to get along with us briefly, offered to forget mutual troubles; and when mother announced that she had never felt hostility towards her, she shed tears, took mother to church and ordered a memorial service for my darling (that’s how she put it about the priest). After this, she solemnly made peace with her mother.
After long introductions and warnings, Anna Fedorovna, depicting in bright colors our plight, orphanhood, hopelessness, helplessness, invited us, as she herself put it, to take shelter with her. Mother thanked her, but hesitated for a long time; but since there was nothing to do and there was no other way to do it, she finally announced to Anna Fedorovna that we accept her offer with gratitude. I remember now the morning on which we moved from the St. Petersburg side to Vasilyevsky Island. It was an autumn morning, clear, dry, frosty. Mother was crying; I was terribly sad; My chest was torn, my soul was tormented by some inexplicable, terrible melancholy... It was a difficult time.
.....................
At first, while we, that is, mother and I, were still settling in at our housewarming party, we both felt somehow terrified, wild at Anna Fedorovna’s place. Anna Fedorovna lived in her own house, in the Sixth Line. There were a total of five clean rooms in the house. In three of them lived Anna Fedorovna and my cousin Sasha, who was raised by her - a child, an orphan, without a father or mother. Then we lived in the same room, and finally, in the last room, next to us, there lived one poor student, Pokrovsky, a lodger with Anna Feodorovna. Anna Fedorovna lived very well, richer than one might have expected; but her condition was mysterious, as were her activities. She was always fussing, always preoccupied, in and out several times a day; but what she did, what she cared about and why she cared, I could never guess. Her acquaintance was large and varied. Everyone used to have guests come to her, and God knows what kind of people, always on some business and for a moment. Mother always took me to our room, as soon as the bell rang. Anna Fedorovna was terribly angry with mother for this and constantly repeated that we were too proud, that we were too proud, that there would be more to be proud of, and she would not stop talking for hours at a time. I did not understand then these reproaches of pride; in the same way, I only now found out, or at least I can predict, why mother did not dare to live with Anna Fedorovna. The evil woman was Anna Fedorovna; she tormented us continuously. It’s still a mystery to me why exactly she invited us to her place? At first she was quite affectionate with us, and then she fully showed her true character, when she saw that we were completely helpless and that we had nowhere to go. Subsequently, she became very affectionate with me, even somehow rudely affectionate, to the point of flattery, but at first I suffered along with my mother. She constantly reproached us; All she did was talk about her good deeds. She recommended us to strangers as her poor relatives, a widow and a helpless orphan, whom she, out of mercy, for the sake of Christian love, sheltered. At the table, every piece we took was watched with her eyes, and if we didn’t eat, the story began again: they say, we disdain; Don’t ask, the richer you are, the happier you are, would it be better for us ourselves? She constantly scolded my father: she said that he wanted to be better than others, but it turned out badly; they say, he sent his wife and daughter around the world, and that if there had not been a relative of a beneficent, Christian soul, compassionate, God knows, perhaps he would have to rot of hunger in the middle of the street. What didn't she say? It was not as bitter as it was disgusting to listen to her. Mother cried every minute; Her health was getting worse day by day, she was apparently wasting away, and meanwhile we worked with her from morning to night, getting custom work, sewing, which Anna Fedorovna really didn’t like; She kept saying that she didn’t have a fashion store in her house. But it was necessary to dress, it was necessary to save for unforeseen expenses, it was necessary to have my own money. We saved up just in case, hoping that we could eventually move somewhere. But mother lost her last health at work: she grew weaker every day. The illness, like a worm, apparently undermined her life and brought her closer to the grave. I saw everything, felt everything, suffered everything; all this happened before my eyes!
Days passed after days, and each day was similar to the previous one. We lived quietly, as if we were not in the city. Anna Fedorovna gradually calmed down, as she herself became fully aware of her dominion. However, no one ever thought to contradict her. In our room we were separated from its half by a corridor, and next to us, as I already mentioned, Pokrovsky lived. He taught Sasha French and German, history, geography - all sciences, as Anna Fedorovna said, and for this he received an apartment and board from her; Sasha was an understanding girl, although playful and naughty; She was then about thirteen years old. Anna Feodorovna remarked to my mother that it would not be bad if I began to study, because at the boarding school I was undereducated. Mother happily agreed, and I studied with Pokrovsky for a whole year together with Sasha.
Pokrovsky was a poor, very poor young man; His health did not allow him to go constantly to study, and out of habit, he was called a student among us. He lived modestly, peacefully, quietly, so that we could not even hear him from our room. He looked so strange; He walked so awkwardly, bowed so awkwardly, spoke so wonderfully that at first I couldn’t even look at him without laughing. Sasha constantly played pranks on him, especially when he gave us lessons. And he was, in addition, of an irritable nature, constantly angry, losing his temper at every little thing, shouting at us, complaining about us, and often, without finishing the lesson, he went to his room angry. At home, he spent whole days sitting behind books. He had a lot of books, and all of them were expensive, rare books. He also taught here and there, received some pay, so that as soon as he had money, he immediately went to buy books for himself.
Over time, I got to know him better, in short. He was the kindest, most worthy person, the best of all whom I had the opportunity to meet. His mother respected him very much. Then he was the best of friends for me - of course, after my mother.
At first, I, such a big girl, played pranks together with Sasha, and we used to rack our brains for hours on how to tease him and drive him out of patience. He was terribly funny angry, and it was extremely funny for us. (I’m ashamed to even remember this.) Once we teased him with something almost to the point of tears, and I clearly heard him whisper: . I suddenly became embarrassed; I felt ashamed, and bitter, and sorry for him. I remember that I blushed to my ears and almost with tears in my eyes began to ask him to calm down and not be offended by our stupid pranks, but he closed the book, did not finish our lesson and went into his room. I spent the whole day bursting with remorse. The thought that we, children, brought him to tears with our cruelties was unbearable for me. We, therefore, were waiting for his tears. We, therefore, wanted them; therefore, we managed to bring him out of his last patience; therefore, we forcibly forced him, the unfortunate, the poor, to remember his fierce lot! I didn’t sleep all night from frustration, from sadness, from remorse. They say that repentance lightens the soul, but on the contrary. I don’t know how my grief and pride got mixed in. I didn't want him to think of me as a child. I was already fifteen then.
From that day on, I began to torment my imagination, creating thousands of plans to suddenly force Pokrovsky to change his opinion about me. But I was sometimes timid and shy; In my present situation, I could not decide on anything and limited myself to dreams (and God knows what dreams!). I just stopped playing pranks with Sasha; he stopped being angry with us; but this was not enough for my pride.
Now I will say a few words about one of the strangest, most curious and most pathetic people I have ever met. That’s why I’m talking about him now, precisely in this place in my notes, because until this very era I almost didn’t pay any attention to him - so everything related to Pokrovsky suddenly became interesting to me!
Sometimes an old man would appear in our house, dirty, poorly dressed, small, gray-haired, baggy, awkward, in a word, extremely strange. At first glance at him, one might think that he seemed to be ashamed of something, as if he was ashamed of himself. That’s why he somehow shrank, somehow grimaced; He had such tricks and antics that one could, almost without mistake, conclude that he was out of his mind. It used to be that he would come to us, but stand in the hallway by the glass doors and not dare to enter the house. Whoever of us passes by - me or Sasha, or one of the servants whom he knew was kinder to him - then he now waves, beckons to him, makes various signs, and unless you nod your head to him and call him - a conventional sign that there is no stranger in the house and that he can enter whenever he pleases - only then the old man would quietly open the door, smile joyfully, rub his hands with pleasure and tiptoe straight into Pokrovsky’s room. It was his father.
Then I learned in detail the whole story of this poor old man. He once served somewhere, was without the slightest ability and occupied the very last, most insignificant place in the service. When his first wife (the mother of student Pokrovsky) died, he decided to marry a second time and married a bourgeois woman. With a new wife, everything in the house went upside down; no one could live from it; she took control of everyone. Student Pokrovsky was then still a child, about ten years old. His stepmother hated him. But fate favored little Pokrovsky. The landowner Bykov, who knew the official Pokrovsky and was once his benefactor, took the child under his protection and placed him in some school. He was interested in him because he knew his late mother, who, while still a girl, was favored by Anna Fedorovna and given by her in marriage to the official Pokrovsky. Mr. Bykov, a friend and short acquaintance of Anna Fedorovna, moved by generosity, gave a dowry of five thousand rubles for the bride. Where this money went is unknown. This is how Anna Feodorovna told me all this; the student Pokrovsky himself never liked to talk about his family circumstances. They say that his mother was very pretty, and it seems strange to me why she married so unsuccessfully, to such an insignificant man... She died at a young age, four years after her marriage.
From school, young Pokrovsky entered some kind of gymnasium and then a university. Mr. Bykov, who came to St. Petersburg very often, did not leave him with his patronage. Due to his poor health, Pokrovsky could not continue his studies at the university. Mr. Bykov introduced him to Anna Feodorovna, recommended him himself, and thus young Pokrovsky was accepted as a loaf, with an agreement to teach Sasha everything he needed.
The old man Pokrovsky, out of grief at the cruelty of his wife, indulged in the worst vice and was almost always drunk. His wife beat him, sent him to live in the kitchen and drove him to such a state that he finally got used to beatings and ill-treatment and did not complain. He was not yet a very old man, but his bad inclinations had driven him almost out of his mind. The only sign of human noble feelings was his unlimited love for his son. They said that young Pokrovsky was like two peas in a pod like his late mother. Was it not the memories of his former good wife that gave rise to such boundless love for him in the heart of the deceased old man? The old man could not talk about anything else but his son, and constantly visited him twice a week. He did not dare to come more often, because young Pokrovsky could not stand his father’s visits. Of all his shortcomings, undoubtedly the first and most important was disrespect for his father. However, the old man was sometimes the most unbearable creature in the world. Firstly, he was terribly curious, secondly, with conversations and questions, the most empty and stupid, he constantly interfered with his son’s studies and, finally, sometimes appeared drunk. The son gradually weaned the old man from his vices, from curiosity and from constantly chattering, and finally brought him to the point that he listened to him in everything, like an oracle, and did not dare to open his mouth without his permission.
The poor old man could not be surprised and overjoyed at his Petenka (that’s what he called his son). When he came to visit him, he almost always had a kind of preoccupied, timid look, probably from not knowing how his son would receive him, he usually didn’t dare to come in for a long time, and if I happened to be here, he would spend about twenty minutes , asked - what, what is Petenka like? is he healthy? What exactly is his mood and is he doing anything important? What exactly does he do? Does he write or do any thinking? When I had sufficiently encouraged and reassured him, the old man finally decided to enter and quietly, quietly, carefully, carefully, opened the door, stuck one head in first, and if he saw that his son was not angry and nodded his head to him, then he quietly walked into the room and took off his his overcoat, his hat, which he always had wrinkled, full of holes, with the brim torn off - he hung everything on a hook, did everything quietly, inaudibly; then he carefully sat down on a chair somewhere and didn’t take his eyes off his son, catching all his movements, wanting to guess the disposition of his Petenka’s spirit. If the son was a little out of sorts and the old man noticed this, he would immediately rise from his seat and explain. And then, silently, obediently, he took his overcoat and hat, again slowly opened the door and left, smiling through his strength, in order to keep the simmering grief in his soul and not show it to his son.
But when the son accepts his father well, the old man cannot hear himself for joy. Pleasure was visible in his face, in his gestures, in his movements. If his son spoke to him, the old man always rose a little from his chair and answered quietly, obsequiously, almost with reverence, and always trying to use the most selective, that is, the most ridiculous, expressions. But the gift of speech was not given to him: he is always confused and shy, so that he does not know where to put his hands, what to do with himself, and after that he whispers the answer to himself for a long time, as if wanting to get better. If he managed to answer well, then the old man would preen himself, straighten his vest, tie, and tailcoat and assume an air of dignity. And sometimes he would become so encouraged, he would extend his courage to such an extent that he would quietly get up from his chair, go up to the shelf with books, take some book, and even immediately read something, no matter what the book was. He did all this with an air of feigned indifference and composure, as if he could always manage his son’s books like this, as if his son’s affection was no stranger to him. But I once happened to see how the poor man was frightened when Pokrovsky asked him not to touch the books. He was confused, he was in a hurry, he put the book upside down, then he wanted to correct himself, he turned it over and put it with the edge facing outwards, he smiled, blushed and did not know how to make up for his crime. Pokrovsky, with his advice, gradually weaned the old man from bad inclinations, and as soon as he saw him three times in a row sober, then at his first visit he gave him a quarter, fifty dollars or more as a farewell. Sometimes I bought him boots, a tie or a vest. But the old man in his new look was as proud as a rooster. Sometimes he came to see us. He brought me and Sasha gingerbread cockerels, apples, and kept talking to us about Petenka. He asked us to study carefully, to obey, and said that Petenka was a good son, an exemplary son, and, in addition, a learned son. Here he is like this. Sometimes he winked funny at us with his left eye, and made such funny faces that we couldn’t help laughing and laughed heartily at him. Mama loved him very much. But the old man hated Anna Feodorovna, although in front of her he was quieter than water, lower than the grass.
Soon I stopped studying with Pokrovsky. He still considered me a child, a playful girl, on the same level as Sasha. This was very painful for me, because I tried with all my might to make up for my previous behavior. But they didn't notice me. This irritated me more and more. I almost never spoke to Pokrovsky outside of class, and I couldn’t speak. I blushed, got in the way, and then cried out of frustration somewhere in a corner.
I don’t know how it would all have ended if one strange circumstance had not helped our rapprochement. One evening, when mother was sitting with Anna Fedorovna, I quietly entered Pokrovsky’s room. I knew that he was not at home, and, really, I don’t know why I decided to go to him. Until now, I had never looked at him, although we have lived next door for more than a year. This time my heart was beating so hard, so hard that it seemed like it wanted to jump out of my chest. I looked around with some special curiosity. Pokrovsky's room was very poorly decorated; there was little order. There were five long shelves with books nailed to the walls. There were papers on the table and chairs. Books and papers! A strange thought came to me, and at the same time some unpleasant feeling of annoyance took possession of me. It seemed to me that my friendship, my loving heart was not enough for him. He was learned, but I was stupid and didn’t know anything, didn’t read anything, not a single book... Then I looked enviously at the long shelves that were bursting with books. I was overcome by frustration, melancholy, and some kind of rage. I wanted to, and I immediately decided to read his books, all of them, and as soon as possible. I don’t know, maybe I thought that having learned everything he knew, I would be more worthy of his friendship. I rushed to the first shelf; without thinking, without stopping, she grabbed the first dusty old volume she came across and, blushing, turning pale, trembling with excitement and fear, she dragged the stolen book home, deciding to read it at night, by the night light, when mother fell asleep.
But how annoyed I was when, having arrived in our room, I hastily unfolded the book and saw some old, half-rotten, worm-eaten Latin work. I returned without wasting any time. Just as I was about to put the book on the shelf, I heard a noise in the corridor and someone’s close steps. I hurried, I hurried, but the obnoxious book was placed so tightly in a row that when I took one out, all the others dispersed of their own accord and crowded together so that now there was no more room left for their former comrade. I didn't have the strength to squeeze the book in. However, I pushed the books as hard as I could. The rusty nail on which the shelf was attached and which, it seemed, was deliberately waiting for this moment to break, broke. The shelf flew one end down. Books fell noisily to the floor. The door opened and Pokrovsky entered the room.
It should be noted that he could not stand it when anyone ruled in his domain. Woe to him who touched his books! Judge my horror when books, small, large, of all kinds of formats, of all possible sizes and thicknesses, rushed from the shelf, flew, jumped under the table, under the chairs, all over the room. I wanted to run, but it was too late. Pokrovsky became terribly angry. And he rushed to pick up the books. I bent down to help him. . But, however, slightly softened by my submissive movement, he continued more quietly, in a recent mentoring tone, taking advantage of the recent right of a teacher: And then, probably wanting to believe whether it was true that I was no longer little, he looked at me and blushed until ears. I didn't understand; I stood in front of him and looked at him with all my eyes in amazement. He stood up, approached me with an embarrassed look, looked terribly confused, said something, seemed to apologize for something, perhaps because he only now noticed that I was such a big girl. Finally I understood. I don’t remember what happened to me then; I was confused, lost, blushed even more than Pokrovsky, covered my face with my hands and ran out of the room.
I didn’t know what I could do, where I could go from shame. One thing is that he found me in his room! For three whole days I couldn’t look at him. I blushed until I cried. The strangest thoughts, the most funny thoughts were spinning in my head. One of them, the most extravagant, was that I wanted to go to him, explain myself to him, confess everything to him, frankly tell him everything and assure him that I did not act like a stupid girl, but with good intentions. I was completely determined to go, but, thank God, I didn’t have the courage. I can imagine what I would do! Even now I’m ashamed to remember all this.
A few days later, mother suddenly became dangerously ill. She had not gotten out of bed for two days and on the third night she was feverish and delirious. I didn’t sleep for one night, caring for my mother, I sat by her bed, gave her something to drink and gave her medicine at certain times. On the second night I was completely exhausted. At times I felt sleepy, my eyes turned green, my head was spinning, and every minute I was ready to fall from fatigue, but my mother’s weak moans woke me up, I shuddered, woke up for a moment, and then drowsiness overcame me again. I suffered. I don’t know - I can’t remember - but some terrible dream, some terrible vision visited my upset head in the agonizing moment of struggle between sleep and wakefulness. I woke up terrified. The room was dark, the night light went out, stripes of light suddenly flooded the entire room, then flickered slightly along the wall, then disappeared completely. For some reason I felt scared, some kind of horror attacked me; my imagination was agitated by a terrible dream; melancholy squeezed my heart... I jumped out of the chair and involuntarily cried out from some painful, terribly painful feeling. At this time the door opened and Pokrovsky entered our room.
All I remember is that I woke up in his arms. He carefully sat me down in a chair, handed me a glass of water and bombarded me with questions. I don’t remember what I answered him. - he continued, not allowing me to utter a single word of objection. Fatigue took the last of my strength; my eyes closed from weakness. I lay down in the chair, deciding to fall asleep only for half an hour, and slept until the morning. Pokrovsky woke me up only when it was time to give my mother the medicine.
The next day, when I, having rested a little during the day, was preparing to sit again in the chair by my mother’s bed, firmly deciding not to fall asleep this time, Pokrovsky knocked on our room at about eleven. I opened it. . I took it; I don't remember what book it was; It’s unlikely that I looked into it then, even though I didn’t sleep all night. A strange inner agitation did not let me sleep; I couldn't stay in one place; She got up from her chair several times and began to walk around the room. Some kind of inner contentment spread throughout my entire being. I was so glad to see Pokrovsky’s attention. I was proud of his concern and concern for me. I thought and dreamed all night. Pokrovsky did not come in again; and I knew that he would not come, and I made plans for the next evening.
The next evening, when everyone in the house had settled down, Pokrovsky opened his door and began talking to me, standing at the threshold of his room. I don’t remember now a single word of what we said to each other then; I only remember that I was timid, confused, annoyed with myself and impatiently awaiting the end of the conversation, although I myself wanted it with all my might, dreamed about it all day and composed my questions and answers... From that evening the first beginning of our friendship began. Throughout my mother’s illness, we spent several hours together every night. Little by little I overcame my shyness, although, after every conversation we had, there was still something to be annoyed with myself for. However, I saw with secret joy and proud pleasure that because of me he forgot his obnoxious books. By chance, as a joke, the conversation once turned to them falling off the shelf. It was a strange minute, I was somehow too frank and sincere; ardor, a strange enthusiasm carried me away, and I confessed to him everything... that I wanted to learn, to know something, that I was annoyed that they considered me a girl, a child... I repeat that I was in a very strange state. mood; my heart was soft, there were tears in my eyes - I did not hide anything and told everything, everything - about my friendship for him, about the desire to love him, to live with him at one heart, to console him, to calm him down. He looked at me strangely, with confusion, with amazement and did not say a word to me. I suddenly felt terribly painful and sad. It seemed to me that he didn’t understand me, that maybe he was laughing at me. I suddenly started crying like a child, I started sobbing, I couldn’t control myself; I was definitely in some kind of fit. He grabbed my hands, kissed them, pressed them to his chest, persuaded, consoled me; he was greatly moved; I don’t remember what he told me, but I just cried, and laughed, and cried again, blushed, and could not utter a word from joy. However, despite my excitement, I noticed that in Pokrovsky there still remained some kind of embarrassment and compulsion. It seems that he could not be surprised at my passion, my delight, such a sudden, hot, fiery friendship. Maybe he was just curious at first; Subsequently, his indecision disappeared, and he, with the same simple, direct feeling as I, accepted my affection for him, my friendly words, my attention, and responded to all this with the same attention, as friendly and affable as a sincere friend mine, like my own brother. My heart felt so warm, so good! .. I didn’t hide, I didn’t hide in anything; he saw all this and every day he became more and more attached to me.
And really, I don’t remember what we didn’t talk about with him during those painful and at the same time sweet hours of our meetings, at night, in the flickering light of a lamp and almost at the very bedside of my poor sick mother?.. About everything that came to mind, what it came from our hearts that we were asked to speak out - and we were almost happy... Oh, it was both a sad and joyful time - all together; and I am both sad and happy now to remember him. Memories, whether joyful or bitter, are always painful; at least that's how it is for me; but this torment is also sweet. And when the heart becomes heavy, painful, weary, sad, then memories freshen and live it, like drops of dew on a humid evening, after a hot day, freshen and live a poor, stunted flower, burned from the heat of the day.
Mother was recovering, but I still continued to sit at her bedside at night. Pokrovsky often gave me books; I read, first to avoid falling asleep, then more carefully, then greedily; A lot of new things suddenly opened up before me, hitherto unknown, unfamiliar to me. New thoughts, new impressions rushed to my heart all at once, in an abundant stream. And the more excitement, the more embarrassment and labor it cost me to receive new impressions, the sweeter they were to me, the sweeter they shook my whole soul. All at once, they suddenly crowded into my heart, not allowing it to rest. Some strange chaos began to disturb my entire being. But this spiritual violence could not and did not have the power to upset me completely. I was too dreamy and it saved me.
When my mother’s illness ended, our evening meetings and long conversations stopped; We sometimes managed to exchange words, often empty and meaningless, but I liked to give everything my own meaning, my own special, implied value. My life was full, I was happy, calm, quietly happy. Several weeks passed like this...
One day old Pokrovsky came to see us. He chatted with us for a long time, was unusually cheerful, cheerful, and talkative; he laughed, joked in his own way, and finally solved the riddle of his delight and announced to us that in exactly a week it would be Petenka’s birthday and that on this occasion he would certainly come to his son; that he would put on a new vest and that his wife promised to buy him new boots. In a word, the old man was completely happy and chatted about everything that came to his mind.
Oh, these storytellers! There is no way to write something useful, pleasant, delightful, otherwise they will tear out all the ins and outs of the ground!.. I would have forbidden them to write! Well, what is it like: you read... you involuntarily start thinking - and then all sorts of rubbish comes to mind; I really should have forbidden them to write; I would simply ban it altogether.
Book V. F. Odoevsky
April 8th
My priceless Varvara Alekseevna!
Yesterday I was happy, extremely happy, extremely happy! For once in your life, stubborn one, you listened to me. In the evening, at about eight o'clock, I wake up (you know, little mother, that I like to sleep for an hour or two after work), I took out a candle, got my papers ready, fixed my pen, suddenly, by chance, I raised my eyes - really, my heart started jumping like that ! So you understood what I wanted, what my heart wanted! I see that the corner of the curtain by your window is folded and attached to a pot of balsam, exactly as I hinted to you then; It immediately seemed to me that your little face flashed by the window, that you too were looking at me from your little room, that you too were thinking about me. And how annoyed I was, my dear, that I couldn’t get a good look at your pretty face! There was a time when we saw the light, little mother. Old age is not a joy, my dear! And now everything somehow dazzles in the eyes; you work a little in the evening, write something, and the next morning your eyes will be red, and tears will flow so that you even feel ashamed in front of strangers. However, in my imagination your smile, little angel, your kind, friendly smile just lit up; and in my heart there was exactly the same feeling as when I kissed you, Varenka - do you remember, little angel? Do you know, my darling, it even seemed to me that you shook your finger at me there? Is that right, minx? You will certainly describe all this in more detail in your letter.
Well, what is our idea about your curtain, Varenka? Nice, isn't it? Whether I’m sitting at work, whether I’m going to bed, whether I’m waking up, I already know that you too are thinking about me, you remember me, and you yourself are healthy and cheerful. Lower the curtain - it means goodbye, Makar Alekseevich, it’s time to sleep! If you wake up, it means good morning, Makar Alekseevich, how did you sleep, or how is your health, Makar Alekseevich? As for me, I, thank the Creator, am healthy and prosperous! You see, my darling, how cleverly this was invented; no letters needed! Tricky, isn't it? But the idea is mine! And what, what am I like about these matters, Varvara Alekseevna?
I will report to you, my little mother, Varvara Alekseevna, that I slept well this night, contrary to expectations, with which I am very pleased; although in new apartments, since housewarming, I always somehow can’t sleep; everything is right and wrong! Today I woke up like such a clear falcon - it’s fun and joyful! What a good morning it is today, little mother! Our window was opened; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air is breathing with spring aromas, and all nature is reviving - well, everything else there was also corresponding; everything is fine, like spring. I even dreamed quite pleasantly today, and all my dreams were about you, Varenka. I compared you to a bird of heaven, created for the joy of people and for the decoration of nature. I immediately thought, Varenka, that we, people who live in care and worry, should also envy the carefree and innocent happiness of the birds of the sky - well, and the rest is the same, the same; that is, I made all such distant comparisons. I have one book there, Varenka, so it’s the same thing, everything is described in great detail. I’m writing because there are different dreams, little mother. But now it’s spring, and all the thoughts are so pleasant, sharp, intricate, and tender dreams come; everything is in pink. That’s why I wrote all this; However, I took it all from a book. There the writer discovers the same desire in poetry and writes -
Why am I not a bird, not a bird of prey!
Well, etc. There are still different thoughts, but God bless them! But where did you go this morning, Varvara Alekseevna? I haven’t even gotten ready to take office yet, and you, truly like a spring bird, fluttered out of the room and walked around the yard looking so cheerful. I had so much fun looking at you! Ah, Varenka, Varenka! you are not sad; Tears cannot help grief; I know this, my little mother, I know this from experience. Now you feel so calm, and your health has improved a little. Well, what about your Fedora? Oh, what a kind woman she is! Varenka, write to me how you and she are living there now and are you happy with everything? Fedora is a little grouchy; Don’t look at it, Varenka. God be with her! She's so kind.
I have already written to you about Teresa here, who is also a kind and faithful woman. And how I worried about our letters! How will they be transmitted? And here’s how God sent Teresa to our happiness. She is a kind, meek, dumb woman. But our hostess is simply ruthless. He rubs it into his work like some kind of rag.
Well, what a slum I ended up in, Varvara Alekseevna! Well, it's an apartment! Before, I lived like such a wood grouse, you know: calmly, quietly; It happened to me that a fly flies, and you can hear the fly. And here there is noise, screaming, hubbub! But you still don’t know how it all works here. Imagine, roughly, a long corridor, completely dark and unclean. On his right hand there will be a blank wall, and on his left all the doors and doors, like numbers, all stretching out in a row. Well, they hire these rooms, and they have one room in each; they live in one and in twos and threes. Don't ask for order - Noah's Ark! However, it seems that the people are good, they are all so educated and scientists. There is one official (he is somewhere in the literary department), a well-read man: he talks about Homer, and about Brambeus, and about their various writers, he talks about everything - an intelligent man! Two officers live and everyone plays cards. The midshipman lives; The English teacher lives. Wait, I’ll amuse you, little mother; I will describe them in a future letter satirically, that is, how they are there on their own, in all detail. Our landlady, a very small and unclean old woman, walks around all day in shoes and a dressing gown and shouts at Teresa all day long. I live in the kitchen, or it would be much more correct to say this: here next to the kitchen there is one room (and we have, you should note, the kitchen is clean, bright, very good), the room is small, the corner is so modest... that is, or even better to say, the kitchen is large with three windows, so I have a partition along the transverse wall, so it looks like another room, a supernumerary number; everything is spacious, comfortable, there is a window, and that’s it - in a word, everything is comfortable. Well, this is my little corner. Well, don’t think, little mother, that there is anything different or a mysterious meaning here; what, they say, is the kitchen! - that is, I, perhaps, live in this very room behind the partition, but that’s okay; I live apart from everyone, I live little by little, I live quietly. I set up a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, a couple of chairs, and hung up an icon. True, there are better apartments - perhaps there are much better ones - but convenience is the main thing; After all, this is all for convenience, and don’t think that it’s for anything else. Your window is opposite, across the yard; and the yard is narrow, you’ll see you in passing - it’s all the more fun for me, the wretched one, and it’s also cheaper. We have the very last room here, with a table, it costs thirty-five rubles in banknotes. Can't afford it! And my apartment costs me seven rubles in banknotes, and a table of five rubles: that’s twenty-four and a half, and before I paid exactly thirty, but I denied myself a lot; I didn’t always drink tea, but now I’ve saved money on tea and sugar. You know, my dear, it’s somehow a shame not to drink tea; All the people here are wealthy, it’s a shame. For the sake of strangers you drink it, Varenka, for appearance, for tone; but for me it doesn’t matter, I’m not whimsical. Put it this way, for pocket money - whatever you need - well, some boots, a dress - will there be much left? That's all my salary. I don’t complain and I’m happy. It's enough. It's been enough for a few years now; There are also awards. Well, goodbye, my little angel. I bought a couple of pots of impatiens and geraniums there - inexpensively. Maybe you also like mignonette? So there is mignonette, you write; yes, you know, write everything down in as much detail as possible. However, don’t think anything and don’t doubt me, little mother, that I hired such a room. No, this convenience forced me, and this convenience alone seduced me. After all, little mother, I save money, I put it aside: I have some money. Don’t you look at the fact that I’m so quiet that it seems like a fly will knock me over with its wing. No, little mother, I am not a failure, and my character is exactly the same as befits a person with a strong and serene soul. Goodbye, my little angel! I signed for you on almost two sheets of paper, but it’s high time for service. I kiss your fingers, little mother, and remain your humble servant and most faithful friend.
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. I ask one thing: answer me, my angel, in as much detail as possible. With this, Varenka, I am sending you a pound of sweets; so eat them for your health, and, for God’s sake, don’t worry about me and don’t be complaining. Well, then goodbye, little mother.
April 8th
Dear Sir, Makar Alekseevich!
Do you know that I will finally have to completely quarrel with you? I swear to you, good Makar Alekseevich, that it’s even hard for me to accept your gifts. I know what they cost you, what deprivations and denials of the most essential things to yourself. How many times have I told you that I don’t need anything, absolutely nothing; that I am not able to repay you for the benefits that you have showered me with so far. And why do I need these pots? Well, balsamins are nothing, but why geranium? If you say one word carelessly, like about this geranium, you will immediately buy it; isn't it expensive? What a beauty the flowers are on her! Punch crosses. Where did you get such a pretty geranium? I placed it in the middle of the window, in the most visible place; I’ll put a bench on the floor, and I’ll put more flowers on the bench; Just let me get rich myself! Fedora couldn't be happier; It’s like heaven in our room now - clean, bright! Well, why candy? And really, I immediately guessed from the letter that something was wrong with you - and paradise, and spring, and fragrances were flying, and birds were chirping. What is this, I think, are there any poems here? After all, really, only poetry is missing in your letter, Makar Alekseevich! Both tender sensations and rose-colored dreams – it’s all here! I didn’t even think about the curtain; she probably got caught on her own when I was rearranging the pots; here you go!
Ah, Makar Alekseevich! No matter what you say, no matter how you calculate your income in order to deceive me, in order to show that they all go entirely to you alone, you will not hide or hide anything from me. It is clear that you are deprived of what you need because of me. Why did you get it into your head, for example, to rent such an apartment? After all, they bother you, disturb you; you feel cramped and uncomfortable. You love solitude, but here something is not near you! And you could live much better, judging by your salary. Fedora says that you used to live far better than now. Have you really lived your whole life like this, alone, in deprivation, without joy, without a friendly, welcoming word, taking corners from strangers? Ah, good friend, how I feel sorry for you! At least spare your health, Makar Alekseevich! You say that your eyes are weakening, so don’t write by candlelight; why write? Your jealousy for service is probably already known to your superiors.
Once again I beg you, do not spend so much money on me. I know that you love me, but you yourself are not rich... Today I also got up cheerfully. I felt so good; Fedora had been working for a long time, and she gave me a job too. I was so happy; I just went to buy some silk and got to work. The whole morning I felt so light in my soul, I was so cheerful! And now again all the black thoughts, sad; my whole heart sank.
Ah, something will happen to me, what will be my fate! The hard thing is that I am in such uncertainty, that I have no future, that I cannot even predict what will happen to me. It's scary to look back. There is such grief there that the heart is torn in half at the mere memory. I will forever cry over the evil people who destroyed me!
It's getting dark. It's time to get to work. I would like to write to you about a lot of things, but I don’t have time, I have work to do. We need to hurry. Of course, letters are a good thing; everything is not so boring. Why don’t you ever come to us yourself? Why is this, Makar Alekseevich? After all, now it’s close to you, and sometimes you have free time. Please come in! I saw your Teresa. She seems so sick; I felt sorry for her; I gave her twenty kopecks. Yes! I almost forgot: be sure to write everything, in as much detail as possible, about your life. What kind of people are around you, and do you live well with them? I really want to know all this. Look, be sure to write! Today I’m going to turn a corner on purpose. Go to bed early; Yesterday I saw your fire until midnight. Well, goodbye. Today is melancholy, boring, and sad! You know, this is the day! Farewell.
Varvara Dobroselova.
April 8th
Dear Madam,
Varvara Alekseevna!
Yes, little mother, yes, my dear, you know, such a day has turned out to be such a miserable one for me! Yes; you were playing a joke on me, an old man, Varvara Alekseevna! However, it’s his own fault, it’s everyone else’s fault! In old age, with a tuft of hair, you shouldn’t go into cupid and equivocation... And I’ll say one more thing, little mother: sometimes a person is wonderful, very wonderful. And, my saints! Whatever he talks about, he will sometimes bring it up! And what comes out, what follows from this? Yes, absolutely nothing follows, but what comes out is such rubbish that God save me! I, little mother, I’m not angry, but it’s just so annoying to remember everything, it’s annoying that I wrote to you so figuratively and stupidly. And I went into office today as such a dandy Gogol; there was such a radiance in my heart. For no apparent reason there was such a holiday in my soul; it was fun! He began to work on the papers diligently - but what came of it later! Only then, as soon as I looked around, everything became the same - both gray and dark. All the same ink stains, all the same tables and papers, and I’m still the same; just as he was, he remained exactly the same - so what was there to ride on Pegasus? Where did all this come from? That the sun came out and the sky roared! from this, or what? And what kind of aromas are there when something doesn’t happen to be in our yard under the windows! You know, it all seemed to me foolishly. But sometimes it happens that a person gets lost in his own feelings and becomes delusional. This comes from nothing other than excessive, stupid ardor of the heart. I didn’t come home, but trudged along; out of the blue I got a headache; this, you know, is all one to one. (It hit me in the back or something.) I was happy about the spring, I was a fool, but I went in a cold overcoat. And you were mistaken in my feelings, my dear! Their outpouring was taken in a completely different direction. Fatherly affection animated me, the only pure fatherly affection, Varvara Alekseevna; for I take the place of my own father in you, due to your bitter orphanhood; I say this from the soul, from a pure heart, in a kindred way. Be that as it may, I am even a distant relative to you, even according to the proverb, and the seventh water on jelly, but still a relative, and now your closest relative and patron; for where you most closely had the right to seek protection and protection, you found betrayal and insult. And as for the poems, I’ll tell you, little mother, that in my old age it is indecent for me to practice composing poetry. Poems are nonsense! Children are now whipped for writing poems in schools... that’s it, my dear.
Poor people
Ox, these are storytellers to me! There is no way to write something useful, pleasant, delightful, otherwise they will tear out all the ins and outs of the ground!.. I would have forbidden them to write! Well, what is it like: you read... you involuntarily think about it, and then all sorts of rubbish comes to mind; I really would have forbidden them to write, I would have simply forbidden them altogether.
Book V. F. Odoevsky
April 8th.
My priceless Varvara Alekseevna!
Yesterday I was happy, extremely happy, extremely happy! For once in your life, stubborn one, you listened to me. In the evening, at about eight o'clock, I wake up (you know, little mother, that I like to sleep for an hour or two after work), I took out a candle, got my papers ready, fixed my pen, suddenly, by chance, I raised my eyes - really, my heart started jumping like that ! So you understood what I wanted, what my heart wanted! I see that the corner of the curtain by your window is folded and attached to a pot of balsam, exactly as I hinted to you then; It immediately seemed to me that your little face flashed by the window, that you too were looking at me from your little room, that you too were thinking about me. And how annoyed I was, my dear, that I couldn’t get a good look at your pretty face! There was a time when we saw the light, little mother. Old age is not a joy, my dear! And now everything somehow dazzles in the eyes; you work a little in the evening, write something, and the next morning your eyes will be red, and tears will flow so that you even feel ashamed in front of strangers. However, in my imagination your smile, little angel, your kind, friendly smile just lit up; and in my heart there was exactly the same feeling as when I kissed you, Varenka - do you remember, little angel? Do you know, my darling, it even seemed to me that you shook your finger at me there. Is that right, minx? You will certainly describe all this in more detail in your letter.
Well, what is our idea about your curtain, Varenka? Nice, isn't it? Whether I’m sitting at work, whether I’m going to bed, whether I’m waking up, I already know that you too are thinking about me, you remember me, and you yourself are healthy and cheerful. Lower the curtain - it means goodbye, Makar Alekseevich, it’s time to sleep! If you wake up, it means good morning, Makar Alekseevich, how did you sleep, or how is your health, Makar Alekseevich? As for me, I, thank the Creator, am healthy and prosperous! You see, my darling, how cleverly this was invented; no letters needed! Tricky, isn't it? But the idea is mine! And what, what am I like about these matters, Varvara Alekseevna?
I will report to you, my little mother, Varvara Alekseevna, that I slept well this night, contrary to expectations, with which I am very pleased; although in new apartments, since housewarming, I always somehow can’t sleep; everything is right and wrong! Today I woke up like such a clear falcon - it’s fun and joyful! What a good morning it is today, little mother! Our window was opened; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air is breathing with spring aromas, and all nature is reviving - well, everything else there was also corresponding; everything is fine, like spring. I even dreamed quite pleasantly today, and all my dreams were about you, Varenka. I compared you to a bird of heaven, created for the joy of people and for the decoration of nature. I immediately thought, Varenka, that we, people who live in care and worry, should also envy the carefree and innocent happiness of the birds of the sky - well, and the rest is the same, the same; that is, I made all these distant comparisons. I have one book there, Varenka, so it’s the same thing, everything is described in great detail. I’m writing because there are different dreams, little mother. But now it’s spring, and the thoughts are all so pleasant, sharp, intricate, and tender dreams come; everything is pink. That’s why I wrote all this; However, I took it all from a book. There the writer discovers the same desire in poetry and writes -
Why am I not a bird, not a bird of prey!
Well, etc. There are still different thoughts, but God bless them! But where did you go this morning, Varvara Alekseevna? I haven’t even gotten ready to take office yet, and you, truly like a spring bird, fluttered out of the room and walked around the yard looking so cheerful. I had so much fun looking at you! Ah, Varenka, Varenka! you are not sad; Tears cannot help grief; I know this, my little mother, I know this from experience. Now you feel so calm, and your health has improved a little. Well, what about your Fedora? Oh, what a kind woman she is! Varenka, write to me how you and she are living there now and are you happy with everything? Fedora is a little grouchy; Don’t look at it, Varenka. God be with her! She's so kind.
I have already written to you about Teresa here, who is also a kind and faithful woman. And how I worried about our letters! How will they be transmitted? And here’s how God sent Teresa to our happiness. She is a kind, meek, dumb woman. But our hostess is simply ruthless. He rubs it into his work like some kind of rag.
Well, what a slum I ended up in, Varvara Alekseevna! Well, it's an apartment! Before, I lived like such a wood grouse, you know: calmly, quietly; It happened to me that a fly flies, and you can hear the fly. And here there is noise, screaming, hubbub! But you still don’t know how it all works here. Imagine, roughly, a long corridor, completely dark and unclean. On his right hand there will be a blank wall, and on his left all the doors and doors, like numbers, all stretching out in a row. Well, they hire these rooms, and they have one room in each; They live in one and in twos and threes. Don't ask for order - Noah's Ark! However, it seems that the people are good, they are all so educated, scientists. There is one official (he is somewhere in the literary department), a well-read man: he talks about Homer, and about Brambeus, and about their various writers - he talks about everything - an intelligent man! Two officers live and play cards all the time. The midshipman lives; The English teacher lives. Wait, I’ll amuse you, little mother; I will describe them in a future letter satirically, that is, how they are there on their own, in all detail. Our landlady, a very small and unclean old woman, walks around all day in shoes and a dressing gown and shouts at Teresa all day long. I live in the kitchen, or it would be much more correct to say this: here next to the kitchen there is one room (and we have, you should note, the kitchen is clean, bright, very good), the room is small, the corner is so modest... that is, or even better to say, the kitchen is large, with three windows, so I have a partition along the transverse wall, so it looks like another room, a supernumerary number; everything is spacious, comfortable, there is a window, and that’s it - in a word, everything is comfortable. Well, this is my little corner. Well, don’t think, little mother, that there is anything different or a mysterious meaning here; what, they say, is the kitchen! - that is, I, perhaps, live in this very room behind the partition, but that’s okay; I live apart from everyone, I live little by little, I live quietly. I set up a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, a couple of chairs, and hung up an icon. True, there are better apartments, perhaps there are much better ones, but convenience is the main thing; After all, this is all for convenience, and don’t think that it’s for anything else. Your window is opposite, across the yard; and the yard is narrow, you’ll see you in passing - it’s all the more fun for me, the wretched one, and it’s also cheaper. We have the very last room here, with a table, it costs thirty-five rubles in banknotes. Can't afford it! And my apartment costs me seven rubles in banknotes, and a table of five rubles: that’s twenty-four and a half, and before I paid exactly thirty, but I denied myself a lot; I didn’t always drink tea, but now I’ve saved money on tea and sugar. You know, my dear, it’s somehow a shame not to drink tea; There are plenty of people here, it’s a shame. For the sake of strangers you drink it, Varenka, for appearance, for tone; but for me it doesn’t matter, I’m not whimsical. Put it this way, for pocket money - whatever you need - well, some boots, a dress - will there be much left? That's all my salary. I don’t complain and I’m happy. It's enough. It's been enough for a few years now; There are also awards. Well, goodbye, my little angel. I bought a couple of pots of impatiens and geraniums there - inexpensively. Maybe you also like mignonette? So there is mignonette, you write; Yes, you know, write everything down in as much detail as possible. However, don’t think anything and don’t doubt me, little mother, that I hired such a room. No, this convenience forced me, and this convenience alone seduced me. After all, little mother, I am saving money, putting it aside; I have some money. Don’t you look at the fact that I’m so quiet that it seems like a fly will knock me over with its wing. No, little mother, I am not a failure, and my character is exactly the same as befits a person with a strong and serene soul. Goodbye, my little angel! I signed for you on almost two sheets of paper, but it’s high time for service. I kiss your fingers, little mother, and remain
your humble servant and truest friend
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. I ask one thing: answer me, my angel, in as much detail as possible. I am sending you this, Varenka,
Poor people
Thank you for downloading the book from the free electronic library http://site/ Happy reading!
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky
Poor people
Oh, these storytellers! There is no way to write something useful, pleasant, delightful, otherwise they will tear out all the ins and outs of the ground!.. I would have forbidden them to write! Well, what is it like: you read... you involuntarily think - and then all sorts of rubbish comes to mind; I really should have forbidden them to write; I would simply ban it altogether.
Book V. F. Odoevsky
April 8th
My priceless Varvara Alekseevna!
Yesterday I was happy, extremely happy, extremely happy! For once in your life, stubborn one, you listened to me. In the evening, at about eight o’clock, I wake up (you know, little mother, that I like to sleep for an hour or two after work), took out a candle, got my papers ready, fixed my pen, suddenly, by chance, I raised my eyes - really, my heart started jumping like that ! So you understood what I wanted, what my heart wanted! I see that the corner of the curtain by your window is folded and attached to a pot of balsam, exactly as I hinted to you then; It immediately seemed to me that your little face flashed by the window, that you too were looking at me from your little room, that you too were thinking about me. And how annoyed I was, my dear, that I couldn’t get a good look at your pretty face! There was a time when we saw the light, little mother. Old age is not a joy, my dear! And now everything somehow dazzles in the eyes; you work a little in the evening, write something, and the next morning your eyes will be red, and tears will flow so that you even feel ashamed in front of strangers. However, in my imagination your smile, little angel, your kind, friendly smile just lit up; and in my heart there was exactly the same feeling as when I kissed you, Varenka - do you remember, little angel? Do you know, my darling, it even seemed to me that you shook your finger at me there? Is that right, minx? You will certainly describe all this in more detail in your letter.
Well, what is our idea about your curtain, Varenka? Nice, isn't it? Whether I’m sitting at work, whether I’m going to bed, whether I’m waking up, I already know that you too are thinking about me, you remember me, and you yourself are healthy and cheerful. Lower the curtain - it means goodbye, Makar Alekseevich, it’s time to sleep! If you wake up, it means good morning, Makar Alekseevich, how did you sleep, or: how is your health, Makar Alekseevich? As for me, I, thank the Creator, am healthy and prosperous! You see, my darling, how cleverly this was invented; no letters needed! Tricky, isn't it? But the idea is mine! And what, what am I like about these matters, Varvara Alekseevna?
I will report to you, my little mother, Varvara Alekseevna, that I slept well this night, contrary to expectations, with which I am very pleased; although in new apartments, since housewarming, I always somehow can’t sleep; everything is right and wrong! Today I woke up like such a bright falcon - it’s fun! What a good morning it is today, little mother! Our window was opened; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air breathes with spring aromas, and all nature is reviving - well, everything else there was also corresponding; everything is fine, like spring. I even dreamed quite pleasantly today, and all my dreams were about you, Varenka. I compared you to a bird of heaven, created for the joy of people and for the decoration of nature. I immediately thought, Varenka, that we, people who live in care and worry, should also envy the carefree and innocent happiness of the birds of the sky - well, and the rest is the same, the same; that is, I made all such distant comparisons. I have one book there, Varenka, so it’s the same thing, everything is described in great detail. I’m writing because there are different dreams, little mother. But now it’s spring, and all the thoughts are so pleasant, sharp, intricate, and tender dreams come; everything is in pink. That’s why I wrote all this; However, I took it all from a book. There the writer discovers the same desire in poetry and writes -
Why am I not a bird, not a bird of prey!
Well, etc. There are still different thoughts, but God bless them! But where did you go this morning, Varvara Alekseevna? I haven’t even gotten ready to take office yet, and you, truly like a spring bird, fluttered out of the room and walked around the yard looking so cheerful. I had so much fun looking at you! Ah, Varenka, Varenka! you are not sad; Tears cannot help grief; I know this, my little mother, I know this from experience. Now you feel so calm, and your health has improved a little. Well, what about your Fedora? Oh, what a kind woman she is! Varenka, write to me how you and she are living there now and are you happy with everything? Fedora is a little grouchy; Don’t look at it, Varenka. God be with her! She's so kind.
I have already written to you about Teresa here, who is also a kind and faithful woman. And how I worried about our letters! How will they be transmitted? And here’s how God sent Teresa to our happiness. She is a kind, meek, dumb woman. But our hostess is simply ruthless. He rubs it into his work like some kind of rag.
Well, what a slum I ended up in, Varvara Alekseevna! Well, it's an apartment! Before, I lived like such a wood grouse, you know: calmly, quietly; It happened to me that a fly flies, and you can hear the fly. And here there is noise, screaming, hubbub! But you still don’t know how it all works here. Imagine, roughly, a long corridor, completely dark and unclean. On his right hand there will be a blank wall, and on his left all the doors and doors, like numbers, all stretching out in a row. Well, they hire these rooms, and they have one room in each; they live in one and in twos and threes. Don't ask for order - Noah's Ark! However, it seems that the people are good, they are all so educated and scientists. There is one official (he is somewhere in the literary department), a well-read man: he talks about Homer, and about Brambeus, and about their various writers, he talks about everything - an intelligent man! Two officers live and everyone plays cards. The midshipman lives; The English teacher lives. Wait, I’ll amuse you, little mother; I will describe them in a future letter satirically, that is, how they are there on their own, in all detail. Our landlady, a very small and unclean old woman, walks around all day in shoes and a dressing gown and shouts at Teresa all day long. I live in the kitchen, or it would be much more correct to say this: here next to the kitchen there is one room (and we have, you should note, the kitchen is clean, bright, very good), the room is small, the corner is so modest... that is, or even better to say, the kitchen is large with three windows, so I have a partition along the transverse wall, so it looks like another room, a supernumerary number; everything is spacious, comfortable, there is a window, and that’s it - in a word, everything is comfortable. Well, this is my little corner. Well, don’t think, little mother, that there is anything different or a mysterious meaning here; what, they say, is the kitchen! - that is, I, perhaps, live in this very room behind the partition, but that’s okay; I live apart from everyone, I live little by little, I live quietly. I set up a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, a couple of chairs, and hung up an icon. True, there are better apartments, perhaps there are much better ones, but convenience is the main thing; After all, this is all for convenience, and don’t think that it’s for anything else. Your window is opposite, across the yard; and the yard is narrow, you’ll see you in passing - it’s all the more fun for me, the wretched one, and it’s also cheaper. We have the very last room here, with a table, it costs thirty-five rubles in banknotes. Can't afford it! And my apartment costs me seven rubles in banknotes, and a table of five rubles: that’s twenty-four and a half, and before I paid exactly thirty, but I denied myself a lot; I didn’t always drink tea, but now I’ve saved money on tea and sugar. You know, my dear, it’s somehow a shame not to drink tea; All the people here are wealthy, it’s a shame. For the sake of strangers you drink it, Varenka, for appearance, for tone; but for me it doesn’t matter, I’m not whimsical. Put it this way, for pocket money - whatever you need - well, some boots, a dress - will there be much left? That's all my salary. I don’t complain and I’m happy. It's enough. It's been enough for a few years now; There are also awards. Well, goodbye, my little angel. I bought a couple of pots of impatiens and geranium there - inexpensively. Maybe you also like mignonette? So there is mignonette, you write; yes, you know, write everything down in as much detail as possible. However, don’t think anything and don’t doubt me, little mother, that I hired such a room. No, this convenience forced me, and this convenience alone seduced me. After all, little mother, I save money, I put it aside: I have some money. Don’t you look at the fact that I’m so quiet that it seems like a fly will knock me over with its wing. No, little mother, I am not a failure, and my character is exactly the same as befits a person with a strong and serene soul. Goodbye, my little angel! I signed for you on almost two sheets of paper, but it’s high time for service. I kiss your fingers, little mother, and remain your humble servant and most faithful friend.
Makar Alekseevich Devushkin is a titular councilor forty-seven years old, copying papers for a small salary in one of the St. Petersburg departments. He had just moved to a new apartment in a “main” building near Fontanka. Along the long corridor are the doors of rooms for residents; the hero himself huddles behind a partition in the common kitchen. His previous housing was “incomparably better,” but now the main thing for Devushkin is cheapness, because in the same courtyard he rents a more comfortable and expensive apartment for his distant relative Varvara Alekseevna Dobroselova.
A poor official takes under his protection a seventeen-year-old orphan, for whom there is no one but him to intercede. Living nearby, they rarely see each other, as Makar Alekseevich is afraid of gossip. However, both need warmth and sympathy, which they draw from almost daily correspondence with each other. The history of the relationship between Makar and Varenka is revealed in thirty-one - his and twenty-four - her letters, written from April 8 to September 30, 184... Makar’s first letter is permeated with the happiness of finding heartfelt affection: “... spring, so are thoughts everything is so pleasant, sharp, intricate, and tender dreams come..." Denying himself food and clothes, he saves money for flowers and sweets for his "angel."
Varenka is angry with the patron for excessive expenses, and cools his ardor with irony: “only poems are missing.” “Fatherly affection animated me, the only pure fatherly affection...” - Makar is embarrassed.
Varya persuades her friend to come to her more often: “Who cares?” She takes home work - sewing.
In subsequent letters, Devushkin describes in detail his home - “Noah’s Ark” due to the abundance of a motley audience - with a “rotten, pungently sweet smell” in which “the little siskins are dying.” He draws portraits of his neighbors: the card player midshipman, the petty writer Ratazyaev, the poor official without a job, Gorshkov and his family. The hostess is a “real witch.” He is ashamed that he is bad, he writes stupidly - “there is no syllable”: after all, he studied “not even with copper money.”
Varenka shares her anxiety: Anna Fedorovna, a distant relative, is “finding out” about her. Previously, Varya and her mother lived in her house, and then, supposedly to cover their expenses, the “benefactor” offered the girl, who was orphaned by that time, to the rich landowner Bykov, who dishonored her. Only Makar’s help saves the defenseless from final “death.” If only the pimp and Bykov didn’t find out her address! The poor thing falls ill from fear and lies unconscious for almost a month. Makar is nearby all this time. To get his little one back on his feet, he sells a new uniform. By June, Varenka recovers and sends notes to her caring friend with the story of her life.
Her happy childhood was spent in her family in the lap of rural nature. When my father lost his position as manager of the estate of Prince P-go, they came to St. Petersburg - “rotten,” “angry,” “sad.” Constant failures drove my father to the grave. The house was sold for debts. Fourteen-year-old Varya and her mother were left homeless and homeless. It was then that Anna Fedorovna took them in, and soon began to reproach the widow. She worked beyond her strength, ruining her poor health for the sake of a piece of bread. For a whole year, Varya studied with a former student, Pyotr Pokrovsky, who lived in the same house. She was surprised by the strange disrespect for the old father, who often visited his adored son, in “the kindest, most worthy man, the best of all.” He was a bitter drunkard, once a petty official. Peter's mother, a young beauty, was married to him with a rich dowry by the landowner Bykov. Soon she died. The widower remarried. Peter grew up separately, under the patronage of Bykov, who placed the young man, who left the university for health reasons, “to live” with his “short acquaintance” Anna Fedorovna.
Joint vigils at the bedside of Varya’s sick mother brought the young people closer together. An educated friend taught the girl to read and developed her taste. However, Pokrovsky soon fell ill and died of consumption. The hostess took all the deceased's belongings to pay for the funeral. The old father took as many books from her as he could and stuffed them into her pockets, hat, etc. It started to rain. The old man ran, crying, behind the cart with the coffin, and books fell from his pockets into the mud. He picked them up and ran after them again... Varya, in anguish, returned home to her mother, who was also soon taken away by death...
Devushkin responds with a story about his own life. He has been serving for thirty years. “Smirnenky”, “quiet” and “kind”, he became the subject of constant ridicule: “Makar Alekseevich was introduced into the proverb in our entire department”, “...they didn’t get to the boots, to the uniform, to the hair, to my figure: everything was not According to them, everything needs to be redone!” The hero is indignant: “Well, what’s wrong with me rewriting it! Is it a sin to rewrite, or what?” The only joy is Varenka: “It’s as if the Lord blessed me with a house and a family!”
On June 10, Devushkin takes his ward for a walk to the islands. She's happy. Naive Makar is delighted with Ratazyaev’s writings. Varenka notes the bad taste and pomposity of “Italian Passions”, “Ermak and Zuleika”, etc.
Realizing that Devushkin’s material worries about himself are too much for him (he behaved so much that he arouses contempt even among servants and watchmen), the sick Varenka wants to get a job as a governess. Makar is against: its “usefulness” lies in its “beneficial” influence on his life. He stands up for Ratazyaev, but after reading Pushkin’s “Station Warden,” sent by Varya, he is shocked: “I feel the same thing, just like in the book.” Vyrina tries on fate for herself and asks her “native” not to leave, not to “ruin” him. July 6 Varenka sends Gogol’s “The Overcoat” to Makar; that same evening they visit the theater.
If Pushkin's story elevated Devushkin in his own eyes, then Gogol's story offended him. Identifying himself with Bashmachkin, he believes that the author spied on all the little details of his life and unceremoniously made them public. The hero’s dignity is hurt: “after this you have to complain...”
By the beginning of July, Makar had spent everything. The only thing worse than lack of money is the ridicule of the tenants at him and Varenka. But the worst thing is that a “seeker” officer, one of her former neighbors, comes to her with an “undignified offer.” In despair, the poor man started drinking and disappeared for four days, missing service. I went to shame the offender, but was thrown down the stairs.
Varya consoles her protector and asks, despite the gossip, to come to her for dinner.
Since the beginning of August, Devushkin has been trying in vain to borrow money at interest, especially necessary in view of a new misfortune: the other day another “seeker” came to Varenka, directed by Anna Fedorovna, who herself will soon visit the girl. We need to move urgently. Makar starts drinking again out of helplessness. “For my sake, my darling, don’t ruin yourself and don’t ruin me,” the unfortunate woman begs him, sending her last “thirty kopecks in silver.” The encouraged poor man explains his “fall”: “how he lost respect for himself, how he indulged in denying his good qualities and his dignity, so here you are all lost!” Varya gives Makar self-respect: people “disgusted” him, “and I began to disdain myself, and you illuminated my whole dark life, and I learned that I was no worse than others; that I just don’t shine with anything, there’s no gloss, I’m not drowning, but still I’m a man, that in my heart and thoughts I’m a man.”
Varenka’s health is deteriorating, she is no longer able to sew. Anxious, Makar goes out on a September evening to the Fontanka embankment. Dirt, disorder, drunks - “boring”! And on neighboring Gorokhovaya there are rich shops, luxurious carriages, elegant ladies. The walker falls into “freethinking”: if work is the basis of human dignity, then why are so many idle people well-fed? Happiness is not given according to merit - therefore the rich should not be deaf to the complaints of the poor. Makar is a little proud of his reasoning and notes that “his syllable has been forming recently.” On September 9, luck smiled on Devushkin: summoned for a “scolding” to the general for a mistake in a paper, the humble and pitiful official received the sympathy of “His Excellency” and received one hundred rubles from him personally. This is a real salvation: we paid for the apartment, the table, the clothes. Devushkin is depressed by his boss’s generosity and reproaches himself for his recent “liberal” thoughts. Reading "Northern Bee". Full of hope for the future.
Meanwhile, Bykov finds out about Varenka and on September 20 comes to woo her. His goal is to have legitimate children in order to disinherit his “worthless nephew.” If Varya is against it, he will marry a Moscow merchant's wife. Despite the unceremoniousness and rudeness of the offer, the girl agrees: “If anyone can restore my good name, turn poverty away from me, it’s only him.” Makar dissuades: “Your heart will be cold!” Having fallen ill from grief, he still shares her efforts of getting ready for the trip until the last day.
September 30 - wedding. On the same day, on the eve of leaving for Bykov’s estate, Varenka writes a farewell letter to an old friend: “Who will you stay with here, kind, priceless, the only one!”
The answer is full of despair: “I worked, and wrote papers, and walked, and walked, all because you, on the contrary, lived nearby.” Who now needs his formed “syllable”, his letters, himself? “By what right” do they destroy “human life”?
Retold
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