Today we will talk about one of the most fascinating and wise novels in the history of Russian literature. As you already understood, this is Dostoevsky's Poor People. The summary of this work, although it will not allow you to fully feel the characters, feel the atmosphere, but will allow you to get acquainted with the main characters and key plot points. So, let's begin.
Getting to know the main characters
Devushkin Makar Alekseevich - the main character of the novel "Poor People" by Dostoevsky. A brief summary allows you to get a general idea about it. Devushkin, a forty-seven-year-old titular adviser, is engaged in copying papers in one of the St. Petersburg departments for a modest salary. By the time the story begins, he is just moving into a new apartment not far from the Fontanka, in a "capital" house. Along the long corridor are the doors of the rooms of other residents, and Devushkin himself huddles behind a partition in the common kitchen. His previous dwelling was an order of magnitude better, but now for the adviser in the first place - cheapness, because he also has to pay for an expensive and comfortable apartment in the same courtyard for Varvara Alekseevna Dobroselova, his distant relative. The poor official also takes care of a seventeen-year-old orphan, for whom, apart from Devushkin himself, there is simply no one to intercede.
The beginning of the tender friendship between Varenka and Makar
Varvara and Makar live nearby, but they rarely see each other - Devushkin is afraid of gossip and gossip. Nevertheless, both need sympathy, and how do the characters in Dostoevsky's Poor Folk manage to find it? The summary does not mention how the correspondence between Makar and Varenka began, but very soon they begin to write almost every day. 31 letters from Makar and 24 from Vari, written between April 8 and September 30, 184 ..., reveal their relationship. The official denies himself clothes and food in order to allocate funds for sweets and flowers for his "angel". Varenka, in turn, is angry with her patron for the high costs. Makar claims that he is driven only by paternal affection. The woman invites him to visit more often, they say, who cares? Varenka also takes home work - sewing.
More letters to follow. Makar tells his friend about his home, comparing it with Noah's Ark in terms of the abundance of a diverse audience, draws portraits of his neighbors for her.
Here comes a new difficult situation in the life of the heroine of the novel "Poor People" by Dostoevsky. The summary in general terms tells us about how her distant relative, Anna Fedorovna, learns about Varenka. For some time, Varya and her mother lived in the house of Anna Fedorovna, and after that, in order to be able to cover expenses, the woman offered the girl (at that time already an orphan) to the wealthy landowner Bykov. He dishonored her, and now Varya fears that Bykov and the matchmaker will find out her address. Fear undermined the health of the poor thing, and only Makar's care saves her from the final "death". The official sells his old uniform in order to get out his "yasochka". By the summer, Varenka is getting better and sends notes to his caring friend, in which he talks about his life.
Varya's happy childhood passed in the bosom of rural nature, in the circle of his family. However, soon the father of the family lost his job, followed by a series of other failures that brought him to the grave. Fourteen-year-old Varya and her mother were left alone in the whole world, and the house was forced to be sold to cover debts. At that moment, Anna Fedorovna sheltered them. Varya's mother worked tirelessly and thereby ruining her already precarious health, but the patroness continued to reproach her. Varya herself began to study with Peter Pokrovsky, a former student who lived in the same house. The girl was surprised that a kind and worthy man treats his father with disrespect, who, on the contrary, tried to see his adored son as often as possible. This man was once a petty official, but by the time of our story he had already completely drunk himself. The landowner Bykov married Peter's mother to him with an impressive dowry, but soon the young beauty died. The widower remarried. Peter himself grew up separately, Bykov became his patron, and it was he who decided to place the young man, who was forced to leave the institute due to his state of health, “on bread” to Anna Fedorovna, his “short acquaintance”.
Young people get closer, caring for Varya's mother, who does not get out of bed. An educated acquaintance introduced the girl to reading, helped her develop a taste. But after some time, Pokrovsky falls ill with consumption and dies. On account of the funeral, the hostess takes all the few things of the deceased. The old father managed to take a few books from her, he filled his hat, pockets, etc. with them. It began to rain. The old man, in tears, ran after the cart that was carrying the coffin, and books fell from his pockets into the dirt. He picked them up and continued to run after them. In anguish, Varya returned home to her mother, but she, too, was soon overtaken by death.
As you can already see, there are many themes that Dostoevsky touches on in his work. “Poor people”, the summary of which is the topic of our conversation today, also describes the life of Devushkin himself. In letters to Varenka, he says that he has been serving for thirty years. A “kind”, “quiet” and “quiet” person becomes the subject of ridicule of others. Makar is indignant, and considers Varenka the only joy in his life - as if "the Lord blessed me with a house committee and family!"
Sick Varya gets a job as a governess, as Makar's inability to financially take care of herself becomes obvious to her - even servants and watchmen no longer look at him without contempt. The official himself is against this, since he believes that in order to be useful, it is enough for Varenka to continue to have a beneficial effect on him, on his life.
Varya sends Devushkin books - Pushkin's "Station Master", and then - Gogol's "Overcoat". But if the first allowed the official to rise in his eyes, then the second, on the contrary, offends him. Makar identifies himself with Bashmachkin and believes that the author brazenly spied on and made public all the little things in his life. His dignity is hurt, he believes that "after this you have to complain."
Unexpected difficulties
Until the beginning of July, Makar had spent all his savings. More than poverty, he is only worried about the endless ridicule of the tenants over him and Varenka. However, the worst thing is that one day one of the former neighbors, a “searcher” officer, comes to her and makes a “unworthy offer” to the woman. Surrendering to despair, the hero goes on a drinking binge for several days, disappears and misses the service. Devushkin meets with the offender and makes an attempt to shame him, but in the end he himself is thrown down the stairs.
Varya tries, as best she can, to console her protector and urges him not to pay attention to gossip and come to her for dinner.
Since August, Makar has been striving to borrow money at interest, but all his attempts have ended in failure. A new one was added to all the previous problems: at the instigation of Anna Feodorovna, a new “seeker” appeared at Varenka. Soon Anna herself visits the girl. There is a need to move as soon as possible. Out of impotence, Devushkin started drinking again, but Varya helps him regain his self-respect and desire to fight.
The well-being of Varenka herself is rapidly deteriorating, the woman is no longer able to sew. On a September evening, to dispel his anxiety, Makar decides to take a walk along the Fontanka embankment. He begins to reflect on why, if labor is considered the basis, so many loafers never feel the need for food and clothing. He comes to the conclusion that happiness is not given to a person for any of his merits, and therefore the rich should not ignore the complaints of the poor.
On September 9, fortune smiled at Makar. The official made a mistake on paper and was sent to the general for "reproach". The pathetic and humble official aroused sympathy in the heart of "His Excellency" and received a hundred rubles from the general personally. This is a real salvation in Devushkin's plight: he manages to pay for an apartment, clothes, a table. The boss's generosity makes Makar feel ashamed of his recent "liberal" musings. The official is again full of hope for the future, he spends his free time reading the Northern Bee.
Here, a character is once again wedged into the plot, which Dostoevsky had already mentioned earlier. “Poor people”, the summary of which is approaching the conclusion, continues when Bykov learns about Varenka and on September 20 begins to woo her. He seeks to have legitimate children so that the "unfit nephew" does not receive an inheritance. Bykov prepared a fallback: if Varya refuses him, he makes an offer to a merchant from Moscow. However, despite the fact that the proposal was made in a rude and unceremonious manner, Varya agrees. Makar tries to dissuade her friend (“your heart will be cold!”), But the girl is adamant - she believes that only Bykov can save her from poverty and return her honest name to her. Devushkin falls ill from grief, but until the last day he continues to help Varenka with packing for the journey.
End of story
On September 30, the wedding took place. On the same day, just before leaving for the Bykov estate, the girl writes a farewell letter.
Devushkin's answer is full of despair. He will not be able to change anything, but he considers it his duty to say that all this time he has been depriving himself of all the benefits only because "you ... lived here, nearby, on the contrary." Now the formed syllable of the letter, and Makar himself, is of no use to anyone. He does not know by what right it is possible to destroy a man's life.
poor people
Ox, these storytellers to me! There is no way to write something useful, pleasant, delightful, otherwise they tear out all the ins and outs in the ground! .. I would forbid them to write! Well, what does it look like: you read ... you involuntarily think - and there all sorts of rubbish will go into your head; it would be right to forbid them to write, but it would simply be completely forbidden.
Book. V. F. Odoevsky
April 8th.
My priceless Varvara Alekseevna!
Yesterday I was happy, overly happy, extremely happy! At least once in your life, you stubborn one, listened to me. In the evening, at eight o'clock, I wake up (you know, mother, that I like to sleep for an hour or two after my office), I took out a candle, I prepare papers, I repair my pen, suddenly, by chance, I raise my eyes - really, my heart started to jump like that ! So you did understand what I wanted, what my heart wanted! I see that the corner of the curtain at your window is bent 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 of me. And how vexed I was, my dear, that I could not see your pretty little face! There was a time when we also saw light, mother. Not the joy of old age, my dear! And now everything somehow ripples in the eyes; if you work a little in the evening, if you write something, in the morning your eyes will turn red, and tears will flow in such a way that you even feel ashamed in front of strangers. However, in my imagination, your smile brightened up, angel, your kind, friendly smile; and my heart had exactly the same feeling as when I kissed you, Varenka - do you remember, little angel? You know, my dear, I even thought that you shook your finger at me there. Is that right, slut? Be sure to describe all this in more detail in your letter.
Well, what is our idea about your curtain, Varenka? It's nice, isn't it? Whether I sit at work, whether I go to bed, whether I wake up, I already know what you think about me there, remember me, and you yourself are healthy and cheerful. Lower the curtain - so goodbye, Makar Alekseevich, it's time to sleep! Raise - that means good morning, Makar Alekseevich, how did you sleep, or: how are you in your health, Makar Alekseevich? As for me, thank the Creator, I am healthy and prosperous! You see, my dear, how cleverly it is thought up; and letters are not needed! Cheeky, isn't it? But it's my idea! And what, what kind of business am I, Varvara Alekseevna?
I will report to you, my mother, Varvara Alekseevna, that I slept that night in good order, contrary to expectations, which I am very pleased with; although in new apartments, from housewarming, and somehow he always can’t sleep; everything is so, but not so! I got up today with such a clear falcon - it's fun! What a good morning this is, mother! We have opened a window; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air is breathing with spring aromas, and all nature is enlivening - well, everything else there was also appropriate; it's all right, like spring. I even dreamed rather pleasantly today, and all my dreams were about you, Varenka. I compared you with a bird of heaven, for the joy of people and for the decoration of nature created. I immediately thought, Varenka, that we, people living in care and anxiety, should also envy the carefree and innocent happiness of heavenly birds - well, everything else is the same, similar to this; that is, I made all such remote comparisons. I have one book there, Varenka, so it contains the same thing, everything is described in great detail. I am writing to that, after all, there are different dreams, mother. And now it's spring, and the thoughts are all so pleasant, sharp, intricate, and tender dreams come; everything is in pink. That's why I wrote it all; However, I took it all from the book. There the writer discovers the same desire in rhymes and writes -
Why am I not a bird, not a bird of prey!
Well, and so on. There are still different thoughts, but God bless them! But where did you go this morning, Varvara Alekseevna? I hadn’t even taken up my position yet, and you, really like a spring bird, fluttered out of the room and walked around the yard looking so cheerful. How I had fun looking at you! Oh, Varenka, Varenka! you are not sad; grief cannot be helped with tears; I know this, my mother, I know this from experience. Now you are so calm, and your health has recovered a little. Well, what about your Fedora? Oh, what a kind woman she is! Will you write to me, Varenka, how you and her live there now, and are you satisfied with everything? Fedora is a little grouchy; don't look at it, Varenka. God be with her! She is 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 is how the Lord sent Teresa for our happiness. She is a kind, meek, wordless woman. But our hostess is just ruthless. Rubs it into work, like some kind of rag.
Well, what a slum I ended up in, Varvara Alekseevna! Well, it's an apartment! Before, after all, I lived like a capercaillie, you know yourself: quietly, quietly; I used to have a fly flying, and you could hear the fly. And here noise, shout, hubbub! Why, 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, everything stretches in a row like that. Well, they hire these numbers, and they have one room in each; live in one and two and three. Do not ask in order - Noah's Ark! However, it seems that people are good, they are all so educated, scientists. There is only one official (he is somewhere in the literary part), a well-read man: both about Homer and Brambeus, and he talks about different writers there, - he talks about everything, - a smart person! Two officers live and all play cards. Midshipman lives; English teacher lives. Wait, I'll amuse you, mother; I will describe them in a future letter satirically, that is, how they are there by themselves, with all the details. Our hostess, a very small and unclean old woman, walks all day in slippers and a dressing gown, and all day long she shouts at Teresa. I live in the kitchen, or it would be much more correct to say this: there is one room near the kitchen (and we, you should notice, 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 that it looks like another room, a supernumerary number; everything is spacious, comfortable, and there is a window, and that's it - in a word, everything is convenient. Well, here is my corner. Well, then don’t you think, mother, that there is something so different and what a mysterious meaning it was; what a 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 the image. True, there are even better apartments, perhaps there are much better ones, but convenience is the main thing; after all, I am all for convenience, and you do not think that for something else. Your window is opposite, across the yard; and the courtyard is narrow, you will see you in passing - everything is more fun for me, the unfortunate one, and even cheaper. We have the very last room here, with a table, thirty-five rubles in banknotes costs. It is too expensive! And my apartment costs me seven rubles in banknotes, and a table five rubles: here are twenty-four and a half, and before that I paid exactly thirty, but in many ways I denied myself; He didn't always drink tea, but now he's paid for tea and sugar. It is, you know, my dear, not to drink tea is somehow ashamed; there are enough people here, and it's a shame. For the sake of strangers, you drink it, Varenka, for appearance, for tone; but I don't care, I'm not whimsical. Put it this way, for pocket money - everything is required to some extent - well, some boots, a dress - how much will be left? That's all my pay. I don't complain and I'm happy. It is enough. It's been enough for a few years now; there are also awards. Well, goodbye, my angel. I bought a couple of balsamic pots and geraniums there - cheap. And you, maybe, love mignonette? So there is mignonette, you write; Yes, you know, write everything in as much detail as possible. However, don’t think anything and don’t doubt, mother, about me that I hired such a room. No, this convenience forced me, and one convenience seduced me. After all, mother, I save money, save it; I have money. You do not look at the fact that I am so quiet that it seems that a fly will knock me over with its wing. No, mother, I myself am not a mistake, and my character is exactly the same as a decently firm and serene soul for a person. Farewell, my angel! I signed for you almost on two sheets, but it's time for the service. I kiss your fingers, mother, and stay
Ox, these storytellers to me! There is no way to write something useful, pleasant, delightful, otherwise they tear out all the ins and outs in the ground! .. I would forbid them to write! Well, what does it look like: you read ... you involuntarily think - and there all sorts of rubbish will go into your head; it would be right to forbid them to write, but it would simply be completely forbidden.
Book. V. F. Odoevsky The epigraph is taken from the story of V. F. Odoevsky (1804-1869) "The Living Dead" (1844).
April 8th.
My priceless Varvara Alekseevna!
Yesterday I was happy, overly happy, extremely happy! At least once in your life, you stubborn one, listened to me. In the evening, at eight o'clock, I wake up (you know, mother, that I like to sleep for an hour or two after my office), I took out a candle, I prepare papers, I repair my pen, suddenly, by chance, I raise my eyes - really, my heart started to jump like that ! So you did understand what I wanted, what my heart wanted! I see that the corner of the curtain at your window is bent 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 of me. And how vexed I was, my dear, that I could not see your pretty little face! There was a time when we also saw light, mother. Not the joy of old age, my dear! And now everything somehow ripples in the eyes; if you work a little in the evening, if you write something, in the morning your eyes will turn red, and tears will flow in such a way that you even feel ashamed in front of strangers. However, in my imagination, your smile brightened up, angel, your kind, friendly smile; and my heart had exactly the same feeling as when I kissed you, Varenka - do you remember, little angel? You know, my dear, I even thought that you shook your finger at me there. Is that right, slut? Be sure to describe all this in more detail in your letter.
Well, what is our idea about your curtain, Varenka? It's nice, isn't it? Whether I sit at work, whether I go to bed, whether I wake up, I already know what you think about me there, remember me, and you yourself are healthy and cheerful. Lower the curtain - so goodbye, Makar Alekseevich, it's time to sleep! Raise - that means good morning, Makar Alekseevich, how did you sleep, or: how are you in your health, Makar Alekseevich? As for me, thank the Creator, I am healthy and prosperous! You see, my dear, how cleverly it is thought up; and letters are not needed! Cheeky, isn't it? But it's my idea! And what, what kind of business am I, Varvara Alekseevna?
I will report to you, my mother, Varvara Alekseevna, that I slept that night in good order, contrary to expectations, which I am very pleased with; although in new apartments, from housewarming, and somehow he always can’t sleep; everything is so, but not so! I got up today with such a clear falcon - it's fun! What a good morning this is, mother! We have opened a window; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air is breathing with spring aromas, and all nature is enlivening - well, everything else there was also appropriate; it's all right, like spring. I even dreamed rather pleasantly today, and all my dreams were about you, Varenka. I compared you with a bird of heaven, for the joy of people and for the decoration of nature created. I immediately thought, Varenka, that we, people living in care and anxiety, should also envy the carefree and innocent happiness of heavenly birds - well, everything else is the same, similar to this; that is, I made all such remote comparisons. I have one book there, Varenka, so it contains the same thing, everything is described in great detail. I am writing to that, after all, there are different dreams, mother. And now it's spring, and the thoughts are all so pleasant, sharp, intricate, and tender dreams come; everything is in pink. That's why I wrote it all; However, I took it all from the book. There the writer discovers the same desire in rhymes and writes -
Why am I not a bird, not a bird of prey!
Well, and so on. There are still different thoughts, but God bless them! But where did you go this morning, Varvara Alekseevna? I hadn’t even taken up my position yet, and you, really like a spring bird, fluttered out of the room and walked around the yard looking so cheerful. How I had fun looking at you! Oh, Varenka, Varenka! you are not sad; grief cannot be helped with tears; I know this, my mother, I know this from experience. Now you are so calm, and your health has recovered a little. Well, what about your Fedora? Oh, what a kind woman she is! Will you write to me, Varenka, how you and her live there now, and are you satisfied with everything? Fedora is a little grouchy; don't look at it, Varenka. God be with her! She is 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 is how the Lord sent Teresa for our happiness. She is a kind, meek, wordless woman. But our hostess is just ruthless. Rubs it into work, like some kind of rag.
Well, what a slum I ended up in, Varvara Alekseevna! Well, it's an apartment! Before, after all, I lived like a capercaillie, you know yourself: quietly, quietly; I used to have a fly flying, and you could hear the fly. And here noise, shout, hubbub! Why, 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, everything stretches in a row like that. Well, they hire these numbers, and they have one room in each; live in one and two and three. Do not ask in order - Noah's Ark! However, it seems that people are good, they are all so educated, scientists. There is only one official (he is somewhere in the literary part), a well-read man: both about Homer and BrambeusBrambeus is the pseudonym of O. I. Senkovsky (1800–1858), writer and editor of the Library for Reading magazine, whose works were popular among undemanding readers. , and he talks about different writers there - he talks about everything - a smart person! Two officers live and all play cards. Midshipman lives; English teacher lives. Wait, I'll amuse you, mother; I will describe them in a future letter satirically, that is, how they are there by themselves, with all the details. Our hostess, a very small and unclean old woman, walks all day in slippers and a dressing gown, and all day long she shouts at Teresa. I live in the kitchen, or it would be much more correct to say this: there is one room near the kitchen (and we, you should notice, 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 that it looks like another room, a supernumerary number; everything is spacious, comfortable, and there is a window, and that's it - in a word, everything is convenient. Well, here is my corner. Well, don’t you think, little mother, that there is something so different and what a mysterious meaning it was; what a 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 the image. True, there are even better apartments, perhaps there are much better ones, but convenience is the main thing; after all, I am all for convenience, and you do not think that for anything else. Your window is opposite, across the yard; and the yard is narrow, you will see you in passing - everything is more fun for me, the unfortunate one, and even cheaper. We have the very last room here, with a table, thirty-five rubles in banknotes... thirty-five rubles in banknotes- paper money. At the official exchange rate, one ruble in banknotes was equal to 27 kopecks. silver. costs. It is too expensive! And my apartment costs me seven rubles in banknotes, and a table five rubles: here are twenty-four and a half, and before that I paid exactly thirty, but in many ways I denied myself; He didn't always drink tea, but now he's paid for tea and sugar. It is, you know, my dear, not to drink tea is somehow ashamed; there are enough people here, and it's a shame. For the sake of strangers, you drink it, Varenka, for appearance, for tone; but I don't care, I'm not whimsical. Put it this way, for pocket money - everything is required to some extent - well, some boots, a dress - how much will be left? That's all my pay. I don't complain and I'm happy. It is enough. It's been enough for a few years now; there are also awards. Well, goodbye, my angel. I bought a couple of balsamic pots and geraniums there - cheap. And you, maybe, love mignonette? So there is mignonette, you write; Yes, you know, write everything in as much detail as possible. However, don’t think anything and don’t doubt, mother, about me that I hired such a room. No, this convenience forced me, and one convenience seduced me. After all, mother, I save money, save it; I have money. You do not look at the fact that I am so quiet that it seems that a fly will knock me over with its wing. No, mother, I myself am not a mistake, and my character is exactly the same as a decently firm and serene soul for a person. Farewell, my angel! I signed for you almost on two sheets, but it's time for the service. I kiss your fingers, mother, and stay
Your humble servant and most faithful friend
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. I ask you one thing: answer me, my angel, in as much detail as possible. I'm sending you with this, Varenka, a pound of sweets; so you eat them for health, but for God's sake do not worry about me and do not be in a claim. Well, goodbye, mother.
April 8th.
Do you know that I will finally have to quarrel with you completely? I swear to you, kind Makar Alekseevich, that it is even hard for me to accept your gifts. I know what they cost you, what hardships and denials of the need for yourself. How many times have I told you that I don't need anything, absolutely nothing; that I am unable to repay you for the good deeds with which you have hitherto showered me. And why do I need these pots? Well, balsams are still nothing, but why geraniums? One word is worth carelessly saying, as, for example, about this geranium, you will immediately buy it; right, dear? What a beauty on her flowers! Punch crosses. Where did you get such a pretty geranium? I put it in the middle of the window, in the most visible place; I will put a bench on the floor, and I will put more flowers on the bench; just let me get rich myself! Fedora is overjoyed; now it’s like heaven in our room - 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 fly, and birds chirp. What is this, I think, are there any poems here? After all, really, some verses are missing in your letter, Makar Alekseevich! And tender sensations, and dreams in pink color - everything is here! I didn't even think about the curtain; she probably caught herself when I rearranged the pots; there you are!
Ah, Makar Alekseevich! Whatever you say, no matter how you calculate your income in order to deceive me, to show that they all go to you alone, but you will not conceal or hide anything from me. It is clear that you are deprived of what you need because of me. What did you think of, for example, to rent such an apartment? After all, you are worried, disturbed; you feel cramped and uncomfortable. You love solitude, and here there is something that is not around you! And you could live much better, judging by your salary. Fedora says that you lived better before and unlike now. Have you really lived your whole life like this, alone, in deprivation, without joy, without a friendly friendly word, hiring corners from strangers? Ah, good friend, how I pity you! Spare at least your health, Makar Alekseevich! You say that your eyes are weakening, so do not write by candlelight; why write? Your zeal 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 has been working for a long time, and she got me a job. I was so happy; She only went to buy silk, and set to work. The whole morning I felt so light in my soul, I was so cheerful! And now again all black thoughts, sad; all the heart is gone.
Ah, something will happen to me, what will my fate be! It is hard that I am in such uncertainty that I have no future, that I cannot foresee what will become of me. Back and look scary. There is such grief that the heart breaks in half at one memory. For a century I will cry at the evil people who killed me!
It's getting dark. It's time for work. I would like to write to you about many things, but there is no time, the work is on time. We need to hurry. Of course letters are a good thing; it's not all that boring. Why don't you ever visit us? Why is this, Makar Alekseevich? After all, now you are close, and sometimes you have free time. Come in please! I saw your Teresa. She seems to be 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 turning a corner on purpose. Go to bed early; Yesterday I saw a fire in your house until midnight. Well, goodbye. Today is longing, and boring, and sad! You know, it's such a day! Farewell.
Your Varvara Dobroselova.
April 8th.
Yes, mother, yes, my dear, to know that such a day has turned out to be such a miserable lot for me! Yes; you played a joke on me, an old man, Varvara Alekseevna! However, he is to blame, all around to blame! In old age, with a tuft of hair, I wouldn’t go into cupids and equivoks ... And I’ll say it again, mother: sometimes a person is wonderful, very wonderful. And, you are my saints! what he talks about, he will sometimes bring it up! And what comes out, what follows from this? Yes, absolutely nothing follows, but it turns out such rubbish that save me, Lord! I, mother, I'm not angry, but it's just so annoying to remember everything very much, it's annoying that I wrote you so figuratively and stupidly. And I went into office today with such a gogol-dandy; there was such a radiance in the heart. There was such a holiday in my soul for no reason at all; it was fun! He set about the papers diligently - but what came of it later! Only then, as soon as I looked around, everything became the same as before - both gray and dark. All the same ink stains, all the same tables and papers, and I'm still the same; so, what it was, it remained exactly the same, - so why was it there to ride Pegasus? What did it all come from? That the sun peeped through and the sky roared! from this, right? Yes, and what kind of aromas are there when in our yard under the windows and something doesn’t happen! You know, it all seemed so foolish to me. But it happens sometimes that a person gets lost in his own feelings and gets devious. This comes from nothing else but an excessive, stupid ardor of the heart. I did not come home, but dragged myself along; for no reason at all my head ached; perishing this, know, all one to one. (In the back, or something, it blew up on me.) I was delighted with the spring, a fool is a fool, but I went in a cold overcoat. And in my feelings you were mistaken, my dear! Their outpouring took them in a completely different direction. Fatherly affection animated me, the only pure fatherly affection, Varvara Alekseevna; for I take the place of your own father with you, according to your bitter orphanhood; I say this from the heart, from a pure heart, in a kindred way. Be that as it may, I am at least a distant relative to you, even, according to the proverb, and the seventh water on jelly, but still a relative, and now the closest relative and patron; for where you most closely had the right to seek protection and protection, you found betrayal and resentment. As for poems, I’ll tell you, mother, that it’s indecent for me to practice writing poetry in my old age. Poems are nonsense! For poems and in schools, children are now flogged ... that's it, my dear.
What are you writing to me, Varvara Alekseevna, about conveniences, about peace, and about various differences? My mother, I am not squeamish or demanding, I have never lived better than now; so why picky in old age? I am full, dressed, shod; Yes, and where should we venture! Not an Count! My parent was not from a noble rank and with his whole family was poorer than me in terms of income. I'm not a sissy! However, if it came to the truth, then in my old apartment everything was much better; it was more comfortable, mother. Of course, my present apartment is also good, even in some respects more cheerful and, if you like, more varied; I don’t say anything against this, but it’s all an old pity. We, old, that is, elderly people, get used to old things, as to something native. The apartment was, you know, kind of small; the walls were ... well, what can I say! - the walls were, like all walls, it’s not about them, but the memories of all my former ones make me sad ... It’s a strange thing - it’s hard, but the memories seem to be pleasant. Even what was bad, at which I sometimes got annoyed, and then in my memories it is somehow cleared of the bad and appears to my imagination in an attractive form. We lived quietly, Varenka; I am my mistress, an old woman, a dead woman. So now I remember my old woman with a sad feeling! She was a good woman and took an inexpensive apartment. She used to knit everything from scraps of various blankets on yard-long needles; that was just what she was doing. She and I kept the fire together, so we worked at the same table. Her granddaughter Masha was - I still remember her as a child - about thirteen now she will be a girl. She was such a naughty, cheerful, she made us all laugh; This is how we lived together. It used to happen that on a long winter evening we would sit down at a round table, drink some tea, and then we would get down to business. And the old woman, so that Masha would not be bored, and so that the minx would not be naughty, it happened that she would begin to tell fairy tales. And what fairy tales they were! Not like a child, and an intelligent and intelligent person will listen. What! I myself used to smoke a pipe for myself, and I would listen so much that I would forget about the matter. And the child, our minx, will become thoughtful; he will prop up his rosy cheek with his little hand, his pretty mouth will open, and, a little scary tale, he cuddles, cuddles up to the old woman. And we liked to look at her; and you don’t see how the candle burns, you don’t hear how in the yard sometimes the blizzard is angry and the snowstorm is blowing. It was good for us to live, Varenka; and that's how we lived together for almost twenty years. What am I talking about 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, it will be necessary to cross the yard, our people will notice, they will begin to question, - rumors will go, gossip will go, the matter will be given a different meaning. No, my angel, I'd better see you tomorrow at the Vespers; it would be wiser and harmless to both of us. Do not charge me, mother, for writing you such a letter; as I read it, I see that everything is so incoherent. I, Varenka, am an old, uneducated person; I didn’t learn from my youth, and now nothing will come to my mind if I learn to start again. I confess, mother, I am not a master of description, and I know, without someone else's instructions and ridicule, that if I want to write something more intricate, I will pile up nonsense. I saw you at the window today, I saw you lower the blind. Farewell, farewell, God bless you! Farewell, Varvara Alekseevna.
Your disinterested friend Makar Devushkin.
R. S. I, my dear, do not write satires about anyone now. I have become old, mother, Varvara Alekseevna, to bare my teeth in vain! and they will laugh at me, according to the Russian proverb: who, they say, digs a hole for another, so he ... and he himself goes there.
April 9th.
Dear sir, Makar Alekseevich!
Well, shame on you, my friend and benefactor, Makar Alekseevich, to be so twisted and capricious. Are you offended! Ah, I am often careless, but I did not think that you would take my words for a sharp joke. Rest assured that I will never dare to joke about your years and your character. It all happened because of my frivolity, and more because it’s terribly boring, and because of boredom, what can’t you take on? I thought that you yourself in your letter wanted to laugh. 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 can 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 is profitable to God and heaven listens to it, then you will be happy.
I feel very unwell today. I have fever and chills alternately. Fedor is very worried about me. You should not be ashamed to come to us, Makar Alekseevich. What a different matter! You know us, and that's the end of it! Farewell, Makar Alekseevich. There is nothing more to write about now, and indeed I can’t: I’m terribly unwell. I ask you once again not to be angry with me and be sure of that everlasting reverence and that affection,
With what honor do I have to remain the most devoted
And your most humble servant
Varvara Dobroselova.
April 12th.
Gracious Empress, Varvara Alekseevna!
Oh, my mother, what is the matter with you! After all, every time you scare me like that. I write to you in every letter that you take care, that you wrap yourself up, that you do not go out in bad weather, that you would observe caution in everything - but you, my angel, do not listen to me. Oh, my dear, well, as if you were some kind of child! After all, you are weak, weak as a straw, I know that. A little breeze, so you are ill. So you need to beware, try for yourself, avoid dangers and your friends in grief and not lead into despondency.
You express a desire, mother, to learn in detail about my life and life and about everything around me. With joy I hasten to fulfill your desire, my dear. I'll start over, mother: there will be more order. Firstly, in our house, at the clean entrance, the stairs are very mediocre; especially the front one - clean, bright, wide, all cast iron and mahogany. But don’t ask about the black one: it’s winding, damp, dirty, the steps are broken, and the walls are so greasy that your hand sticks when you lean on them. On each platform there are chests, broken chairs and cupboards, rags are hung out, windows are broken; pelvises stand with all sorts of unclean things, with dirt, with rubbish, with eggshells and with fish bubbles; the smell is bad ... in a word, not good.
I have already described to you the layout of the rooms; it is, nothing to say, comfortable, it is true, but somehow stuffy in them, that is, not that it smelled bad, but, so to speak, a slightly rotten, sharply sweetened smell of some kind. For the first time, the impression is unfavorable, but it's all right; you only have to stay with us for a minute or two, and it will pass and you won’t feel how everything will pass, because you yourself will somehow smell bad, and your dress will smell, and your hands will smell, and everything will smell - well, you’ll get used to it. Our siskins are dying. The midshipman is already buying the fifth - they don’t live in our air, and that’s all. Our kitchen is large, spacious and bright. True, in the mornings it’s a little steamy when fish or beef is fried, and they pour it and soak it everywhere, but in the evening it’s paradise. In the kitchen we always have old clothes hanging on the clothesline; and since my room is not far away, that is, almost adjoins the kitchen, the smell from the linen worries me a little; but nothing: you will live and get used to it.
From the very early morning, Varenka, we have a fuss, get up, walk, knock - it's all who need it, who are in the service or so, on their own; everyone starts drinking tea. We have the master's samovars, for the most part, there are few of them, well, we keep the line all the time; and whoever gets out of line with his teapot, they will wash his head now. Here I was for the first time, yes ... however, what to write! That's where I met everyone. I met the midshipman first; such a frank one, he told me everything: about the father, about the mother, about the sister, that 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 same room where we usually play cards. There they gave me tea and certainly wanted me to gamble with them. Whether they laughed, whether they were at me, I do not know; only they themselves played all night long, and when I came in they were playing like that too. Chalk, maps, such smoke walked all over the room that it hurt my eyes. I did not play, and now they noticed that I was talking about philosophy. Then no one spoke to me all the time; Yes, I was really happy about that. I will not go to them now; they have passion, pure passion! Here, the literary official also has meetings in the evenings. Well, that one is good, modest, innocent and delicate; all on a thin leg.
Well, Varenka, I’ll remark to you in passing that the nasty woman is our hostess, and besides, a real witch. Have you seen Teresa. Well, what is she, really? Skinny, like a plucked, stunted chicken. There are only two people in the house: Teresa da FaldoniTeresa da Faldoni- the names of the heroes of the popular sentimental novel by N.-Zh. Leonard "Teresa and Faldoni, or Letters of two lovers who lived in Lyon" (1783). , master's servant. I don't know, maybe he has another name, only he responds to that; everyone calls him that. He is red-haired, some kind of chukhna, crooked, snub-nosed, rude: everyone scolds Teresa, they almost fight. In general, to say that it’s not for me to live here in such a way that it would be completely good ... To fall asleep and calm down all at once at night - this never happens. They are always sitting somewhere and playing, and sometimes things are done that it is shameful to tell. Now I'm still getting 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 hostess, only not next to other rooms, but on the other side, in a corner, separately. People are humble! Nobody hears anything about them. They live in the same room, fenced off in it with a partition. He is some kind of official without a job, expelled from service seven years ago for something. His surname is Gorshkov; so gray-haired, small; walks around in such a greasy, worn dress that it hurts to look; much worse than mine! Such a pitiful, 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 sideways; I am shy at times, and this one is even worse. His family is a wife and three children. The eldest, a boy, all like his father, is also so stunted. The wife was once very good-looking, and now it is noticeable; walks, poor thing, in such miserable rabble. They, I heard, owed the landlady; She is not very affectionate with them. I also heard that Gorshkov himself had some kind of trouble, for which he lost his job ... a trial is not a trial, under trial not under trial, under some kind of investigation, or something - I truly can’t tell you. They are poor, poor - Lord, my God! It is always quiet and peaceful in their room, as if no one lives there. Even children are not heard. And it doesn’t happen that someday children frolic, play, and this is a bad sign. Once, in the evening, I happened to pass by their doors; at that time the house became something unusually quiet; I hear a sob, then a whisper, then another sob, as if they were crying, but so quietly, so pitifully that my whole heart broke, and then all night the thought of these poor people did not leave me, so that I could not sleep well.
Well, goodbye, my priceless friend, Varenka! I described everything to you as well as I could. Today I think about you all day long. For you, my dear, my whole heart has languished. After all, my dear, I know that you don’t have a warm coat. Those Petersburg springs for me, the winds and the rains with a little snow, - this is my death, Varenka! Such a well-being of the air that save me, Lord! Do not seek, my dear, in writing; no syllable, Varenka, no syllable. If only there was one! I write whatever comes to mind, so that you can only amuse yourself with something. After all, if I had studied somehow, it would be a different matter; But how did I learn? not even for copper money.
Your everlasting and faithful friend Makar Devushkin.
April 25th.
Dear sir, Makar Alekseevich!
Today I met my cousin Sasha! Horror! and she will die, poor thing! I also heard from the outside that Anna Fyodorovna found out everything about me. She never seems to stop haunting me. She says that she wants to forgive me, to forget everything that has happened, and that she will certainly visit me herself. She says that you are not my relative at all, that she is a closer relative 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 maintenance ... says that I forgot her bread and salt, that she, perhaps, saved me and my mother from starvation, that she gave us water and food, and for more than two and a half years she lost money on us, that she forgave us a debt above all this. And she did not want to spare her mother! And if poor mother knew what they did to me! God sees! Anna Feodorovna says that, due to my stupidity, I was unable to keep my happiness, that she herself led me to happiness, that she was not to blame for anything else, and that I myself did not know how to honor my own, or maybe and didn't want to join. And who is to blame here, great God! She says that Mr. Bykov is absolutely right and that one cannot marry anyone who ... but what to write! It's cruel to hear such a lie, Makar Alekseevich! I don't know what is happening to me now. I tremble, cry, sob; I wrote this letter to you for two hours. I thought that she at least recognized her guilt before me; And here 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 Volkovo to serve matushka for a memorial service. Why didn't you go along with me; I asked you so. Oh, my poor, poor mother, if only you could get up from the grave, if you only knew, if you saw what they did to me!...
V.D.
My dear, Varenka!
I send you some grapes, my dear; for a convalescent woman, they say, it’s good, and the doctor recommends it for quenching thirst, so only for thirst. You wanted roses the other day, mother; So I'm sending them to you now. Do you have an appetite, darling? - that's what's important. However, thank God that everything has passed and ended, and that our misfortunes, too, are completely ending. Let's give thanks to heaven! As for books, I can't get them anywhere for the time being. There is here, they say, a good little book written in a very high style; they say it's good, I haven't read it myself, but here they are very praised. I asked her for myself; promised to deliver. Will you just read? You are my picky about this; it's hard to please your taste, I already know you, you're my dear; you, it’s true, you need all the poetry, sighs, cupids, - well, I’ll get poetry, I’ll get everything; there is a notebook one rewritten.
I live well. You, mother, don't worry about me, please. And what Fyodor told you about me, it's all nonsense; you tell her that she lied, by all means tell her, gossip! .. I did not sell a new uniform at all. And why, judge for yourself, why sell? Here, they say, I get forty rubles in silver awards, so why sell it? You, mother, do not worry: she is suspicious, Fedora, she is suspicious. We will live, my dear! Only you, little angel, get well, for God's sake, get well, don't upset the old man. Who's telling you that I've lost weight? Slander, slander again! he is healthy and fat so that he himself becomes ashamed, full and contented to the throat; If only you could get better! Well, goodbye, my angel; I kiss all your fingers and stay
Your eternal, unchanging friend
Makar Devushkin.
R.S. Oh, my dear, what are you really writing about again? .. what are you talking about! Yes, how can I go to you so often, mother, how? I'm asking you. Is it using the darkness of the night; Yes, now there are almost no nights: such is the time. And even then, my little darling, my little angel, I almost did not leave you at all during the whole time of your illness, during your unconsciousness; but even here I myself don’t know how I managed all these things; and even then he stopped walking; for they began to inquire and question. There is already some gossip going around here. I hope for Teresa; she is not talkative; but still, judge for yourself, 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 fasten your heart, mother, but wait until you recover; and then we are like that, out of the house, somewhere rendezvousDate (fr. rendez-vous). let's give.
June 1st.
Dearest Makar Alekseevich!
I so want to do something pleasing and pleasant for 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 you. I started it back in the happiest time of my life. You often asked with curiosity about my former life, about my mother, about Pokrovsky, about my stay with Anna Feodorovna and, finally, about my recent misfortunes, and so impatiently wanted to read this notebook, where I thought of it, God knows why, mark some moments of my life that I have no doubt that I will bring you great pleasure with my parcel. I was kind of sad to read this. It seems to me that I have already aged twice since I wrote the last line in these notes. All of these were written at different times. Farewell, Makar Alekseevich! I'm terribly bored now, and often suffer from insomnia. Terrible recovery!
Dostoevsky wrote "Poor People" in 1845, and already in 1846 the novel appeared in Nekrasov's almanac "Petersburg Collection". The novel took two years to complete. This is the first work written by the writer, which received recognition from many critics and ordinary readers. It was it that glorified the name of Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky and opened the way for him to the world of literature.
"Poor People" is an epistolary novel. It tells about the life of people who have to constantly borrow money from someone, take a salary in advance, limit themselves in everything. From the book, we learn what these characters think about, what worries them, how they are trying to improve their lives. The book begins with an epigraph. It presents an excerpt from the story "The Living Dead" by Odoevsky. It says that you need to write "light" works, and not those that make you think about some serious things. The hero of the novel would later repeat this thought in his letter to Varenka.
The book "Poor People" presents the correspondence of two people: a modest titular adviser Makar Devushkin, who earns a living by correspondence of departmental papers, and Varvara Dobroselova. From it we learn that they are distant relatives in relation to each other. Makar is already an elderly man, and as he admits in a letter, he has real paternal feelings for the girl. He takes care of Varvara, helps her with money, tells her how to behave in a given situation. Makar is trying to protect the girl from all troubles and needs, but he himself is very poor. In order to support himself and her, he has to sell his things, live in the kitchen, eat poorly. But Makar is used to difficulties and is ready to endure everything. He believes that the main thing is not how a person is dressed and looks, but what he has “inside”. By this he means "purity of soul".
But still, as he admits, he is frustrated by the fact that he cannot fully provide for Varenka, make him truly happy. He treats her very warmly and, at every opportunity, tries to please her with something: he will buy her sweets, then flowers. He is very sorry for the poor girl, who was left an orphan without a livelihood at a young age, moreover, dishonored by the rich landowner Bykov. He does not understand why fate is favorable to some people, but not to others, some have everything, while others have nothing.
Reading the correspondence between Makar Devushkin and Varya Dobroselova, we learn a lot about the life of ordinary people: what they think about, what feelings they often experience, how they try to deal with various difficulties. The epistolary form of narration allows the writer to broadly embrace reality and show not only the life circumstances of “little people”, but their ability to sympathize with their neighbor, selflessness, and high moral qualities. The personal correspondence of two people becomes for them a real source of warmth.
POOR PEOPLE
Oh, these storytellers to me! There is no way to write something useful, pleasant, delightful, otherwise they tear out all the ins and outs in the ground! .. I would forbid them to write! Well, what does it look like: you read ... you involuntarily think - and there all sorts of rubbish will go into your head; the right to forbid them to write; it would just be banned altogether.
Book. V. F. Odoevsky
My priceless Varvara Alekseevna!
Yesterday I was happy, overly happy, extremely happy! At least once in your life, you stubborn one, listened to me. In the evening, at eight o'clock, I wake up (you know, mother, that I like to sleep for an hour or two after my office), I took out a candle, I prepare papers, I repair my pen, suddenly, by chance, I raise my eyes - really, my heart started to jump like that ! So you understood what I wanted, what my heart wanted! I see that the corner of the curtain at your window is bent 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 of me. And how vexed I was, my dear, that I could not see your pretty little face! There was a time when we also saw light, mother. Not the joy of old age, my dear! And now everything somehow ripples in the eyes; if you work a little in the evening, if you write something, in the morning your eyes will turn red, and tears will flow in such a way that you even feel ashamed in front of strangers. However, in my imagination, your smile brightened up, angel, your kind, friendly smile; 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 dear, I even thought that you threatened me with your finger there? Is that right, slut? Be sure to describe all this in more detail in your letter.
Well, what is our idea about your curtain, Varenka? It's nice, isn't it? Whether I sit at work, whether I go to bed, whether I wake up, I already know what you think about me there, remember me, and you yourself are healthy and cheerful. Lower the curtain - so goodbye, Makar Alekseevich, it's time to sleep! Raise - that means good morning, Makar Alekseevich, how did you sleep, or: how are you in your health, Makar Alekseevich? As for me, thank the Creator, I am healthy and prosperous! You see, my dear, how cleverly it is thought up; and letters are not needed! Cheeky, isn't it? But it's my idea! And what, what kind of business am I, Varvara Alekseevna?
I will report to you, my mother, Varvara Alekseevna, that I slept that night in good order, contrary to expectations, which I am very pleased with; although in new apartments, from housewarming, and somehow he always can’t sleep; everything is so, but not so! I got up today with such a clear falcon - it's fun! What a good morning this is, mother! We have opened a window; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air is breathing with spring aromas, and all nature is enlivened - well, everything else there was also appropriate; it's all right, like spring. I even dreamed rather pleasantly today, and all my dreams were about you, Varenka. I compared you with a bird of heaven, for the joy of people and for the decoration of nature created. Immediately I thought, Varenka, that we, people living in care and anxiety, should also envy the carefree and innocent happiness of heavenly birds - well, everything else is the same, similar to this; that is, I made all such remote comparisons. I have one book there, Varenka, so it contains the same thing, everything is described in great detail. I am writing to that, after all, there are different dreams, mother. And now it's spring, and the thoughts are all so pleasant, sharp, intricate, and tender dreams come; all in pink. That's why I wrote it all; However, I took it all from the book. There the writer discovers the same desire in rhymes and writes -
Why am I not a bird, not a bird of prey!
Well, and so on. There are still different thoughts, but God bless them! But where did you go this morning, Varvara Alekseevna? I hadn’t even taken up my position yet, and you, really like a spring bird, fluttered out of the room and walked around the yard looking so cheerful. How I had fun looking at you! Oh, Varenka, Varenka! you are not sad; grief cannot be helped with tears; I know this, my mother, I know this from experience. Now you are so calm, and your health has recovered a little. Well, what about your Fedora? Oh, what a kind woman she is! Will you write to me, Varenka, how you and her live there now, and are you satisfied with everything? Fedora is a little grouchy; don't look at it, Varenka. God be with her! She is 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 is how the Lord sent Teresa for our happiness. She is a kind, meek, wordless woman. But our hostess is just ruthless. Rubs it into work like some kind of rag.
Well, what a slum I ended up in, Varvara Alekseevna! Well, it's an apartment! Before, after all, I lived like a capercaillie, you know yourself: quietly, quietly; I used to have a fly flying, and you could hear the fly. And here noise, shout, hubbub! Why, 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 stretch in a row. Well, they hire these numbers, and they have one room in each; live in one and two, and three. Do not ask in order - Noah's Ark! However, it seems that people are good, they are all so educated, scientists. There is only one official (he is somewhere in the literary part), a well-read man: he talks about Homer, and Brambeus, and about different writers there, talks about everything - a smart person! Two officers live and everyone plays cards. Midshipman lives; English teacher lives. Wait, I'll amuse you, mother; I will describe them in a future letter satirically, that is, how they are there by themselves, with all the details. Our hostess, a very small and unclean old woman, walks around all day in shoes and a dressing gown and all day long shouting at Teresa. I live in the kitchen, or it would be much more correct to say this: there is one room near the kitchen (and we, you should notice, 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 that it looks like another room, a supernumerary number; everything is spacious, comfortable, and there is a window, and that's it - in a word, everything is comfortable. Well, here is my corner. Well, then don’t you think, mother, that there is something so different and what a mysterious meaning it was; what, they say, is a 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 the image. True, there are even better apartments - perhaps there are much better ones - but convenience is the main thing; after all, I am all for convenience, and you do not think that for something else. Your window is opposite, across the yard; and the courtyard is narrow, you will see you in passing - everything is more fun for me, the unfortunate one, and even cheaper. We have the very last room here, with a table, worth thirty-five rubles in banknotes. It is too expensive! And my apartment costs me seven rubles in banknotes, and a table five rubles: here are twenty-four and a half, and before that I paid exactly thirty, but in many ways I denied myself; He didn't always drink tea, but now he's paid for tea and sugar. It is, you know, my dear, not to drink tea is somehow ashamed; here all the people are sufficient, and it's a shame. For the sake of strangers, you drink it, Varenka, for appearance, for tone; but I don't care, I'm not whimsical. Put it this way, for pocket money - everything is required to some extent - well, some boots, a little dress - how much will remain? That's all my pay. I don't complain and I'm happy. It is enough. It's been enough for a few years now; there are also awards. Well, goodbye, my angel. I bought a couple of balsamic pots and geraniums there - cheap. And you, maybe, love mignonette? So there is mignonette, you will find it; yes, you know, write everything in as much detail as possible. However, don’t think anything and don’t doubt, mother, about me that I hired such a room. No, this convenience forced me, and one convenience seduced me. After all, mother, I save money, save it: I have money. You do not look at the fact that I am so quiet that it seems that a fly will knock me over with its wing. No, mother, I myself am not a mistake, and my character is exactly the same as a decently firm and serene soul for a person. Farewell, my angel! I signed for you almost on two sheets, but it's time for the service. I kiss your fingers, mother, and stay
your lowest servant and most faithful friend
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. I ask you one thing: answer me, my angel, in as much detail as possible. I'm sending you with this, Varenka, a pound of sweets; so you eat them for health, yes, for God's sake, don't worry about me and don't be in a complaint. Well, goodbye, mother.
Dear sir, Makar Alekseevich!
Do you know that I will finally have to quarrel with you completely? I swear to you, kind Makar Alekseevich, that it is even hard for me to accept your gifts. I know what they are worth to you, what hardships and denials of what is most necessary to yourself. How many times have I told you that I don't need anything, absolutely nothing; that I am unable to repay you for the good deeds with which you have hitherto showered me. And why do I need these pots? Well, balsams are still nothing, but why geraniums? One word is worth carelessly saying, as, for example, about this geranium, you will immediately buy it; it's expensive, isn't it? What a beauty on her flowers! Punch crosses. Where did you get such a pretty geranium? I put it in the middle of the window, in the most visible place; I will put a bench on the floor, and I will put more flowers on the bench; just let me get rich myself! Fedora is overjoyed; it’s like heaven in our room now - it’s clean, light! Well, why candy? And really, I immediately guessed from the letter that something was wrong with you - and paradise, and spring, and fragrances fly, and birds chirp. What is this, I think, are there any poems here? After all, really, some verses are missing in your letter, Makar Alekseevich! And tender sensations, and dreams in pink - everything is here! I didn't even think about the curtain; she probably caught herself when I rearranged the pots; there you are!
Ah, Makar Alekseevich! Whatever you say, no matter how you calculate your income in order to deceive me, to show that they all go to you alone, but you will not conceal or hide anything from me. It is clear that you are deprived of what you need because of me. What did you think of, for example, to rent such an apartment? After all, you are worried, disturbed; you feel cramped and uncomfortable. You love solitude, and here there is something that is not around you! And you could live much better, judging by your salary. Fedora says that you lived better before and unlike now. Have you really lived your whole life like this, alone, in deprivation, without joy, without a friendly friendly word, hiring corners from strangers? Ah, good friend, how I pity you! Spare at least your health, Makar Alekseevich! You say that your eyes are weakening, so do not write by candlelight; why write? Your zeal 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 has been working for a long time, and she got me a job. I was so happy; She only went to buy silk, and set to work. The whole morning I felt so light in my soul, I was so cheerful! And now again all black thoughts, sad; all heart ached.
Ah, something will happen to me, what will my fate be! It is hard that I am in such uncertainty that I have no future, that I cannot foresee what will become of me. Back and look scary. There is such grief that the heart breaks in half at one memory. For a century I will cry at the evil people who killed me!
It's getting dark. It's time for work. I would like to write to you about many things, but there is no time, the work is on time. We need to hurry. Of course letters are a good thing; it's not all that boring. Why don't you ever visit us? Why is this, Makar Alekseevich? After all, now you are close, and sometimes you have free time. Come in please! I saw your Teresa. She seems to be 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 turning a corner on purpose. Go to bed early; Yesterday I saw a fire in your house until midnight. Well, goodbye. Today is longing, and boring, and sad! You know, it's such a day! Farewell.
Varvara Dobroselova.
Gracious Empress,
Varvara Alekseevna!
Yes, mother, yes, my dear, to know that such a day has turned out to be such a miserable lot for me! Yes; you played a joke on me, an old man, Varvara Alekseevna! However, he is to blame, all around to blame! In old age, with a tuft of hair, I would not go into cupids and equivoks ... And I’ll say it again, mother: sometimes a person is wonderful, very wonderful. And, you are my saints! what he talks about, he will sometimes bring it up! And what comes out, what follows from this? Yes, absolutely nothing follows, but it turns out such rubbish that save me, Lord! I, mother, I'm not angry, but it's just so annoying to remember everything very much, it's annoying that I wrote you so figuratively and stupidly. And I went into office today with such a gogol-dandy; there was such a radiance in the heart. There was such a holiday in my soul for no reason at all; it was fun! He set about the papers diligently - but what came of it later! Only then, as soon as I looked around, everything became as before - both gray and dark. All the same ink stains, all the same tables and papers, and I'm still the same; so what it was, it remained exactly the same - so why was it really there to ride a Pegasus? What did it all come from? That the sun peeped through and the sky roared! from this, right? Yes, and what kind of aromas are there when in our yard under the windows and something doesn’t happen! You know, it all seemed so foolish to me. But it happens sometimes that a person gets lost in his own feelings and gets devious. This comes from nothing else but an excessive, stupid ardor of the heart. I did not come home, but dragged myself along; for no reason at all my head ached; perishing this, know, all one to one. (In the back, or something, it blew up on me.) I was delighted with the spring, a fool is a fool, but I went in a cold overcoat. And in my feelings you were mistaken, my dear! Their outpouring took them in a completely different direction. Fatherly affection animated me, the only pure fatherly affection, Varvara Alekseevna; for I take the place of your own father with you, according to your bitter orphanhood; I say this from the heart, from a pure heart, in a kindred way. Be that as it may, but I am at least a distant relative to you, at least according to the proverb, and the seventh water on jelly, but still a relative, and now the closest relative and patron; for where you most closely had the right to seek protection and protection, you found betrayal and resentment. As for poems, I’ll tell you, mother, that it’s indecent for me to practice writing poetry in my old age. Poems are nonsense! For rhymes and in schools now children are flogged ... that's it, my dear.
What are you writing to me, Varvara Alekseevna, about conveniences, about peace, and about various differences? My mother, I am not obese and demanding, I have never lived better than now; so why picky in old age? I am full, dressed, shod; Yes, and where should we venture! Not an Count! My parent was not from a noble rank and with his whole family was poorer than me in terms of income. I'm not a sissy! However, if it came to the truth, then in my old apartment everything was much better; it was more comfortable, mother. Of course, my present apartment is also good, even in some respects more cheerful and, if you like, more varied; I don’t say anything against this, but it’s all an old pity. We, old, that is, elderly people, get used to old things, as if they were our own. The apartment was, you know, kind of 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 happened to me as if pleasant. Even what was bad, at which I sometimes got annoyed, and then in my memories it is somehow cleared of the bad and appears to my imagination in an attractive form. We lived quietly, Varenka; I am my mistress, an old woman, a dead woman. So now I remember my old woman with a sad feeling! She was a good woman and took an inexpensive apartment. She used to knit everything from scraps of various blankets on yard-long needles; that was just what she was doing. She and I kept the fire together, so we worked at the same table. Her granddaughter Masha was - I still remember her as a child - about thirteen now she will be a girl. She was such a naughty, cheerful, she made us all laugh; This is how we lived together. It used to happen that on a long winter evening we would sit down at a round table, drink some tea, and then we would get down to business. And the old woman, so that Masha would not be bored, and so that the minx would not be naughty, it happened that she would begin to tell fairy tales. And what fairy tales they were! Not like a child, and an intelligent and intelligent person will listen. What! I myself used to smoke a pipe for myself, and I would listen so much that I would forget about the matter. And the child, our minx, will become thoughtful; he will prop up his rosy cheek with his little hand, his pretty mouth will open, and, a little scary tale, he cuddles, cuddles up to the old woman. And we liked to look at her; and you don’t see how the candle burns, you don’t hear how in the yard sometimes the blizzard is angry and the snowstorm is blowing. It was good for us to live, Varenka; and that's how we lived together for almost twenty years. What am I talking about 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, it will be necessary to cross the yard, our people will notice, they will begin to question - rumors will go, gossip will go, the matter will be given a different meaning. No, my angel, I'd better see you tomorrow at the Vespers; it would be wiser and harmless to both of us. Do not charge me, mother, for writing you such a letter; as I read it, I see that everything is so incoherent. I, Varenka, am an old, uneducated person; I didn’t learn from my youth, and now nothing will come to my mind if I learn to start again. I confess, mother, I am not a master of description, and I know, without someone else's instructions and ridicule, that if I want to write something more intricate, I will pile up nonsense. I saw you at the window today, I saw you lower the blind. Farewell, farewell, God bless you! Farewell, Varvara Alekseevna.
Your selfless friend
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. I, my dear, do not write satire about anyone now. I have become old, mother, Varvara Alekseevna, so that in vain: -, grin! and they will laugh at me, according to the Russian proverb: who, they say, digs a hole for another, so he ... and he himself goes there.
Your Majesty,
Makar Alekseevich!
Well, shame on you, my friend and benefactor, Makar Alekseevich, to be so twisted and capricious. Are you offended! Ah, I am often careless. but I did not think that you would take my words for a sharp joke. Rest assured that I will never dare to joke about your years and your character. It all happened because of my frivolity, and more because it’s terribly boring, and because of boredom, what can’t you take on? I thought that you yourself in your letter wanted to laugh. 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 can 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 is profitable to God and heaven listens to it, then you will be happy.
I feel very unwell today. I have fever and chills alternately. Fedor is very worried about me. You should not be ashamed to come to us, Makar Alekseevich. What a different matter! You know us, and that's the end of it! Farewell, Makar Alekseevich. There is nothing more to write about now, and indeed I can’t: I’m terribly unwell. I ask you once again not to be angry with me and be sure of the everlasting respect and affection with which I have the honor to remain your most devoted and humble servant.
Varvara Dobroselova.
Gracious Empress,
Varvara Alekseevna!
April 12.
Oh, my mother, what is the matter with you! After all, every time you scare me like that. I write to you in every letter that you take care, that you wrap yourself up, that you do not go out in bad weather, that you would observe caution in everything - but you, my angel, do not listen to me. Oh, my dear, well, as if you were some kind of child! After all, you are weak, weak as a straw, I know that. A little breeze, so you are ill. So you need to beware, try for yourself, avoid dangers and your friends in grief and not lead into despondency.
You express a desire, mother, to learn in detail about my life and life and about everything around me. With joy I hasten to fulfill your desire, my dear. I'll start over, mother: there will be more order. Firstly, in our house, at the clean entrance, the stairs are very mediocre; especially the front one - clean, bright, wide, all cast iron and mahogany. But don’t ask about the black one: it’s winding, damp, dirty, the steps are broken, and the walls are so greasy that your hand sticks when you lean on them. On each platform there are chests, broken chairs and cupboards, rags are hung out, windows are broken; pelvises stand with all sorts of unclean things, with dirt, with rubbish, with eggshells and with fish bubbles; bad smell ... in a word, not good.
I have already described to you the layout of the rooms; it is, nothing to say, comfortable, it is true, but somehow stuffy in them, that is, not that it smelled bad, but, if I may say so, a slightly rotten, sharply sweetened smell of some kind. For the first time, the impression is unfavorable, but it's all right; you only have to stay with us for a minute or two, and it will pass, and you will not feel how everything will pass, because you will smell badly yourself, and your dress will smell, and your hands will smell, and everything will smell - well, you get used to it. Our siskins are dying. The midshipman is already buying the fifth - they don’t live in our air, and that’s all. Our kitchen is large, spacious and bright. True, in the mornings it’s a little steamy when fish or beef is fried, and they pour it and soak it everywhere, but in the evening it’s paradise. In the kitchen we always have old clothes hanging on the clothesline; and since my room is not far away, that is, almost adjoins the kitchen, the smell from the linen worries me a little; but nothing: you will live and get used to it.
From the very early morning, Varenka, fuss begins with us, they get up, walk around, knock - it's everyone who needs it, someone in the service or so, on their own; everyone starts drinking tea. We have the master's samovars, for the most part, there are few of them, well, we keep the line all the time; and whoever gets out of line with his teapot, they will wash his head now. So I was hit for the first time, yes ... however, what to write! That's where I met everyone. I met the midshipman first; such a frank one, he told me everything: about the father, about the mother, about the sister, that 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 same room where we usually play cards. There they gave me tea and certainly wanted me to gamble with them. Whether they laughed, whether they were at me, I do not know; only they themselves played all night long, and when I came in they were playing like that too. Chalk, maps, such smoke walked all over the room that it hurt my eyes. I did not play, and now they noticed that I was talking about philosophy. Then no one spoke to me all the time; Yes, I was really happy about that. I will not go to them now; they have passion, pure passion! Here, the literary official also has meetings in the evenings. Well, that one is good, modest, innocent and delicate; all on a thin leg.
Well, Varenka, I’ll remark to you in passing that the nasty woman is our hostess, and besides, a real witch. Have you seen Teresa. Well, what is she, really? Skinny, like a plucked, stunted chicken. There are only two people in the house: Teresa da Faldoni, the master's servant. I don't know, maybe he has another name, only he responds to that; everyone calls him that. He is red-haired, some kind of chukhna, crooked, snub-nosed, rude: everyone scolds Teresa, they almost fight. In general, to say that it’s not for me to live here in such a way that it would be completely good ... To fall asleep and calm down that way all at once at night - this never happens. They are always sitting somewhere and playing, and sometimes things are done that it is shameful to tell. Now I'm still getting 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 hostess, only not next to other rooms, but on the other side, in a corner, separately. People are humble! Nobody hears anything about them. They live in the same room, fenced off in it with a partition. He is some kind of official without a job, expelled from service seven years ago for something. His surname is Gorshkov; so gray-haired, small; walks around in such a greasy, worn dress that it hurts to look; much worse than mine! Such a pitiful, 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 sideways; I am shy at times, and this one is even worse. His family is a wife and three children. The older boy, all like his father, is also so stunted. The wife was once very good-looking, and now it is noticeable; walks, poor thing, in such miserable rabble. They, I heard, owed the landlady; She is not very affectionate with them. I also heard that Gorshkov himself had some kind of trouble, for which he lost his job ... a trial is not a trial, not under trial, under some kind of investigation, or something - I really can’t tell you. They are poor, poor - Lord, my God! It is always quiet and peaceful in their room, as if no one lives there. Even children are not heard. And it doesn’t happen that someday children frolic, play, and this is a bad sign. Once, in the evening, I happened to pass by their doors; at that time the house became something unusually quiet; I hear a sob, then a whisper, then another sob, as if they were crying, but so quietly, so pitifully that my whole heart broke, and then all night the thought of these poor people did not leave me, so that I could not sleep well.
Well, goodbye, my priceless friend, Varenka! I described everything to you as well as I could. Today I think about you all day long. For you, my dear, my whole heart has languished. After all, my dear, I know that you don’t have a warm coat. Those Petersburg springs for me, winds and rains with snow, - this is my death, Varenka! Such a well-being of the air that save me, Lord! Do not seek, my dear, in writing; no syllable, Varenka, no syllable. If only there was one! I write whatever comes to mind, so that you can only amuse yourself with something. After all, if I had studied somehow, the matter is different; But how did I learn? not even for copper money.
Your everlasting and faithful friend
Makar Girl.
Your Majesty,
Makar Alekseevich!
April 25.
Today I met my cousin Sasha! Horror! and she will die, poor thing! I also heard from the outside that Anna Fyodorovna found out everything about me. She never seems to stop haunting me. She says that she wants to forgive me, to forget everything that has happened, and that she will certainly visit me herself. She says that you are not my relative at all, that she is a closer relative 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 maintenance ... says that I forgot her bread - It’s worth noting that she, perhaps, saved me and my mother from starvation, that she gave us water and food, and for more than two and a half years she lost money on us, that she forgave us our debt above all this. And she did not want to spare her mother! And if poor mother knew what they did to me! God sees! Anna Feodorovna says that, due to my stupidity, I was not able to keep my happiness, that she herself led me to happiness, that she was not to blame for anything else, and that I myself did not know how to honor my own, or maybe and didn't want to join. And who is to blame here, great God! She says that Mr. Bykov is absolutely right and that one cannot marry anyone who ... but what to write! It's cruel to hear such a lie, Makar Alekseevich! I don't know what is happening to me now. I tremble, cry, sob; I wrote this letter to you for two hours. I thought that she at least recognized her guilt before me; And here 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 Volkovo to serve matushka for a memorial service. Why didn't you go along with me; I asked you so. Oh, my poor, poor mother, if only you got up out of the storm, if you knew, if you saw what they did to me!...
V. D. My dear, Varenka!
I send you some grapes, my dear; for a convalescent woman, they say, it’s good, and the doctor recommends it to quench thirst, so it’s the only thing for thirst. You wanted roses the other day, mother; So I'm sending them to you now. Do you have an appetite, darling? - that's what's important. However, thank God that everything has passed and ended, and that our misfortunes, too, are completely ending. Let's give thanks to heaven! As for books, I can't get them anywhere for the time being. There is here, they say, a good little book written in a very high style; they say it's good, I haven't read it myself, but here they are very praised. I asked her for myself; promised to deliver. Will you just read? You are my picky about this; hard to please your taste; I already know you, you are my dear; you, right, need all the poetry, sighs, cupids, - well, I’ll get poetry, I’ll get everything; there is a notebook one rewritten.
I live well. You, mother, don't worry about me, please. And what Fyodor told you about me, it's all nonsense; you tell her that she lied, by all means tell her, gossip! .. I did not sell a new uniform at all. And why, judge for yourself, why sell? Here, they say, I get forty rubles in silver awards, so why sell it? You, mother, do not worry; she is suspicious, Fedorato, she is suspicious. We will live, my dear! Only you, little angel, get well, for God's sake, get well, don't upset the old man. Who's telling you that I've lost weight? Slander, slander again! he is healthy and fat so that he himself becomes ashamed, full and contented to the throat; If only you could get better! Well, goodbye, my angel; I kiss all your fingers and remain your eternal, unchanging friend
Makar Devushkin.
P.S. Oh, my dear, what are you really writing about again?.. What are you talking about! Yes, how can I go to you so often, mother, how? I'm asking you. Is it using the darkness of the night; Yes, now there are almost no nights: such is the time. And even then, my little darling, my little angel, I almost did not leave you at all during the whole time of your illness, during your unconsciousness; but even here I myself don’t know how I managed all these things; and even then he stopped walking; for they began to inquire and question. There is already some gossip going around here. I hope for Teresa; she is not talkative; but still, you judge for yourself, mother, what will it be like when they all find out about us? What will they think and what will they say then? So you fasten your heart, mother, but wait until you recover; and then we will give a rendezvous somewhere, outside the house.
Dearest Makar Alekseevich!
I so want to do something pleasing and pleasant for 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 you. I started it back in the happiest time of my life. You often asked with curiosity about my former life, about my mother, about Pokrovsky, about my stay with Anna Feodorovna, and, finally, about my recent misfortunes, and so impatiently wanted to read this notebook, where it occurred to me, 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 kind of sad to read this. It seems to me that I have already aged twice since I wrote the last line in these notes. All of these were written at different times. Farewell, Makar Alekseevich! I'm terribly bored now, and often suffer from insomnia. Boring recovery!
I was only fourteen years old when my father died. My childhood was the happiest time of my life. It did not start here, but far from here, in the provinces, in the wilderness. Batiushka was the steward of the huge estate of Prince II, in the T-th province. We lived in one of the prince's villages, and lived quietly, inaudibly, happily ... I was such a frisky little one; I do nothing but run through the fields, through the groves, through the garden, and no one cared about me. Batiushka was constantly busy with business, mother was engaged in household chores; I was not taught anything, and I was glad for that. It used to be 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 yourself you don’t know where from the village, scratch yourself on the bushes, tear your dress - at home after scolding, but nothing to me.
And it seems to me that I would be so happy if I had to stay at least my whole life not to leave the village and live in one place. Meanwhile, as a child, I was forced to leave my native places. I was only twelve years old when we moved to Petersburg. Oh, how sadly I remember our sad gatherings! How I cried when I said goodbye to everything that was so sweet to me. I remember that I threw myself on the father's neck and begged with tears to stay at least a little in the village. Father shouted at me, mother wept; She said that it was necessary, that things demanded it. Old Prince II died. The heirs refused the priest from the post. The priest had some money in circulation in the hands of private individuals in St. Petersburg. Hoping to improve his circumstances, he found it necessary to be personally present here. I learned all this from my mother. We settled here on the Petersburg side and lived in one place until the very death of the father.
How hard it was for me to adjust to my new life! We entered Petersburg in autumn. When we left the village, the day was so bright, warm, bright; rural work ended; huge stacks of bread were already piled up on the threshing floors and noisy flocks of birds were crowding; everything was so clear and cheerful, but here, at our entrance to the city, rain, rotten autumn hoarfrost, bad weather, slush and a crowd of new, unfamiliar faces, inhospitable, dissatisfied, angry! Somehow we settled in. I remember that everyone was so fussy with us, everyone was busy, acquiring a new household. Father was still not at home, mother did not have a quiet moment - they completely forgot me. It was sad for me to get up in the morning, after the first night at our housewarming party. Our windows overlooked some kind of yellow fence. The street was always dirty. 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 for whole days. We had almost no relatives and close friends. The father was in a quarrel with Anna Fedorovna. (He owed her something.) Quite often people came to us on business. Usually they argued, made noise, shouted. After each visit, the priest became so dissatisfied, angry; for whole hours he used to walk from corner to corner, frowning, and not utter a word to anyone. Mother did not dare then to speak to him and was silent. I sat down somewhere in a corner for a book - quietly, quietly, I used to not dare to move.
Three months later, upon our arrival in St. Petersburg, I was sent to a boarding school. I felt sad at first in strangers! Everything was so dry, unfriendly—the governesses were such loudmouths, the girls were such mockers, and I was such a savage. Strictly demanding! Hours for everything, a common table, boring teachers - all this at first tormented me, exhausted me. I couldn't sleep there. I used to cry the whole night, a long, boring, cold night. It used to be that in the evenings everyone repeated or learned lessons; I sit for myself talking or vocables, I don’t dare to move, but I myself keep thinking about our home corner, about my father, about my mother, about my old nanny, about nanny’s fairy tales ... oh, how sad it will be! About the most empty little thing in the house, and you remember it with pleasure. You think, you think: how good it would be at home now! I would sit in our little room, by the samovar, together with ours; it would be so warm, good, familiar. As if, you think, she hugged her mother now, tightly, tightly, hotly, hotly! You think, you think, and you will cry quietly from longing, squeezing tears in your chest, and vocables will not come to mind. How can you not learn a lesson by tomorrow; all night dreaming of the teacher, madam, girls; all night in a dream you repeat the lessons, but the next day you don’t know anything. They will put you on your knees and give you one meal. I was so unhappy, boring. At first, all the girls laughed at me, teased me, knocked me down when I said my lessons, pinched me when we went to dinner or tea in the ranks, complained about me to the governess for no reason at all. But what a paradise, when the nanny came, it used to be for me on Saturday evening. So I used to hug my old woman in a frenzy of joy. She will dress me, wrap me up, she won’t keep up with me on the road, and I keep chatting to her, chatting, telling her. I will come home cheerful, joyful, I will hug our people tightly, as if after a ten-year separation. Rumors, conversations, stories will begin; you greet everyone, laugh, laugh, run, jump. Serious conversations will begin with the priest, about the sciences, about our teachers, about the French language, about Lomond's grammar - and we are all so cheerful, so happy. I still have fun remembering those moments. I did my best to study and please the priest. I saw that he gave the last thing to me, and God knows how he fought. Every day he grew gloomier, more dissatisfied, more angry; his character completely deteriorated: things did not work out, there was an abyss of debt. Mother used to be afraid to cry, she was afraid to say a word, so as not to anger the father; the patient became so; she grew thinner and thinner and began to cough badly. I used to come from the boarding house - all such sad faces; mother is crying quietly, father is angry. There will be reproaches, reproaches. Batiushka will begin to say that I bring him no joy, no consolation; that they are losing their last because of me, and I still do not speak French; in a word, all failures, all misfortunes, everything, everything was taken out on me and on my mother. And how could you torment the poor mother? Looking at her, her heart would break, it happened: her cheeks were hollow, her eyes were sunken, there was such a consumptive color in her face. I got the most. It always started out of trifles, and then God knows what it came to; Often I didn't even know what was going on. What was not due! .. And the French language, and that I am a big fool, and that the landlady of our boarding house is a negligent, stupid woman; that she does not care about our morality; that the priest still cannot find service for himself, and that Lomond's grammar is bad grammar, but Zapolsky's is much better; that a lot of money was thrown at me in vain; that I, apparently, was insensitive, stony - in a word, poor me, I fought with all my might, repeating conversations and vocables, but I was to blame for everything, 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 this is so, the character was such.
Worries, grief, failures exhausted the poor father to the extreme: he became distrustful, bilious; was often close to despair, began to neglect his health, caught a cold and suddenly fell ill, did not suffer long and died so suddenly, so suddenly, that we were all beside ourselves from a stroke for several days. Mother was in a kind of stupor; I even feared for her sanity. Batiushka has just died, creditors have come to us as if from the earth, flooded in a crowd. Everything we had, we gave away. Our house on the Petersburg side, which the father bought six months after our resettlement to Petersburg, was also sold. I don’t know how they settled the rest, but we ourselves were left homeless, without shelter, without food. Matupka suffered from a debilitating disease, we could not feed ourselves, there was nothing to live on, death lay ahead. I was only fourteen years old then. It was then that Anna Fedorovna visited us. She keeps saying that she is some kind of landowner and that we have some kind of relative. Mother also said that she was related to us, only very distant. She never visited us during her father's lifetime. She appeared with tears in her eyes, saying that she took a great part in us; she condoled about our loss, about our plight, added that the father was to blame himself: that he lived beyond his strength, climbed far and that he hoped too much on his own strength. She showed a desire to get along with us in a shorter way, offered to forget mutual troubles; and when matushka announced that she had never felt hostility towards her, she shed a tear, took matushka to church and ordered a requiem for a darling (as she put it about batiushka). After that, she solemnly reconciled with her mother.
After lengthy introductions and warnings, Anna Feodorovna, having depicted in bright colors our plight, orphanhood, hopelessness, helplessness, invited us, as she herself put it, to take shelter with her. Mother thanked, but hesitated for a long time; but since there was nothing to be done and there was no other way to arrange it, she finally announced to Anna Fyodorovna that we accepted her proposal with gratitude. How now I remember the morning in which we moved from the Petersburg side to Vasilyevsky Island. It was an autumn morning, clear, dry and frosty. Mother was crying; I was terribly sad; my chest was bursting, my soul was tormented by some inexpressible, terrible anguish... It was a hard time.
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At first, while we, that is, my mother and I, did not settle down at our housewarming party, we both felt somehow terribly, wildly at Anna Fyodorovna's. Anna Fedorovna lived in her own house, in the Sixth Line. There were only five clean rooms in the house. In three of them lived Anna Fedorovna and my cousin, Sasha, who was brought up by her - a child, an orphan, without a father and mother. Then we lived in the same room, and finally, in the last room, next to us, there was a poor student, Pokrovsky, who lived with Anna Feodorovna. Anna Fedorovna lived very well, richer than one might have imagined; but her condition was mysterious, as were her occupations. She was always fussy, always preoccupied, went out and went out several times a day; but what she did, what she cared about, and why she cared, I could never guess. Her acquaintance was wide and varied. Everyone used to visit her, guests went, and God knows what kind of people, always on some business and for a minute. Mother always took me to our room, it happened that the bell would just ring. Anna Fyodorovna was terribly angry with her mother for this and kept repeating that we were too proud, that we were too proud, that there would be more to be proud of, and for whole hours she did not stop. I did not understand then these accusations of pride; in the same way, I only now found out, or at least I foresee why my mother did not dare to live with Anna Fyodorovna. The evil woman was Anna Feodorovna; she constantly tormented us. It is still a mystery to me, why exactly did she invite us to her place? At first she was rather affectionate with us, and then she showed her real character completely, 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. Every minute she reproached us; all she did was talk about her good deeds. She recommended us to strangers as her poor relatives, the helpless widow and orphan, whom she, out of mercy, for the sake of Christian love, sheltered. At the table, every piece that we took was followed with her eyes, and if we did not eat, the story began again: they say, we shun; do not seek, the richer you are, the more glad you are, whether it would be better for us ourselves. She scolded the priest every minute: she said that she wanted to be better than others, but it turned out badly; they say, he let his wife and daughter go around the world, and that if there weren’t a relative of a benevolent, compassionate Christian soul, then God knows, maybe they would have to rot in the street with hunger. What didn't she say! Not as bitter as it was disgusting to listen to her. Mother wept every minute; her health was getting worse day by day, she was apparently withering, and meanwhile we worked with her from morning to night, getting custom work, sewing, which Anna Fyodorovna did not like very much; she kept saying that she did not have a fashion store in the house. But it was necessary to dress, it was necessary to save for unforeseen expenses, it was imperative to have your own money. Just in case, we saved up, hoping that we could eventually move somewhere. But mother lost her last health at work: she was weakening every day. The disease, like a worm, apparently undermined her life and brought her closer to the grave. I saw everything, felt everything, suffered everything; All this was in front of my eyes!
Day after day passed, and each day was like the previous one. We lived quietly, as if we were not in the city. Anna Feodorovna gradually calmed down, in proportion as she herself became fully aware of her dominion. However, no one ever thought to rebuke 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 the sciences, as Anna Fedorovna said, and for that he received an apartment and a table from her; Sasha was a preoccupied girl, although frisky and a naughty one; she was then thirteen years old. Anna Fyodorovna remarked to my mother that it would not be bad if I began to study, because in the boarding school I was undereducated. Mother gladly agreed, and for a whole year I studied with Pokrovsky together with Sasha.
Pokrovsky was a poor, very poor young man; his health did not allow him to go to study all the time, and he was so, out of habit only, called us a student. He lived modestly, quietly, quietly, so that he could not be heard 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. In addition, he was of an irritable nature, constantly angry, lost his temper for every little thing, shouted at us, complained about us, and often, without finishing the lesson, went angry to his room. At home, he spent whole days sitting at books. He had many books, and all such expensive, rare books. He also taught here and there, received some pay, so that as soon as he got some 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 could meet. His mother respected him greatly. Then he was the best of friends for me too - of course, after my mother.
At first, I, such a big girl, was naughty at the same time with Sasha, and we used to rack our brains for hours on how to annoy and bring him out of patience. He was terribly funny angry, and it was extremely funny to us. (I'm even ashamed to remember it.) 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 the 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 to his room. I've been writhing in remorse all day. The thought that we children had 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 get him out of his last patience; therefore, we forcibly forced him, the unfortunate, poor, to remember his fierce lot! I did not sleep all night because of vexation, sadness, remorse. They say that repentance lightens the soul, on the contrary. I don't know how it was added to my grief and self-esteem. I didn't want him to think I was a child. I was then fifteen years old.
From that day on, I began to torment my imagination, creating thousands of plans for how to suddenly force Pokrovsky to change his mind about me. But I was sometimes timid and shy; in my present position, I could not decide on anything and limited myself to only dreams (and God knows what dreams!). I stopped only playing pranks with Sasha; he stopped being angry with us; but that was not enough for my pride.
Now I will say a few words about one of the strangest, most curious, and most pitiful person I have ever met. That is why I am talking about him now, precisely in this place in my notes, because until this very era I paid almost no attention to him - so everything that concerned Pokrovsky suddenly became interesting for me!
Sometimes an old man appeared in our house, dirty, badly dressed, small, gray-haired, baggy, awkward, in a word, utterly strange. At first glance one might have thought that he seemed to be ashamed of something, as if he were ashamed of himself. That's why he somehow shuddered, somehow grimace; he had such tricks and antics that one could, almost without mistake, conclude that he was out of his mind. He used to come to us, but he stood in the hallway by the glass doors and did not dare to enter the house. Which of us passes by - I or Sasha, or from the servants whom he knew better to him - then he is now waving, beckoning to himself, making various signs, and only when you nod your head and call him - a conventional sign that there is no stranger in the house and that he can come in whenever he pleases - only then the old man quietly opened the door, smiled joyfully, rubbed his hands with pleasure and tiptoed 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 last, most insignificant place in the service. When his first wife died (the mother of the student Pokrovsky), he took it into his head to marry a second time and married a bourgeois woman. With a new wife in the house, everything went upside down; no one could live from her; she took them all into her own hands. 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 kind of school. He was interested in him because he knew his late mother, who, while still a girl, was favored by Anna Feodorovna and married by her to the official Pokrovsky. Mr. Bykov, a friend and short acquaintance of Anna Fedorovna, moved by generosity, gave five thousand rubles dowry for the bride. Where the money went is unknown. So 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, for such an insignificant person ... She died at a young age, four years after her marriage.
From school, young Pokrovsky entered some kind of gymnasium and then to the university. Mr. Bykov, who came to St. Petersburg very often, did not leave him here with his patronage. Due to his poor health, Pokrovsky could not continue his studies at the university. Mr. Bykov introduced him to Anna Fedorovna, himself recommended him, and thus the young Pokrovsky was accepted for bread, with the persuasion to teach Sasha everything that was needed.
The old man Pokrovsky, out of grief from the cruelties of his wife, indulged in the worst vice and was almost always in a state of intoxication. His wife beat him, sent him to live in the kitchen, and brought him to such a point that he finally got used to beatings and bad treatment and did not complain. He was not yet a very old man, but from bad inclinations he almost survived out of his mind. The only sign of human noble feelings was in him unlimited love for his son. It was said that young Pokrovsky looked like two drops of water to his late mother. Didn't the memories of the former good wife give 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 about his son, and constantly visited him twice a week. He did not dare to come more often, because the young Pokrovsky could not stand his father's visits. Of all his shortcomings, no doubt the first and most important was disrespect for his father. However, the old man was sometimes the most obnoxious creature in the world. Firstly, he was terribly curious, and secondly, with conversations and inquiries, the most empty and stupid, he constantly interfered with his son's studies and, finally, he sometimes appeared in a state of intoxication. The son gradually weaned the old man from vices, from curiosity and from minute-by-minute chatter, 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 rejoiced at his Petenka (as he called his son). When he came to visit him, he almost always had some kind of preoccupied, timid look, probably from the unknown, somehow his son would accept him, usually he didn’t dare to enter for a long time, and if I happened to be here, he would take me about twenty minutes, it happened , asked - what, what is Petenka? is he well? in what kind of mood exactly and is he doing something important? What exactly is he doing? Does he write or what kind of thoughts does he do? When I had sufficiently encouraged and reassured him, the old man finally made up his mind to enter and quietly, quietly, cautiously, cautiously opened the doors, first poked one head out, and if he saw that his son was not angry and nodded his head to him, then he quietly went into the room, took off his overcoat, hat, which he always had crumpled, full of holes, with torn off brim - he hung everything on a hook, did everything quietly, inaudibly; then he would sit down somewhere carefully on a chair and never take his eyes off his son, catching all his movements, wanting to guess the mood of his Petenka. If the son was a little out of sorts and the old man noticed this, he immediately got up from his seat and explained, And then silently, obediently, he took his greatcoat and hat, again slowly opened the door and left, smiling through his strength, in order to keep the grief boiling in his soul and not show it to his son.
But when the son accepts, it happened, the father is good, then the old man does not 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 reverently, and always trying to use the most selective, that is, the most ridiculous expressions. But the gift of words was not given to him: he always gets confused and shy, so that he does not know where to put his hands, where to put himself, and after a long time he whispers the answer to himself, as if wanting to get better. If he managed to answer well, then the old man would preen, straighten his waistcoat, tie, tailcoat and take on the appearance of his own dignity. And it happened that he would be so emboldened, would stretch his courage so much that he quietly got up from his chair, approached a shelf with books, took 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 in such a way, as if he were not unusual in his son's caress. But I once happened to see how frightened the poor man was when Pokrovsky asked him not to touch the books. He was confused, hurried, put the book upside down, then wanted to get better, turned it over and put it with the sawn-off side out, smiled, blushed and did not know how to make amends for his crime. With his advice, Pokrovsky gradually weaned the old man from bad inclinations, and as soon as he saw him three times in a row in a sober state, then at the first visit he gave him a quarter, fifty dollars or more as parting. Sometimes I bought him boots, a tie or a vest. But the old man in his renovation was proud as a rooster. Sometimes he visited us. He brought me and Sasha gingerbread roosters, apples, and everything used to talk with us about Petenka. He asked us to study carefully, to obey, he said that Petenka was a good son, an exemplary son, and, in addition, a learned son. Here he is. he used to wink at us with his left eye funny, grimacing so funny that we could not help laughing and laughed heartily at him. Mom loved him very much. But the old man hated Anna Fedorovna, although he was quieter than water before her, lower than grass.
Soon I stopped studying with Pokrovsky. He still considered me a child, a frisky girl, on a par with Sasha. It was very painful for me, because I tried with all my might to make amends for my previous behavior. But they didn't notice me. This annoyed me more and more. I almost never spoke to Pokrovsky outside of classes, and I could not speak. I blushed, got in the way, and then somewhere in a corner wept with vexation.
I do not know how it would all have ended if one strange circumstance had not helped our rapprochement. One evening, when my mother was sitting with Anna Fyodorovna, I quietly entered Pokrovsky's room. I knew that he was not at home, and, really, I do not know why I took it into my head to go in to him. Until now, I have never looked at him, although we have lived nearby for more than a year. This time my heart was beating so hard, so hard that it seemed to want to jump out of my chest. I looked around with a peculiar curiosity. Pokrovsky's room was very poorly decorated; there was little order. There were five long shelves of 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 a scholar, 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 breaking under the books. Annoyance, melancholy, a kind of rage took possession of me. I wanted to, and I immediately decided to read his books, every single one, and as soon as possible. I don't know, maybe I thought that by learning 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 that came across in her hands and, blushing, turning pale, trembling with excitement and fear, dragged the stolen book to her, deciding to read it at night, by the night lamp, when mother fell asleep.
But how vexed I felt when, having come into our room, I hurriedly opened the book and saw some old, half-rotted, worm-eaten Latin work. I returned without wasting 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, hurried, but the unbearable book was so densely arranged in a row that when I took out one, all the others were distributed by themselves and rallied so that now there was no more room 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 fastened and which, it seems, deliberately waited 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 someone was in charge of his possessions. Woe to him who touched his books! Judge my horror when books, small, large, of various formats, of various 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 was terribly angry. And he rushed to pick up books. I bent over to help him. . But, however, slightly softened by my submissive movement, he continued already more quietly, in a recent mentoring tone, using the recent right of a teacher: And here, probably wanting to believe whether it was fair that I was no longer small, he looked at me and blushed ears. I didn't understand; I stood in front of him and looked at him with wide eyes in amazement. He half rose, came up to me with an embarrassed look, mingled terribly, started talking about something, it seemed he was apologizing for something, maybe that he had 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 to do, where to go from shame. Just the fact that he caught me in his room! For three whole days I could not look at him. I blushed to tears. The strangest thoughts, funny thoughts swirled in my head. One of them, the most extravagant, was the one that I wanted to go to him, explain to him, confess everything to him, tell him everything frankly and assure him that I did not act like a stupid girl, but with a good intention. I made up my mind to go, but, thank God, I didn't have the courage. Imagine what I would do! I am ashamed to remember all this now.
A few days later my mother suddenly became dangerously ill. She had not left her bed for two days, and on the third night she was feverish and delirious. I did not sleep one night, taking care of my mother, I sat by her bed, brought her a drink and gave her medicines at certain hours. On the second night, I was completely exhausted. From time to time I was driven to sleep, my eyes turned green, my head was spinning, and every minute I was ready to fall from exhaustion, but the weak moans of my mother awakened me, I shuddered, woke up for a moment, and then drowsiness again overcame me. I suffered. I don't know - I can't recall to myself - but some kind of terrible dream, some kind of terrible vision visited my upset head at the agonizing moment of the struggle between sleep and wakefulness. I woke up horrified. It was dark in the room, the night-light was going out, streaks of light either suddenly poured over the whole room, then flickered a little along the wall, then disappeared altogether. For some reason I felt frightened, some kind of horror attacked me; my imagination was excited by a terrible dream; melancholy squeezed my heart ... I jumped up from my chair and involuntarily cried out from some painful, terribly painful feeling. At that moment the door opened, and Pokrovsky entered our room.
All I remember is that I woke up in his arms. He carefully seated me in chairs, handed me a glass of water and bombarded me with questions. I don't remember what I said to him. he went on, not allowing me to utter a single word in objection. Fatigue robbed me of my last strength; my eyes were closed from weakness. I lay down in an armchair, determined to fall asleep only for half an hour, and slept until morning. Pokrovsky woke me up only when it was time to give my mother medicine.
The next day, when I, having rested a little during the day, prepared to sit again in the armchair by my mother's bed, having firmly resolved not to fall asleep this time, Pokrovsky knocked at our room at eleven o'clock. I opened. . I took; I don't remember what book it was; I hardly looked into it then, even though I didn’t sleep all night. A strange inner agitation kept me awake; I couldn't stay in one place; several times she got up from her chair and began to walk around the room. Some kind of inner contentment spilled over my entire being. I was so glad for the attention of Pokrovsky. I was proud of his concern and concern for me. I thought and dreamed all night. Pokrovsky did not stop by; and I knew that he would not come, and I thought about the evening ahead.
The next evening, when everyone in the house had already 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 shy, got in the way, got annoyed with myself and looked forward to the end of the conversation, although I myself wanted it with all my might, dreamed about it all day long and composed my questions and answers ... From that evening began the first beginning of our friendship. Throughout my mother's illness, we spent several hours every night together. I gradually conquered my shyness, although, after each conversation we had, there was still something to be annoyed with myself. However, I saw with secret joy and proud pleasure that he forgot his unbearable books because of me. By chance, as a joke, the conversation once turned on their fall from the shelf. The moment was strange, I was somehow too frank and sincere; vehemence, a strange enthusiasm carried me away, and I confessed everything to him ... 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 strange 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 the same time in my heart, to console him, to calm him. He looked at me somehow strangely, with confusion, with amazement, and did not say a word to me. I suddenly felt terribly sick, sad. It seemed to me that he did not understand me, that he might be laughing at me. I suddenly burst into tears, like a child, I sobbed, I could not restrain myself; I was definitely in some sort of a 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 said to me, but only I wept, and laughed, and wept again, blushed, could not utter a word for 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 enthusiasm, my delight, such a sudden, hot, fiery friendship. Maybe he was only curious at first; afterwards his indecisiveness 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 did not hide, did not hide in anything; he saw all this and became more and more attached to me every day.
And really, I don’t remember what we didn’t talk about during these painful and at the same time sweet hours of our meetings, at night, by the trembling light of the icon lamp and almost at the very bedside of my poor sick mother? .. About everything that came to mind, that it broke from my heart that I 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 joyful now to remember him. Memories, whether joyful or bitter, are always painful; at least that's how it is with me; but torment is sweet. And when the heart becomes heavy, painful, languishing, sad, then memories freshen and live it, like dew drops on a humid evening, after a hot day, fresh and live a poor, stunted flower, burned out from the heat of the day.
Mother was recovering, but I still continued to sit at night by her bed. Pokrovsky often gave me books; I read, at first so as not to fall asleep, then more attentively, then with greed; Before me suddenly opened up a lot of new things, hitherto unknown, unfamiliar to me. New thoughts, new impressions at once, in an abundant stream, came to my heart. And the more excitement, the more embarrassment and labor it cost me to receive new impressions, the dearer they were to me, the sweeter they shook my whole soul. At once, suddenly, they crowded into my heart, not allowing it to rest. Some strange chaos began to disturb my whole being. But this spiritual violence could not and did not have the power to upset me completely. I was too dreamy and that saved me.
When my mother's illness ended, our evening meetings and long conversations ceased; we sometimes succeeded in exchanging words, often empty and meaningless, but I was pleased to give everything its meaning, its special, implied price. My life was full, I was happy, peacefully, quietly happy. So it's been a few weeks...
Once the old man Pokrovsky came to us. He chatted with us for a long time, was unusually cheerful, cheerful, talkative; laughed, joked in his own way, and finally solved the riddle of his delight and announced to us that Petenka's birthday would be exactly in a week and that on this occasion he would certainly come to his son; that he would put on a new vest, and that his wife had promised to buy him new boots. In a word, the old man was quite happy and chatted about everything that came into his mind.
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