the fence, not begging from everyone, said to me: 'Give us a halfpenny, sir, for Christ's sake,' and in such a harsh, jerky voice that I started with a horrible feeling and did not give him a halfpenny, I hadn't one. Rich people don't like the poor to complain aloud of their harsh lot, they say they disturb them, they are troublesome! Yes, indeed, poverty is always troublesome; maybe their hungry groans hinder the rich from sleeping!
To make a confession, my own, I began to describe all this to you partly to relieve my heart but chiefly to give you an example of the fine style of my composition, for you have no doubt noticed yourself, my dear girl, that of late my style has been forming, but such a depression came over me that I began to pity my feelings to the depth of my soul, and though I know, my dear, tiiat one gets no good by self-pity, yet one must do oneself justice in some way, and often, my own, for no reason whatever, one literally annihilates oneself, makes oneself of no account, and not worth a straw. And perhaps that is why it happens that I am panic-stricken and persecuted like that poor boy who asked me for alms. Now I will tell you, by way of instance and illustration, Varinka; listen: hunying to the of&ce early in the morning, my own, I sometimes look at the town, how it wakes, gets up, begins smoking, hurrying with life, resounding—sometimes you feel so smadl before such a sight that it is as though someone had given you a flip on your intrusive nose and you creep along your way noiseless as water, and hiunble as grass, and hold your peace 1 Now just look into it and see what is going on in tiiose great, black, smutty buildings. Get to the bottom of that and Sien judge whether one was right to abuse oneself for no reason and to be reduced to undignified mortification. Note, Varinka, that I am speaking figuratively, not in a literal sense. But let us look what is going on in those houses. There, in some smoky comer, in some damp hole, which, through poverty, passes as a lodging, some workman wakes up from his sleep; and all night he has been dreaming of boots, for instance,
which he had accidentally slit the day before, as though a man ought to dream of such nonsense! But he's an artisan, he's a shoemaker; it's excusable for him to think of nothing but his ovm subject. His children are crying and his wife is hungry; and it's not only shoemakers who get up in the mom-ing like that, my own—that would not matter, and would not be worth writing about, but this is the point, Varinka: close by in the same house, in a storey higher or lower, a wealthy man in his gilded apartments dreams at night, it may be, of those same boots, that is, boots in a different manner, in a different sense, but still boots, for in the sense I am using the word, Varinka, everyone of us is a bit of a shoemaker, my darling; and that would not matter, only it's a pity there is no one at that wealthy person's side, no man who could whisper in his ear: 'Come, give over thinking of such things, thinking of nothing but yourself, living for nothing but yourself; your children are healthy, your wife is not begging for food. Look about you, can't you see some object more noble to worry about than your boots?' That's what I wanted to say to you in a figurative way, Varinka. Perhaps it's too free a thought, my own, but sometimes one has that thought, sometimes it comes to one and one cannot help its bursting out from one's heart in warm language. And so it seems there was no reason to make oneself so cheap, and to be scared by mere noise and uproar. I will conclude by saying, Varinka, that perhaps you think what I am saying is unjust, or that I'm suffering from a fit of the spleen, or that I have copied this out of some book. No, my dear girl, you must dismiss that idea, it is not that; I abominate injustice, I am not suffering from spleen, and I've not copied an}dhing out of a book—so there.
I went home in a melancholy frame of mind; I sat down to the table and heated my teapot to have a glass of two of tea. Suddenly I saw coming towards me Gorshkov, our poor lodger. I had noticed in the morning that he kept hanging about round the other lodgers, and trying to approach me. And I may say, in passing, Varinka, that they Uve ever so much worse than I do. Yes, indeed, he has a wife and children I So that if I were in his place I don't know what I should do. Well, my Gorshkov comes up to me, bows to me, a running tear as always on his eyelashes, he scrapes with his foot and can't utter a word. I made him sit down on a chair—^it was a broken one, it is true, but there was no other. I offered him some tea. He refused from politeness, refused for a long time, but at last he
took a glass. He would have drunk it without sugar, began apologising again, when I tried to persuade him that he must have sugar; he argued for a long time, kept refusing, but at last put the very smallest lump of sugar in his glass, and begaii declaring that his tea was extremely sweet. Oh, to what degradation poverty does reduce people! 'Well, my good friend, what is it?' I said. 'Well, it is Uke this, Makar Alexyevitch, my benefactor,' he said, 'show the mercy of the Lord, come to the help of my unhappy family; my wife and children have nothing to eat; think what it is for me, their father,' said he. I tried to speaJc, but he interrupted me. 'I am afraid of everyone here, Makar Alexyevitch—^that is, not exactly afraid but as it were ashamed with them; they are all proud and haughty people. I would not have troubled you, my benefactor, I know that you have been in dif&culties yourself, I know you can't give me much, but do lend me a trifle, and I make bold to ask you,' said he, 'because I know your kind heart. I know that you are in need yourself, that you know what trouble is now, and so your heart feels compassion.' He ended by saying, 'Forgive my boldness and unmannerliness, Makar Alexyevitch.' I answered him that I should be heartily glad, but that I had nothing, absolutely nothing. 'Makar Alexyevitch, sir,' said he, 'I am not asking for much, but you see it is like this— (then he flushed crimson)—^my wife, my children, hungry—^if only a ten-kopeck piece.' Well, it sent a twinge to my heart. Why, I thought, they are worse off than I, even. Twenty kopecks was all I had left, and I was reckoning on it. I meant to spend it next day on my most pressing needs.
'No, my dear fellow, I can't, it is like this,' I said.
'Makar Alexyevitch, my dear soul, what you like,' he said, 'if it is only ten kopecks.'
Well, I took my twenty kopecks out of my box, Varinka, and gave it him; it's a good deed an3rway! Ah! poverty! I had a good talk with him: 'Why, how is it, my good soul,' I said, 'that you are in such want and yet you rent a room for five silver roubles?' He explained to me that he had taken it six months before and paid for it six months in advance; and since then circumstances had been such that the poor fellow does not know which way to turn. He expected his case would be over by this time. It's an unpleasant business. You see, Varinka, he has to answer for something before the court, he is mixed up in a case with a merchant who swindled the government over a contract; the cheat was discovered and the
merchant was arrested and he's managed to implicate Gorshkov, who had something to do with it, too. But in reality Gorshkov was only guilty of negligence, of injudieiousness and unpardonable disregard of the interests of government. The case has been going on for some years. Gorshkov has had to face all sorts of difficulties.
'I'm not guilty, not in the least guilty of the dishonesty attributed to me,' said Gorshkov; 'I am not guilty of swindling and robbery.'
This case has thrown a slur on his character; he has been turned out of the service, and though he has not been found guilty of any legal crime, yet, till he has completely cleared himself he cannot recover from the merchant a considerable sum of money due to him which is now the subject of dispute before the courts. I beUeve him, but the court won't take his word for it; the case is all in such a coil and a tangle that it would take a hundred years to unravel it. As soon as they untie one knot the merdiant brings forward another and then another. I feel the deepest sympathy for Gorshkov, my own, I am very sorry for him. The man's out of work, he won't be taken anjnvhere without a character; all they had saved has been spent on food, the case is complicated and, meanwhile, they have had to live, and meanwhile, apropos of nothing and most inappropriately, a baby has been bom, and that is an expense; his son fell ill—expense; died—expense; his wife is ill; he's afflicted with some disease of long standing— ^in fact, he has suffered, he has suffered to the utmost; he says, however, that he is expecting a favourable conclusion to his business in a day or two and that there is no doubt of it now. I am sorry for him, I am sorry for him; I am very sorry for him, Varinka. I was kind to him, he's a poor lost, scared creature; he needs a friend so I was kind to him. Well, goodbye, my dear one, Christ be with you, keep well. My darling! when I think of you it's like laying a salve on my sore heart. And though I suffer for you, yet it eases my heart to sufier for you.
Your true friend,
Makar Dyevushkin.
September 9. My Darling, Varvara Alexyevna,
I am writing to you almost beside myself. I have been thoroughly upset by a terrible incident. My head is going
round. Ah, my own, what a thing I have to tell you nowl This we did not foresee. No, I don't believe that I did not foresee it; I did foresee it all. I had a presentiment of it in my heart. I even dreamed of something of the kind a day or two ago.
This is what happened! I will write to you regardless of style, just as God puts it into my heart. I went to the office to-day. I went in, I sat down, I began writing. And you must know, Varinka, that I was writing yesterday too. Well, this is how it was: Timofey Ivanovitch came up to me and was pleased to explain to me in person, 'The document is wanted in a hurry,' said he. 'Copy it very clearly as quickly as possible and carefully, Makar Alexyevitch,' he said; 'it goes to be signed to-day.' I must observe, my angel, that I was not mj^self yesterday, I could not bear
