Poor Folk

Chapter 3

Why do you write thus about "comfort" and "peace" and the rest? I

am not a fastidious man, nor one who requires much. Never in my

life have I been so comfortable as now. Why, then, should I

complain in my old age? I have enough to eat, I am well dressed

and booted. Also, I have my diversions. You see, I am not of

noble blood. My father himself was not a gentleman; he and his

family had to live even more plainly than I do. Nor am I a

milksop. Nevertheless, to speak frankly, I do not like my present

abode so much as I used to like my old one. Somehow the latter

seemed more cosy, dearest. Of course, this room is a good one

enough; in fact, in SOME respects it is the more cheerful and

interesting of the two. I have nothing to say against it--no. Yet

I miss the room that used to be so familiar to me. Old lodgers

like myself soon grow as attached to our chattels as to a

kinsman. My old room was such a snug little place! True, its

walls resembled those of any other room--I am not speaking of

that; the point is that the recollection of them seems to haunt

my mind with sadness. Curious that recollections should be so

mournful! Even what in that room used to vex me and inconvenience

me now looms in a purified light, and figures in my imagination

as a thing to be desired. We used to live there so quietly--I and

an old landlady who is now dead. How my heart aches to remember

her, for she was a good woman, and never overcharged for her

rooms. Her whole time was spent in making patchwork quilts with

knitting-needles that were an arshin [An ell.] long. Oftentimes

we shared the same candle and board. Also she had a

granddaughter, Masha--a girl who was then a mere baby, but must

now be a girl of thirteen. This little piece of mischief, how she

used to make us laugh the day long! We lived together, a happy

family of three. Often of a long winter's evening we would first

have tea at the big round table, and then betake ourselves to our

work; the while that, to amuse the child and to keep her out of

mischief, the old lady would set herself to tell stories. What

stories they were!--though stories less suitable for a child than

for a grown-up, educated person. My word! Why, I myself have sat

listening to them, as I smoked my pipe, until I have forgotten

about work altogether. And then, as the story grew grimmer, the

little child, our little bag of mischief, would grow thoughtful

in proportion, and clasp her rosy cheeks in her tiny hands, and,

hiding her face, press closer to the old landlady. Ah, how I

loved to see her at those moments! As one gazed at her one would

fail to notice how the candle was flickering, or how the storm

was swishing the snow about the courtyard. Yes, that was a goodly

life, my Barbara, and we lived it for nearly twenty years. . . .

How my tongue does carry me away! Maybe the subject does not

interest you, and I myself find it a not over-easy subject to

recall--especially at the present time.

Darkness is falling, and Theresa is busying herself with

something or another. My head and my back are aching, and even my

thoughts seem to be in pain, so strangely do they occur. Yes, my

heart is sad today, Barbara.... What is it you have written to

me? ---"Why do you not come in PERSON to see me?" Dear one, what

would people say? I should have but to cross the courtyard for

people to begin noticing us, and asking themselves questions.

Gossip and scandal would arise, and there would be read into the

affair quite another meaning than the real one. No, little angel,

it were better that I should see you tomorrow at Vespers. That

will be the better plan, and less hurtful to us both. Nor must

you chide me, beloved, because I have written you a letter like

this (reading it through, I see it to be all odds and ends); for

I am an old man now, dear Barbara, and an uneducated one. Little

learning had I in my youth, and things refuse to fix themselves

in my brain when I try to learn them anew. No, I am not skilled

in letter-writing, Barbara, and, without being told so, or any

one laughing at me for it, I know that, whenever I try to

describe anything with more than ordinary distinctness, I fall

into the mistake of talking sheer rubbish. . . . I saw you at

your window today--yes, I saw you as you were drawing down the

blind! Good-bye, goodbye, little Barbara, and may God keep you!

Good-bye, my own Barbara Alexievna!--Your sincere friend,

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.

P.S.--Do not think that I could write to you in a satirical vein,

for I am too old to show my teeth to no purpose, and people would

laugh at me, and quote our Russian proverb: "Who diggeth a pit

for another one, the same shall fall into it himself."