By the time I had returned to Gorokhovaia Street darkness had fallen and the lamps had been lit. However, I did not linger long in that particular spot, for Gorokhovaia Street is too noisy a place. But what sumptuous12 shops and stores it contains! Everything sparkles and glitters, and the windows are full of nothing but bright colours and materials and hats of different shapes. One might think that they were decked merely for display; but no,—people buy these things, and give them to their wives! Yes, it IS a sumptuous place. Hordes14 of German hucksters are there, as well as quite respectable traders. And the quantities of carriages which pass along the street! One marvels15 that the pavement can support so many splendid vehicles, with windows like crystal, linings16 made of silk and velvet17, and lacqueys dressed in epaulets and wearing swords! Into some of them I glanced, and saw that they contained ladies of various ages. Perhaps they were princesses and countesses! Probably at that hour such folk would be hastening to balls and other gatherings18. In fact, it was interesting to be able to look so closely at a princess or a great lady. They were all very fine. At all events, I had never before seen such persons as I beheld19 in those carriages....
Then I thought of you. Ah, my own, my darling, it is often that I think of you and feel my heart sink. How is it that YOU are so unfortunate, Barbara? How is it that YOU are so much worse off than other people? In my eyes you are kind-hearted, beautiful, and clever—why, then, has such an evil fate fallen to your lot? How comes it that you are left desolate—you, so good a human being! While to others happiness comes without an invitation at all? Yes, I know—I know it well—that I ought not to say it, for to do so savours of free-thought; but why should that raven20, Fate, croak21 out upon the fortunes of one person while she is yet in her mother’s womb, while another person it permits to go forth22 in happiness from the home which has reared her? To even an idiot of an Ivanushka such happiness is sometimes granted. “You, you fool Ivanushka,” says Fate, “shall succeed to your grandfather’s money-bags, and eat, drink, and be merry; whereas YOU (such and such another one) shall do no more than lick the dish, since that is all that you are good for.” Yes, I know that it is wrong to hold such opinions, but involuntarily the sin of so doing grows upon one’s soul. Nevertheless, it is you, my darling, who ought to be riding in one of those carriages. Generals would have come seeking your favour, and, instead of being clad in a humble23 cotton dress, you would have been walking in silken and golden attire24. Then you would not have been thin and wan25 as now, but fresh and plump and rosy-cheeked as a figure on a sugar-cake. Then should I too have been happy—happy if only I could look at your lighted windows from the street, and watch your shadow—happy if only I could think that you were well and happy, my sweet little bird! Yet how are things in reality? Not only have evil folk brought you to ruin, but there comes also an old rascal26 of a libertine27 to insult you! Just because he struts28 about in a frockcoat, and can ogle29 you through a gold-mounted lorgnette, the brute30 thinks that everything will fall into his hands—that you are bound to listen to his insulting condescension31! Out upon him! But why is this? It is because you are an orphan32, it is because you are unprotected, it is because you have no powerful friend to afford you the decent support which is your due. WHAT do such facts matter to a man or to men to whom the insulting of an orphan is an offence allowed? Such fellows are not men at all, but mere13 vermin, no matter what they think themselves to be. Of that I am certain. Why, an organ-grinder whom I met in Gorokhovaia Street would inspire more respect than they do, for at least he walks about all day, and suffers hunger—at least he looks for a stray, superfluous33 groat to earn him subsistence, and is, therefore, a true gentleman, in that he supports himself. To beg alms he would be ashamed; and, moreover, he works for the benefit of mankind just as does a factory machine. “So far as in me lies,” says he, “I will give you pleasure.” True, he is a pauper34, and nothing but a pauper; but, at least he is an HONOURABLE35 pauper. Though tired and hungry, he still goes on working—working in his own peculiar36 fashion, yet still doing honest labour. Yes, many a decent fellow whose labour may be disproportionate to its utility pulls the forelock to no one, and begs his bread of no one. I myself resemble that organ-grinder. That is to say, though not exactly he, I resemble him in this respect, that I work according to my capabilities37, and so far as in me lies. More could be asked of no one; nor ought I to be adjudged to do more.
Apropos38 of the organ-grinder, I may tell you, dearest, that today I experienced a double misfortune. As I was looking at the grinder, certain thoughts entered my head and I stood wrapped in a reverie. Some cabmen also had halted at the spot, as well as a young girl, with a yet smaller girl who was dressed in rags and tatters. These people had halted there to listen to the organ-grinder, who was playing in front of some one’s windows. Next, I caught sight of a little urchin39 of about ten—a boy who would have been good-looking but for the fact that his face was pinched and sickly. Almost barefooted, and clad only in a shirt, he was standing40 agape to listen to the music—a pitiful childish figure. Nearer to the grinder a few more urchins41 were dancing, but in the case of this lad his hands and feet looked numbed42, and he kept biting the end of his sleeve and shivering. Also, I noticed that in his hands he had a paper of some sort. Presently a gentleman came by, and tossed the grinder a small coin, which fell straight into a box adorned43 with a representation of a Frenchman and some ladies. The instant he heard the rattle44 of the coin, the boy started, looked timidly round, and evidently made up his mind that I had thrown the money; whereupon, he ran to me with his little hands all shaking, and said in a tremulous voice as he proffered45 me his paper: “Pl-please sign this.” I turned over the paper, and saw that there was written on it what is usual under such circumstances. “Kind friends I am a sick mother with three hungry children. Pray help me. Though soon I shall be dead, yet, if you will not forget my little ones in this world, neither will I forget you in the world that is to come.” The thing seemed clear enough; it was a matter of life and death. Yet what was I to give the lad? Well, I gave him nothing. But my heart ached for him. I am certain that, shivering with cold though he was, and perhaps hungry, the poor lad was not lying. No, no, he was not lying. The shameful46 point is that so many mothers take no care of their children, but send them out, half-clad, into the cold. Perhaps this lad’s mother also was a feckless old woman, and devoid47 of character? Or perhaps she had no one to work for her, but was forced to sit with her legs crossed—a veritable invalid48? Or perhaps she was just an old rogue49 who was in the habit of sending out pinched and hungry boys to deceive the public? What would such a boy learn from begging letters? His heart would soon be rendered callous50, for, as he ran about begging, people would pass him by and give him nothing. Yes, their hearts would be as stone, and their replies rough and harsh. “Away with you!” they would say. “You are seeking but to trick us.” He would hear that from every one, and his heart would grow hard, and he would shiver in vain with the cold, like some poor little fledgling that has fallen out of the nest. His hands and feet would be freezing, and his breath coming with difficulty; until, look you, he would begin to cough, and disease, like an unclean parasite51, would worm its way into his breast until death itself had overtaken him—overtaken him in some foetid corner whence there was no chance of escape. Yes, that is what his life would become. There are many such cases. Ah, Barbara, it is hard to hear “For Christ’s sake!” and yet pass the suppliant52 by and give nothing, or say merely: “May the Lord give unto you!” Of course, SOME supplications mean nothing (for supplications differ greatly in character). Occasionally supplications are long, drawn-out and drawling, stereotyped53 and mechanical—they are purely54 begging supplications. Requests of this kind it is less hard to refuse, for they are purely professional and of long standing. “The beggar is overdoing55 it,” one thinks to oneself. “He knows the trick too well.” But there are other supplications which voice a strange, hoarse56, unaccustomed note, like that today when I took the poor boy’s paper. He had been standing by the kerbstone without speaking to anybody—save that at last to myself he said, “For the love of Christ give me a groat!” in a voice so hoarse and broken that I started, and felt a queer sensation in my heart, although I did not give him a groat. Indeed, I had not a groat on me. Rich folk dislike hearing poor people complain of their poverty. “They disturb us,” they say, “and are impertinent as well. Why should poverty be so impertinent? Why should its hungry moans prevent us from sleeping?”
To tell you the truth, my darling, I have written the foregoing not merely to relieve my feelings, but, also, still more, to give you an example of the excellent style in which I can write. You yourself will recognise that my style was formed long ago, but of late such fits of despondency have seized upon me that my style has begun to correspond to my feelings; and though I know that such correspondence gains one little, it at least renders one a certain justice. For not unfrequently it happens that, for some reason or another, one feels abased57, and inclined to value oneself at nothing, and to account oneself lower than a dishclout; but this merely arises from the fact that at the time one is feeling harassed58 and depressed59, like the poor boy who today asked of me alms. Let me tell you an allegory, dearest, and do you hearken to it. Often, as I hasten to the office in the morning, I look around me at the city—I watch it awaking, getting out of bed, lighting60 its fires, cooking its breakfast, and becoming vocal61; and at the sight, I begin to feel smaller, as though some one had dealt me a rap on my inquisitive62 nose. Yes, at such times I slink along with a sense of utter humiliation63 in my heart. For one would have but to see what is passing within those great, black, grimy houses of the capital, and to penetrate64 within their walls, for one at once to realise what good reason there is for self-depredation and heart-searching. Of course, you will note that I am speaking figuratively rather than literally65.
Let us look at what is passing within those houses. In some dingy corner, perhaps, in some damp kennel66 which is supposed to be a room, an artisan has just awakened67 from sleep. All night he has dreamt—IF such an insignificant68 fellow is capable of dreaming?—about the shoes which last night he mechanically cut out. He is a master-shoemaker, you see, and therefore able to think of nothing but his one subject of interest. Nearby are some squalling children and a hungry wife. Nor is he the only man that has to greet the day in this fashion. Indeed, the incident would be nothing—it would not be worth writing about, save for another circumstance. In that same house ANOTHER person—a person of great wealth—may also have been dreaming of shoes; but, of shoes of a very different pattern and fashion (in a manner of speaking, if you understand my metaphor69, we are all of us shoemakers). This, again, would be nothing, were it not that the rich person has no one to whisper in his ear: “Why dost thou think of such things? Why dost thou think of thyself alone, and live only for thyself—thou who art not a shoemaker? THY children are not ailing2. THY wife is not hungry. Look around thee. Can’st thou not find a subject more fitting for thy thoughts than thy shoes?” That is what I want to say to you in allegorical language, Barbara. Maybe it savours a little of free-thought, dearest; but, such ideas WILL keep arising in my mind and finding utterance70 in impetuous speech. Why, therefore, should one not value oneself at a groat as one listens in fear and trembling to the roar and turmoil71 of the city? Maybe you think that I am exaggerating things—that this is a mere whim72 of mine, or that I am quoting from a book? No, no, Barbara. You may rest assured that it is not so. Exaggeration I abhor73, with whims74 I have nothing to do, and of quotation75 I am guiltless.
I arrived home today in a melancholy76 mood. Sitting down to the table, I had warmed myself some tea, and was about to drink a second glass of it, when there entered Gorshkov, the poor lodger77. Already, this morning, I had noticed that he was hovering78 around the other lodgers79, and also seeming to want to speak to myself. In passing I may say that his circumstances are infinitely80 worse than my own; for, only think of it, he has a wife and children! Indeed, if I were he, I do not know what I should do. Well, he entered my room, and bowed to me with the pus standing, as usual, in drops on his eyelashes, his feet shuffling81 about, and his tongue unable, at first, to articulate a word. I motioned him to a chair (it was a dilapidated enough one, but I had no other), and asked him to have a glass of tea. To this he demurred82—for quite a long time he demurred, but at length he accepted the offer. Next, he was for drinking the tea without sugar, and renewed his excuses, but upon the sugar I insisted. After long resistance and many refusals, he DID consent to take some, but only the smallest possible lump; after which, he assured me that his tea was perfectly83 sweet. To what depths of humility84 can poverty reduce a man! “Well, what is it, my good sir?” I inquired of him; whereupon he replied: “It is this, Makar Alexievitch. You have once before been my benefactor85. Pray again show me the charity of God, and assist my unfortunate family. My wife and children have nothing to eat. To think that a father should have to say this!” I was about to speak again when he interrupted me. “You see,” he continued, “I am afraid of the other lodgers here. That is to say, I am not so much afraid of, as ashamed to address them, for they are a proud, conceited86 lot of men. Nor would I have troubled even you, my friend and former benefactor, were it not that I know that you yourself have experienced misfortune and are in debt; wherefore, I have ventured to come and make this request of you, in that I know you not only to be kind-hearted, but also to be in need, and for that reason the more likely to sympathise with me in my distress87.” To this he added an apology for his awkwardness and presumption88. I replied that, glad though I should have been to serve him, I had nothing, absolutely nothing, at my disposal. “Ah, Makar Alexievitch,” he went on, “surely it is not much that I am asking of you? My-my wife and children are starving. C-could you not afford me just a grivennik?” At that my heart contracted, “How these people put me to shame!” thought I. But I had only twenty kopecks left, and upon them I had been counting for meeting my most pressing requirements. “No, good sir, I cannot,” said I. “Well, what you will,” he persisted. “Perhaps ten kopecks?” Well I got out my cash-box, and gave him the twenty. It was a good deed. To think that such poverty should exist! Then I had some further talk with him. “How is it,” I asked him, “that, though you are in such straits, you have hired a room at five roubles?” He replied that though, when he engaged the room six months ago, he paid three months’ rent in advance, his affairs had subsequently turned out badly, and never righted themselves since. You see, Barbara, he was sued at law by a merchant who had defrauded89 the Treasury90 in the matter of a contract. When the fraud was discovered the merchant was prosecuted91, but the transactions in which he had engaged involved Gorshkov, although the latter had been guilty only of negligence92, want of prudence93, and culpable94 indifference95 to the Treasury’s interests. True, the affair had taken place some years ago, but various obstacles had since combined to thwart96 Gorshkov. “Of the disgrace put upon me,” said he to me, “I am innocent. True, I to a certain extent disobeyed orders, but never did I commit theft or embezzlement97.” Nevertheless the affair lost him his character. He was dismissed the service, and though not adjudged capitally guilty, has been unable since to recover from the merchant a large sum of money which is his by right, as spared to him (Gorshkov) by the legal tribunal. True, the tribunal in question did not altogether believe in Gorshkov, but I do so. The matter is of a nature so complex and crooked98 that probably a hundred years would be insufficient99 to unravel100 it; and, though it has now to a certain extent been cleared up, the merchant still holds the key to the situation. Personally I side with Gorshkov, and am very sorry for him. Though lacking a post of any kind, he still refuses to despair, though his resources are completely exhausted101. Yes, it is a tangled102 affair, and meanwhile he must live, for, unfortunately, another child which has been born to him has entailed103 upon the family fresh expenses. Also, another of his children recently fell ill and died—which meant yet further expense. Lastly, not only is his wife in bad health, but he himself is suffering from a complaint of long standing. In short, he has had a very great deal to undergo. Yet he declares that daily he expects a favourable104 issue to his affair—that he has no doubt of it whatever. I am terribly sorry for him, and said what I could to give him comfort, for he is a man who has been much bullied105 and misled. He had come to me for protection from his troubles, so I did my best to soothe106 him. Now, goodbye, my darling. May Christ watch over you and preserve your health. Dearest one, even to think of you is like medicine to my ailing soul. Though I suffer for you, I at least suffer gladly.—Your true friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
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1
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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harridans
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| n.脾气暴躁的老妇人，老泼妇( harridan的名词复数 ) | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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linings
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| n.衬里( lining的名词复数 )；里子；衬料；组织 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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ogle
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| v.看；送秋波；n.秋波，媚眼 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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45
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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53
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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54
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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55
overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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56
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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57
abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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84
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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85
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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embezzlement
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| n.盗用，贪污 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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100
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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102
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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104
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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105
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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