Poor Folk and Other Stories Read online

  POOR FOLK AND OTHER STORIES

  FYODOR MIKHAILOVICH DOSTOYEVSKY was born in Moscow in 1821, the second of a physician’s seven children. His mother died in 1837 and his father was murdered a little over two years later. When he left his private boarding school in Moscow he studied from 1838 to 1843 at the Military Engineering College in St Petersburg, graduating with officer’s rank. His first story to be published, ‘Poor Folk’ (1846), was a great success. In 1849 he was arrested and sentenced to death for participating in the ‘Petrashevsky circle’; he was reprieved at the last moment but sentenced to penal servitude, and until 1854 he lived in a convict prison at Omsk, Siberia. In the decade following his return from exile he wrote The Village of Stepanchikovo (1859) and The House of the Dead (1860). Whereas the latter draws heavily on his experiences in prison, the former inhabits a completely different world, shot through with comedy and satire. In 1861 he began the review Vremya (Time) with his brother; in 1862 and 1863 he went abroad, where he strengthened his anti-European outlook, met Mlle Suslova, who was the model for many of his heroines, and gave way to his passion for gambling. In the following years he fell deeply in debt, but in 1867 he married Anna Grigoryevna Snitkina (his second wife), who helped to rescue him from his financial morass. They lived abroad for four years, then in 1873 he was invited to edit Grazhdanin (The Citizen), to which he contributed his Diary of a Writer. From 1876 the latter was issued separately and had a large circulation. In 1880 he delivered his famous address at the unveiling of Pushkin’s memorial in Moscow; he died six months later in 1881. Most of his important works were written after 1864: Notes from Underground (1864), Crime and Punishment (1865-6), The Gambler (1866), The idiot (1869), The Devils (1871) and The Brothers Karamazov (1880).

  DAVID MCDUFF was born in 1945 and was educated at the University of Edinburgh. His publications comprise a large number of translations of foreign verse and prose, including poems by Joseph Brodsky and Tomas Venclova, as well as contemporary Scandinavian work; Selected Poems of Osip Mandelstam; Complete Poems of Edith Södergran; and No I’m Not Afraid, the selected poems of Irina Ratushinskaya. His first book of verse, Words in Nature, appeared in 1972. He has translated a number of nineteenth-century Russian prose works for the Penguin Classics series. These include Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment, The House of the Dead, Poor Folk and Other Stories and Uncle’s Dream and Other Stories, Tolstoy’s The Kreutzer Sonata and Other Stories and The Sebastopol Sketches, and Nikolai Leskov’s Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. He has also translated Babel’s Collected Stories and Bely’s Petersburg for Penguin.

  POOR FOLK AND OTHER STORIES

  FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY

  TRANSLATED WITH AN INTRODUCTION

  AND NOTES BY

  DAVID MCDUFF

  PENGUIN BOOKS

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  This translation first published 1988

  18

  Translation, Introduction and Notes copyright © David Mc Duff, 1988

  All rights reserved

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject

  to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,

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  EISBN: 978–0–141–90782–6

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  NOTE ON THE TEXT

  POOR FOLK

  THE LANDLADY

  MR PROKHARCHIN

  POLZUNKOV

  NOTES

  INTRODUCTION

  Dostoyevsky began his literary career as a translator of French fiction and the author of some plays inspired by his reading of Schiller. As an army sublieutenant in his early twenties attempting to finance a somewhat extravagant lifestyle on a budget consisting of his army salary and the not inconsiderable allowance he received from Karepin, the trustee of his father’s estate, of 5,000 paper rubles per annum (a paper ruble was roughly equivalent in value to one third of a silver ruble), he turned increasingly to literary activity in the hope of combining his recently acquired idealistic philosophical convictions with his desire for fame and fortune. Of the plays, we know only that he wrote a pair of dramas, begun around 1841, entitled Maria Stuart and Boris Godunov, and a ‘Shakespearean’ play modelled on The Merchant of Venice called The Jew Yankel – the titles are all that has survived of them. We have rather more information about his activity as a translator. Like the theatre, French novels were extremely popular in the St Petersburg of the 1830s and 40s. The writings of Balzac, Sue and Hugo exercised a huge fascination on the Russian educated reading public. When Balzac visited St Petersburg for three months in 1843 he was greeted with universal acclaim as a literary hero. One of Dostoyevsky’s early major translation projects was a complete Russian version of Balzac’s novel Eugénie Grandet. Dostoyevsky’s biographer Konstantin Mochulsky writes of this:

  the translator intensified the emotional tone of the novel and did not hesitate to employ effective similes and picturesque epithets. Under his pen the story of Eugénie’s sufferings is transformed into a tale of’the unfathomable and horrifying tortures’ of a poor young girl whose image for some reason or other he compares with an ancient Greek statue. This first literary attempt, after the editors had abridged it by a third, appeared in Repertoire and Pantheon.*

  Balzac’s influence on Dostoyevsky was profound and far-reaching. It would not be too much of an exaggeration to say that, without it, he might never have developed his creative talent in the direction he ultimately chose. In the character of Pére Goriot, for example, Dostoyevsky found the antecedent for a whole range of his own ‘insulted and injured’ civil servants, while Rastignac is in many senses a forerunner of Raskolnikov. It was while he was working on his translation of Eugénie Grandet that Dostoyevksy conceived the idea for a novel of his own, of roughly the same length. In reply to his brother Mikhail, who was urging him to consider a career in the theatre as a playwright, and with whom he was planning a translation of Schiller’s plays, he objected that he needed money right away, and the rehearsal and performance of plays took time. ‘I have a hope,’ he wrote to Mikhail on 30 September 1844.

  I am finishing a novel of the same dimensions as Eugénie Grandet. It’s rather an original piece of work. I’m at present copying it out, and I shall probably have had a reply concerning it by the 14th. I’m going to send it to Notes of the Fatherland. (I’m satisfied with my work.) I may get 400 rubles for it, and therein lie all my hopes.

  The first draft of the novel, Poor Folk, was completed in November 1844. Three major revisions followed – one in December of that year, and two more in February and April 1845. This work of polishing, revising and rewriting
seems to have possessed an almost religious significance and urgency for the writer. ‘And now, on the subject of bread and butter!’ he wrote to Mikhail on 24 March.

  You know, brother, that as far as that is concerned I depend upon my own strength. But whatever may happen, I have vowed to myself that even though doing so may kill me, I will remain firm and refuse to write to order. Writing to order crushes and ruins everything. I want each of my works to be distinctly good. Look at Pushkin, at Gogol. Neither of them wrote a great deal, yet they are both awaiting monuments. And now Gogol commands 1,000 silver rubles per printed sheet, while Pushkin, as you know, was able to sell one of his poems for a gold sovereign. But their fame, particularly that of Gogol, was bought with years of poverty and hunger… Raphael painted for years, polishing his work and licking it into shape, and the result was a miracle: gods were created by his hand. Vernet takes a month to complete a picture…

  This invocation of great names is significant: in his dissatisfaction with the form of his novel Dostoyevsky is expressing what he consciously perceives to be the discontent of a truly great artist, one who will rise above the crowd of common ‘feuilletonists’ and survive into posterity. Here, too, we can detect the vanity and incipient megalomania which was to cause him such trouble later on. The ‘hopes’ of which he wrote to Mikhail were powerful ones indeed, compounded of immense personal ambition and a struggle against a poverty that was, to some extent at least, self-imposed, and came to assume a life-or-death quality. Later in the same letter we read:

  I am seriously pleased with my novel. It is a strict and shapely work. There are, however, terrible defects… The time is near when I have promised to be with you, dear friends. But I shall not have the means to do that – the money, in other words… I hope to save the whole situation by my novel. If my project does not succeed, I may hang myself.

  And further on:

  In a feuilleton published in The Invalid I have just finished reading about the German poets who have died of hunger and cold, and in madhouses. There have been twenty of them so far, and what names! It all still fills me with terror…

  Dostoyevsky’s friend and room-mate, D. V. Grigorovich, urged the writer to submit the manuscript of Poor Folk to the poet N. A. Nekrasov for evaluation, in the hope that Nekrasov would in turn show the work to the celebrated, highly influential and much feared literary critic Vissarion Belinsky. The story of how this came about and of what followed is contained in Dostoyevsky’s Diary of a Writer for 1877 – more than thirty years after the event:

  I was living in St Petersburg, having relinquished my post at the Palace of Engineers a year earlier without really knowing why, with the vaguest and most imprecise ends in view. It was May 1845. At the onset of winter I had suddenly begun Poor Folk, my first tale, having written nothing before that time. Having finished the work, I did not know what to do with it or to whom I should give it. I had absolutely no literary acquaintances whatsoever, except possibly for D. V. Grigorovich, though he too had written nothing before that time apart from a single short article entitled ‘The Organ-Grinders of St Petersburg’ in a certain symposium. I believe he was at the time preparing to leave for his country estate for the summer, and was staying temporarily in St Petersburg with Nekrasov. Dropping in to see me one day, he said: ‘Bring your manuscript’ (at that time he had not yet read it); ‘Nekrasov is intending to publish a symposium next year, I’ll show it to him.’ I brought the manuscript along, saw Nekrasov for a minute or two, and we shook hands with each other. The thought that I had brought my work to him made me feel embarrassed, and I soon left, hardly having exchanged a word with the poet. I had little thought of success, and this ‘party of Notes of the Fatherland’, as it was usually described at the time, inspired me with fear. For several years I had been reading Belinsky with enthusiasm, but I found him stern and intimidating, and – ‘he’ll make a laughing-stock of my Poor Folk,’ I sometimes used to think. But only sometimes: I had written the work with passion, with tears, almost – ‘can it really be that all those moments which I have experienced with my pen in my hand as I wrote that tale – can it really be that all that is a falsehood, a mirage, an infatuation?’ This thought came to me only occasionally, of course, and it would be immediately supplanted by my customary anxiety. On the evening of the day I delivered my manuscript, I made a rather long journey on foot to see one of my old companions; we spent the entire night talking about Dead Souls and reading it together for the umpteenth time. Such meetings were quite common among young men at that time; two or three would gather together, and one of them would say: ‘Let’s read some Gogol together, gentlemen!’ Then they would sit down and read, all night, most likely. In those days a great many young men were instilled with a certain kind of feeling, and seemed to be waiting for something. I did not arrive home until four o’clock in the morning; it was a St Petersburg white night, as bright as day. The weather was fair and warm, and upon returning to my lodgings I did not go to bed, but opened the window and sat near it. Suddenly the doorbell rang, quite unexpectedly, and there were Grigorovich and Nekrasov, rushing to embrace me in complete ecstasy, both of them practically in tears. The evening before they had gone home early, taken my manuscript and begun to read it to see what it was like: ‘We’ll know after ten pages,’ they had said. But, having read ten pages, they decided to read another ten, and then they sat up all night until morning reading aloud, one taking over from the other when either was tired. ‘Nekrasov was reading aloud the part about the death of the student,’ Grigorovich told me later when we were alone, ‘and suddenly I saw him reach the passage where the father runs along behind his son’s coffin; his voice broke several times, and suddenly he could restrain himself no longer, slapped his hand down on the manuscript, and said: “Oh, if only I were he!” This about you, and so it went on all night.’ When they had finished (seven printers’ sheets!) they decided as one man to go to see me immediately: ‘It doesn’t matter if he’s asleep, we’ll wake him up – this is more important than sleep!’ Later, when I had grown accustomed to Nekrasov’s character, I frequently experienced surprise at the memory of that moment: his temperament was so closed – anxious, almost, so cautious and uncommunicative. Thus, at least, he always seemed to me, so that the moment of our first meeting was truly a manifestation of the very deepest emotion. On that occasion they stayed with me for half an hour, and for half an hour we discussed God only knows how many things, understanding each other in half-words, with exclamations, hurrying; we talked about poetry, and about Gogol – with quotations from The Inspector General and Dead Souls — but mostly we discussed Belinsky. ‘I shall take your tale to him today, and you will see – I mean, what a man he is, what a man! You will make his acquaintance, and you will see what a soul he has!’ Nekrasov said enthusiastically, shaking me by the shoulders with both arms. ‘Well, now you can sleep – go on, sleep, we’ll leave now, and tomorrow you will come and see us!’ As though I could have slept after their visit! What ecstasy, what success, and, most important of all, the feeling was dear to me, I remember it clearly: ‘Some people have success, they are praised, greeted, congratulated, yet these men came running in tears, at four o’clock in the morning to wake me up because this was more important than sleep… How wonderful!’ That was what I was thinking; how could I have slept?

  Nekrasov took the manuscript to Belinsky that very same day. He held Belinsky in veneration and, I believe, loved him all his life more than anyone else. In those days Nekrasov had not yet written anything on the scale he was soon to achieve, a year later. Nekrasov turned up in St Petersburg at the age of about sixteen, completely alone.

  His writing career began from practically the same age. Of his friendship with Belinsky I know little, except that Belinsky divined his talent from the very beginning and may have exercised a powerful influence on the tenor of his poetry. In spite of all Nekrasov’s youthfulness and the difference in their ages, even at that time there probably passed between them moments and words
of the kind that leave their mark for ever and bind two people irrevocably to each other. ‘A new Gogol has appeared!’ Nekrasov shouted, as he entered Belinsky’s study holding the manuscript of Poor Folk. ‘With you, Gogols grow like mushrooms,’ Belinsky observed severely, but accepted the manuscript all the same. When Nekrasov called back to see him in the evening, Belinsky greeted him ‘in a state of downright excitement’: ‘Bring him here, bring him here at once!’

  And lo and behold (this must have been on the following day), I was taken to see him. I remember that I was most struck by his external appearance, by his nose, his forehead; for some reason I had imagined him to be quite different –’that terrible, that fearsome critic’. He greeted me in a manner that was thoroughly solemn and reserved. ‘Oh well, I suppose that’s the way it has to be,’ I thought; but it seemed that a minute had not passed, before everything was transformed: his solemnity was not that of an important personage, a great critic greeting a 22-year-old beginning writer, but was instead prompted, as it were, by the feelings he wanted to pour out to me as soon as possible, and by the solemn words he was in extreme haste to address to me. He began to speak ardently, with burning eyes: ‘Do you understand?’ he asked me in his customary falsetto. ‘Do you understand what you have written?’ He always shouted in a falsetto when he was in the grip of powerful emotions. ‘You have merely described it indirectly, with your artist’s intuition; but have you pondered on the meaning of this terrible truth to which you have directed us? It cannot be that with your twenty years you can have understood this. Why, this unfortunate clerk of yours – why, he has worked so hard in the service and brought himself to such a point that he does not even dare to consider himself unhappy, out of humility, and views the slightest complaint as practically tantamount to free-thinking, does not even dare to acknowledge his right to unhappiness, and, when a kind man, his general, gives him a hundred rubles, he is completely shattered, annihilated with amazement that “Their Excellency” could have taken pity on one such as himself – not “His Excellency”, but “Their Excellency” as it is expressed in your tale.* And that torn-off button, that moment when he kisses the general’s hand – why here is no longer compassion for this unfortunate man, but horror, horror! In this very gratitude of his there is horror! It is a tragedy! You have touched the very heart of the matter, you have pointed to the essential in one single flash. We publicists and critics merely reason, we attempt to elucidate all this in words, while you, an artist, represent the very essence in a single line, a single instantaneous image, so vivid that one feels one could touch it with one’s hand, that the most unreflecting reader could instantly understand everything! There is the secret of creativity, there is the truth of art! There is devotion to the artist’s truth! Truth has been revealed and proclaimed to you as an artist, you have inherited it as a gift; so value your gift and remain loyal to it and you will be a great writer!…’