BELINSKY WAS JUSTIFIED IN being astonished. No one would believe that a mind of twenty could have conceived such a simple, yet such a thrilling tragedy. That is the age when one “divines” happiness, that “science” learnt in youth, without aid of master, and loses the moment of its practical application. Also the age for inventing unhappiness, startling and heroic, bringing its own reward by its very majesty and tumult. But the sufferings of decay, drab and dumb, the sufferings of shame, hidden like the plague! How and where had he learnt all this before his time, this miserable genius?

The first English-language translation, 1894.

It is a very ordinary story in the form of an interchange of letters between two people. One of them is a clerk in a government office, the worse for years and anxiety, going down the hill of a sad life, struggling against material distress, suffering the torments of humiliation. He just escapes being ridiculous. He is uneducated and simple minded, the butt of his fellow clerks – speaks badly, is of average intellect, while his sole ambition is to be a good copyist. But under this faded and comical exterior there beats a child’s heart, so candid, so devoted – I was going to say so saintly dull – with its divine gift for self-sacrifice! This is the favourite type for all Russian observers, as being that which embodies the best qualities of the genius of their people. It is the same type as that used by Turgeneff for Lukerya in Living Relics; for Karatayeff in War and Peace by Tolstoy. But these are only peasants, whereas Dyevushkin of Poor Folk is many rungs higher up the intellectual and social ladder.

There is, however, one ray of gladsome light in his life, otherwise as gloomy and frozen as any Russian winter night. Opposite the garret window at which he does his copying work there lives, also in poor lodgings, a young girl. She is a distant relation, buffeted by Fate, she also, and but for the feeble protection of this clerk, would be quite alone in the world. Isolated and stifled on all sides by the brutal pressure of men and things, these two miserable ones support each other in the struggle for life. In this state of mutual affection the man displays a tactful unselfishness, a delicacy all the more pleasing because it clashes with his habitual clumsiness of ideas and actions. It is as a timid flower, born in poor soil, among the brambles, betrayed only by its scent. He undergoes heroic privations to support, even merely to enliven, the existence of his friend. The efforts are well hidden, and would not be guessed but for his clumsiness. To him they appear so natural! Sometimes it is the devotion of a father, or a brother, even of a faithful hound. – that at least is how he would in good faith describe them were he to analyse his feelings. And yet, I well know the real name to give that sentiment. But tell him not; for he would die of shame at the mere sound of the word!

The woman’s character is sketched in a striking manner. She is far superior to her friend in mind and education, and guides him in matters of intelligence, wherein he is still a novice. She sis gentle and frail, with a heart less steady, less resigned. She, on her part, had not entirely renounced life, and is continually protesting against the sacrifices Dyevushkin imposes on himself, and implores him not to be anxious about her. Then a “sigh of poverty” escapes her, if perhaps only a childish whim, when longing for a piece of frippery! As they can only meet at long intervals for fear of giving cause for gossip, a daily correspondence is established between them. Their letters tell us of their past, their sad history, the little incidents of their daily life, their disappointments; the terrors of the girl pursued by vice, ever on the watch, the discouragements of an unemployed in search of bread, pitifully endeavouring to defend the rags of her human dignity, grasped at by cruel hands. At last the crisis arrives. Dyevushkin loses his one joy! No doubt you think that she is going to be ravished and taken away by a young lover supplanting his brotherly affection in the heart of his protégée! Oh, no! It is far more human, far sadder!

A man – the disturbing element – who in the past had paid her attention, offers her his hand. He is of ripe age, very rich, somewhat suspicious; nevertheless his intentions are honourable. Tired of struggling against fate, possibly persuaded that it will alleviate some of the difficulties connected with her friend, the unfortunate girl accepts. Here the study of character is an achieved truth – perfect! The affianced girl, passing from indigence to luxury, is instantly intoxicated with the new atmosphere. Dresses, jewels, at last! In her ingenuous cruelty she fills her last letters with details regarding these important objects; as was her wont, she charges Dyevushkin, who lately had always done her commissions for her, to go to the milliner and to the jeweler. It might be thought that this is a vile soul, unworthy of the exquisite sentiment which she had inspired! Not for an instant is the reader given this impression, so successful is the writer in keeping to the true note. No, it is but a touch of restrained youth and humanity which at last springs up to the surface of a crushed life. Can we blame her? And then, the cruelty explains itself as being due to the differences of sentiment. Hers is a friendship which will remain loyal, grateful, if a little elastic. How can she understand that to him it is sheer despair!

It is one of the marriage conditions that a journey is to be immediately undertaken to a distant province. Up to the last moment Dyevushkin replies to her letters, giving in full detail an account of the commissions entrusted to him, making every effort to show himself well acquainted with lace and ribbons. It is with difficulty that here and there a repressed sigh betrays the anguish invading him at the thought of his coming abandonment but in the last letter the torn heart bursts and the miserable man sees before him the horrible remainder of his days, lonely, void! He no longer knows what he is writing; nevertheless his plaint is made with such shyness that it seems as if he had not quite realized the entire secret of his own sorrow. The drama ends with that moan, prolonged into solitude, behind the train with separates these “Poor Folk.”