Free Poor Folk and Other Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

nail by which the shelf was fixed to the wall and which seemed to have been awaiting precisely that moment in order to snap, snapped. The shelf collapsed at one end, and the books went noisily scattering all over the floor. The door opened, and Pokrovsky entered the room.
    I should observe that he could not abide anyone interfering with his possessions. Woe betide anyone who laid a finger on his books! Consider, then, my sense of horror when those books – large and small, of every imaginable format, size and thickness – came hurtling down from the shelf and went careering and fluttering under the table, under the chairs, all over the room. I would have made my escape, but it was too late. ‘I’m finished,’ I thought, ‘finished! It’s all up with me, I’m for it! I’m being silly and naughty like a child of ten years old: I’m just a stupid little girl! A big idiot!’ Pokrovsky flew into the most dreadful rage. ‘Well, that’s all that was wanting!’he cried. ‘Well, aren’t you ashamed to play silly pranks like this?… Won’t you ever learn any sense?’ And he rushed to pick up the books. I began to stoop down in order to help him. ‘Don’t, don’t!’ he cried. ‘You would do better not to go where you have not been invited.’ Then, however, slightly mollified by my submissive behaviour, he continued more quietly, in his customary teacher’s voice, taking advantage of his customary teacher’s authority: ‘Well, when are you going to learn some self-control and start to behave sensibly, for a change? I mean, just look at you, you’re not a child, you’re not a little girl any longer – you’re fifteen years old!’ And at this point, doubtless in an endeavour to make sure that I really was no longer a little girl, he cast a glance at me and blushed to the roots of his hair. At first, I did not understand; I stood in front of him, staring at him in amazement. He got up, approached me with an air of embarrassment, grew horribly confused, and started to speak: he was evidently apologizing for something, perhaps for only now having noticed that I was such a big girl. At last I understood. I can’t remember what happened to me then; I grew confused, flustered, blushed even deeper than Pokrovsky, covered my face with my hands and ran out of the room.
    I did not know what there was left for me to do, or where to hide my head in shame. The mere fact that he had caught me in his room! For three entire days I was unable to bring myself even to look at him. I kept blushing to the point of tears. The strangest, most ridiculous thoughts kept whirling about in my head. One of them, the wildest, was a desire to go to him, have it out with him, confess everything to him, frankly tell him all and convince him that I had behaved not as a stupid little girl, but with good intentions. I had almost made up my mind to do this, but, thank God, found that I did not possess the necessary courage. I can imagine what a fool of myself I should have made! Even now I have pangs of conscience at the memory of the whole episode.
    A few days later Mother suddenly fell dangerously ill. She lay in bed for two days, and on the third night she developed a fever and delirium. I had already lost one night of sleep looking after her, sitting by her bedside, bringing her water to drink and giving her her medicine at the prescribed times. By the second night I was completely exhausted. At times sleep overcame me, my eyes went dark, my head grew dizzy, and I was constantly on the point of collapsing with weariness; but Mother’s feeble groaning kept rousingme, and I would start and wake up for a moment before slumber once again got the better of me. I was in torment. I do not know how it was – I cannot remember – but at the agonizing moment of sleep’s struggle with wakefulness a terrible vision, a monstrous dream