Free Poor Folk and Other Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page A

visited my confused head. I woke up in horror. The room was in darkness, the night-light was going out; suddenly the whole room was bathed in stripes of light, which at one moment flashed across the wall and at the next disappeared entirely. For some reason I grew dreadfully afraid, I was attacked by a sense of horror; my fantasy had been aroused by the terrible dream I had had; anguish constricted my heart… I leapt up from my chair and let out an involuntary shriek, brought on by my sense of claustrophobic, agonized terror. At that moment the door opened, and Pokrovsky came into our room.
    The only thing I remember is that when I regained consciousness I was in his arms. He sat me down in a chair, gave me a glass of water, and showered me with questions. I do not remember what I replied. ‘You are ill, too, you are very ill,’ he said taking my hand. ‘You have a fever, you are damaging yourself, you must be kinder to your health; make your mind easy. Lie down, go to sleep. I shall wake you in two hours’ time, try to get a little rest… Lie down, I say, lie down!’ he continued, not letting me say a single word in objection. Tiredness had robbed me of the last of my strength; my eyes were closing from weakness. I lay down on the sofa, determined to sleep for only half an hour, and slept until morning. Pokrovksy did not wake me up until it was time for me to give Mother her medicine.
    At about eleven o’clock the following evening when, having managed to rest a little in the afternoon, I was once again preparing to sit on the sofa by Mother’s bedside, this time firmly resolving not to fall asleep, Pokrovsky knocked at the door of our room. ‘It’ll be boring for you sitting up on your own,’ he said. ‘Here’s a book for you; take it; you won’t get so bored then.’ I took it; I don’t remember what book it was; I hardly glanced at it then, even though I did not sleep all night. A strange inner agitation would not allow me to sleep; I was unable to remain in the same place; several times I got up from the
chaise-longue
and began to walk about the room. A kind of inner satisfaction spread itself throughout my entire being. I was so delighted by Pokrovsky’s attentions. I took pride in his anxiety and concern about me. All night I thought and dreamed. Pokrovsky didnot look in again; I knew he would not come, and I made guesses about the following evening.
    Next evening, when everyone in the house had gone to bed, Pokrovsky opened his door and began to talk to me, standing on the threshold of his room. I do not remember now a single word of what we said to each other; all I remember is that I was shy and confused, that I was annoyed with myself and awaited the end of our conversation with impatience, even though I had desired it with all my heart, had spent the whole day dreaming about it and preparing my questions and replies… The beginnings of our friendship dated from that evening. Throughout the entire duration of Mother’s illness we spent several hours of every night in each other’s company. Little by little I overcame my shyness, although after each of our conversations I would always find something to be annoyed with myself about. However that may have been, I none the less saw with secret delight and proud satisfaction that he was forgetting his wretched books because of me. Quite casually, almost in jest, our conversation once touched on the subject of their fall from the shelf. It was a strange moment – I was almost
too
open and candid; the heat of the moment and a strange enthusiasm carried me away, and I confessed everything to him… that I wanted to study, to know a few things, that I found it annoying to be regarded as a little girl, a child… I repeat that I was in a very strange mood; my heart was soft, there were tears in my eyes – I hid nothing and told him everything, everything – about my feelings