Free Poor Folk and Other Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page B

of friendship for him, about my desire to live with him united in love, to console him, to calm him. He gave me a strange look which contained both embarrassment and amazement, and did not say a word. I suddenly felt terribly hurt and sad. It seemed to me that he did not understand me, that he might even be laughing at me. I suddenly started to cry like a child, sobbing, unable to control myself; it was as though I had succumbed to a kind of fit. He seized my hands, kissed them, held them to his breast, tried to reassure me, to console me; he was deeply moved. I do not remember what he said to me, only that I both wept and laughed, and once more wept, blushed, and was unable to utter a word for joy. Yet for all my emotional turmoil, I observed that Pokrovsky was still tense and embarrassed. He seemed to be unable to stop wondering at my animation, my enthusiasm, my so suddenly manifested, warm, ardent feelings of affection for him. Perhaps initially he had been merely curious; subsequently hislack of resolve disappeared, and he accepted, with the same simple directness as I, my attachment to him, my friendly words and my attention, and responded to it all with the same degree of attention, as kindly and amicably as if he were my sincere friend, my own brother. My heart felt so warm, so good!… I made no attempt to conceal my feelings from him, I kept nothing back; he saw it all, and with every day that passed became more attached to me.
    And truly, I do not remember what we talked about during those sweet but tormenting hours when we would rendezvous by night, by the trembling flame of the icon-lamp, practically by the very bedside of my poor, sick mother… We talked about everything that came into our heads, that burst from our hearts, that begged to be given expression – and we were almost happy… Oh, that was a sad and joyful time – both at once; and it is with both sadness and joy that I now recall it. Memories, whether bitter or joyful, are always a source of torment; that, at least, is how I find it; but even this torment is sweet. And when the heart grows heavy, sick, anguished and sad, then memories refresh it and revive it, as on a dewy evening after a hot day the drops of moisture refresh and revive the poor, withered flower which has been scorched by the afternoon sun.
    Mother’s health began to improve, but still I continued to sit by her bedside at night. Pokrovsky would often lend me books; I read them, at first merely in order not to fall asleep, then with greater attention, then with avidity; suddenly there was revealed to me much that was new and that had previously been unknown or unfamiliar to me. New thoughts and new impressions came flooding into my heart in an instant, overwhelming rush. And the greater the agitation, the turmoil and effort these new sensations cost me, the more attractive I began to find them, the more sweetly they made my soul tremble. At once, in a flash they came thronging into my heart, denying it all rest. A strange chaos began to disturb my entire being. But this spiritual onslaught was unable to put me completely off balance. I was in too much of a dreamlike condition, and that was my saving.
    When Mother’s illness was over, our evening rendezvous and long conversations came to an end; we sometimes succeeded in exchanging words, often trivial and of little significance, but I took pleasure in giving everything its own special meaning, its own particular, implied value. My life was full, and I was happy – calmly, quietly happy. In this fashion several weeks went by…
    One day old man Pokrovsky came to see us. He prattled on to us for a long time, and was unusually animated, cheerful and loquacious; he laughed, made jokes in his own peculiar way, and finally solved for us the mystery of his enraptured state by revealing to us that in exactly a week’s time it would be Petenka’s birthday, on which occasion he would most certainly pay