II

AT first--that is to say, until my mother and myself grew used to
our new abode--we found living at Anna Thedorovna's both strange
and disagreeable. The house was her own, and contained five
rooms, three of which she shared with my orphaned cousin, Sasha
(whom she had brought up from babyhood); a fourth was occupied by
my mother and myself; and the fifth was rented of Anna by a poor
student named Pokrovski. Although Anna lived in good style--in
far better style than might have been expected--her means and her
avocation were conjectural. Never was she at rest; never was she
not busy with some mysterious something or other. Also, she
possessed a wide and varied circle of friends. The stream of
callers was perpetual--although God only knows who they were, or
what their business was. No sooner did my mother hear the door-
bell ring than off she would carry me to our own apartment. This
greatly displeased Anna, who used again and again to assure my
mother that we were too proud for our station in life. In fact,
she would sulk for hours about it. At the time I could not
understand these reproaches, and it was not until long afterwards
that I learned--or rather, I guessed--why eventually my mother
declared that she could not go on living with Anna. Yes, Anna was
a bad woman. Never did she let us alone. As to the exact motive
why she had asked us to come and share her house with her I am
still in the dark. At first she was not altogether unkind to us
but, later, she revealed to us her real character--as soon, that
is to say, as she saw that we were at her mercy, and had nowhere
else to go. Yes, in early days she was quite kind to me--even
offensively so, but afterwards, I had to suffer as much as my