which he had a store that was both rare and valuable. In
addition, he acted as teacher at another establishment, and
received payment for his services there; and, whenever he had
received his fees for this extra work, he would hasten off and
purchase more books.

In time I got to know and like him better, for in reality he was
a good, worthy fellow--more so than any of the people with whom
we otherwise came in contact. My mother in particular had a great
respect for him, and, after herself, he was my best friend. But
at first I was just an overgrown hoyden, and joined Sasha in
playing the fool. For hours we would devise tricks to anger and
distract him, for he looked extremely ridiculous when he was
angry, and so diverted us the more (ashamed though I am now to
admit it). But once, when we had driven him nearly to tears, I
heard him say to himself under his breath, "What cruel children!"
and instantly I repented--I began to feel sad and ashamed and
sorry for him. I reddened to my ears, and begged him, almost with
tears, not to mind us, nor to take offence at our stupid jests.
Nevertheless, without finishing the lesson, he closed his book,
and departed to his own room. All that day I felt torn with
remorse. To think that we two children had forced him, the poor,
the unhappy one, to remember his hard lot! And at night I could
not sleep for grief and regret. Remorse is said to bring relief
to the soul, but it is not so. How far my grief was internally
connected with my conceit I do not know, but at least I did not
wish him to think me a baby, seeing that I had now reached the
age of fifteen years. Therefore, from that day onwards I began to
torture my imagination with devising a thousand schemes which
should compel Pokrovski to alter his opinion of me. At the same