made the attempt I only grew red and confused, and rushed away to
weep in a corner. How it would all have ended I do not know, had
not a curious incident helped to bring about a rapprochement. One
evening, when my mother was sitting in Anna Thedorovna's room, I
crept on tiptoe to Pokrovski's apartment, in the belief that he
was not at home. Some strange impulse moved me to do so. True, we
had lived cheek by jowl with one another; yet never once had I
caught a glimpse of his abode. Consequently my heart beat loudly-
- so loudly, indeed, that it seemed almost to be bursting from my
breast. On entering the room I glanced around me with tense
interest. The apartment was very poorly furnished, and bore few
traces of orderliness. On table and chairs there lay heaps of
books; everywhere were books and papers. Then a strange thought
entered my head, as well as, with the thought, an unpleasant
feeling of irritation. It seemed to me that my friendship, my
heart's affection, meant little to him, for HE was well-educated,
whereas I was stupid, and had learned nothing, and had read not a
single book. So I stood looking wistfully at the long bookshelves
where they groaned under their weight of volumes. I felt filled
with grief, disappointment, and a sort of frenzy. I felt that I
MUST read those books, and decided to do so--to read them one by
one, and with all possible speed. Probably the idea was that, by
learning whatsoever HE knew, I should render myself more worthy
of his friendship. So, I made a rush towards the bookcase nearest
me, and, without stopping further to consider matters, seized
hold of the first dusty tome upon which my hands chanced to
alight, and, reddening and growing pale by turns, and trembling
with fear and excitement, clasped the stolen book to my breast
with the intention of reading it by candle light while my mother
lay asleep at night.