was preventing me from sleeping, and I could not rest long in any
one spot, but had to keep rising from my chair, and walking about
the room. Throughout my whole being there seemed to be diffused a
kind of elation--of elation at Pokrovski's attentions, at the
thought that he was anxious and uneasy about me. Until dawn I
pondered and dreamed; and though I felt sure Pokrovski would not
again visit us that night, I gave myself up to fancies concerning
what he might do the following evening.

That evening, when everyone else in the house had retired to
rest, Pokrovski opened his door, and opened a conversation from
the threshold of his room. Although, at this distance of time, I
cannot remember a word of what we said to one another, I remember
that I blushed, grew confused, felt vexed with myself, and
awaited with impatience the end of the conversation although I
myself had been longing for the meeting to take place, and had
spent the day in dreaming of it, and devising a string of
suitable questions and replies. Yes, that evening saw the first
strand in our friendship knitted; and each subsequent night of my
mother's illness we spent several hours together. Little by
little I overcame his reserve, but found that each of these
conversations left me filled with a sense of vexation at myself.
At the same time, I could see with secret joy and a sense of
proud elation that I was leading him to forget his tiresome
books. At last the conversation turned jestingly upon the
upsetting of the shelf. The moment was a peculiar one, for it
came upon me just when I was in the right mood for self-
revelation and candour. In my ardour, my curious phase of
exaltation, I found myself led to make a full confession of the
fact that I had become wishful to learn, to KNOW, something,