With the passing of my mother's illness the midnight meetings and
long conversations between myself and Pokrovski came to an end.
Only occasionally did we exchange a few words with one another--
words, for the most part, that were of little purport or
substance, yet words to which it delighted me to apportion their
several meanings, their peculiar secret values. My life had now
become full-- I was happy; I was quietly, restfully happy. Thus
did several weeks elapse....

One day the elder Pokrovski came to see us, and chattered in a
brisk, cheerful, garrulous sort of way. He laughed, launched out
into witticisms, and, finally, resolved the riddle of his
transports by informing us that in a week's time it would be his
Petinka's birthday, when, in honour of the occasion, he (the
father) meant to don a new jacket (as well as new shoes which his
wife was going to buy for him), and to come and pay a visit to
his son. In short, the old man was perfectly happy, and gossiped
about whatsoever first entered his head.

My lover's birthday! Thenceforward, I could not rest by night or
day. Whatever might happen, it was my fixed intention to remind
Pokrovski of our friendship by giving him a present. But what
sort of present? Finally, I decided to give him books. I knew
that he had long wanted to possess a complete set of Pushkin's
works, in the latest edition; so, I decided to buy Pushkin. My
private fund consisted of thirty roubles, earned by handiwork,
and designed eventually to procure me a new dress, but at once I
dispatched our cook, old Matrena, to ascertain the price of such
an edition. Horrors! The price of the eleven volumes, added to