their lives. As for our landlady, she is a dirty little old woman
who always walks about in a dressing-gown and slippers, and never
ceases to shout at Theresa. I myself live in the kitchen--or,
rather, in a small room which forms part of the kitchen. The
latter is a very large, bright, clean, cheerful apartment with
three windows in it, and a partition-wall which, running outwards
from the front wall, makes a sort of little den, a sort of extra
room, for myself. Everything in this den is comfortable and
convenient, and I have, as I say, a window to myself. So much for
a description of my dwelling-place. Do not think, dearest, that
in all this there is any hidden intention. The fact that I live
in the kitchen merely means that I live behind the partition wall
in that apartment--that I live quite alone, and spend my time in
a quiet fashion compounded of trifles. For furniture I have
provided myself with a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, and two
small chairs. Also, I have suspended an ikon. True, better rooms
MAY exist in the world than this--much better rooms; yet COMFORT
is the chief thing. In fact, I have made all my arrangements for
comfort's sake alone; so do not for a moment imagine that I had
any other end in view. And since your window happens to be just
opposite to mine, and since the courtyard between us is narrow
and I can see you as you pass,--why, the result is that this
miserable wretch will be able to live at once more happily and
with less outlay. The dearest room in this house costs, with
board, thirty-five roubles--more than my purse could well afford;
whereas MY room costs only twenty-four, though formerly I used to
pay thirty, and so had to deny myself many things (I could drink
tea but seldom, and never could indulge in tea and sugar as I do
now). But, somehow, I do not like having to go without tea, for
everyone else here is respectable, and the fact makes me ashamed.