about them. Then the old man was invited to dinner and we all
spent a merry day together at cards and forfeits. Sasha was full
of life, and I rivalled her, while Pokrovski paid me numerous
attentions, and kept seeking an occasion to speak to me alone.
But to allow this to happen I refused. Yes, taken all in all, it
was the happiest day that I had known for four years.

But now only grievous, painful memories come to my recollection,
for I must enter upon the story of my darker experiences. It may
be that that is why my pen begins to move more slowly, and seems
as though it were going altogether to refuse to write. The same
reason may account for my having undertaken so lovingly and
enthusiastically a recounting of even the smallest details of my
younger, happier days. But alas! those days did not last long,
and were succeeded by a period of black sorrow which will close
only God knows when!

My misfortunes began with the illness and death of Pokrovski, who
was taken worse two months after what I have last recorded in
these memoirs. During those two months he worked hard to procure
himself a livelihood since hitherto he had had no assured
position. Like all consumptives, he never--not even up to his
last moment--altogether abandoned the hope of being able to enjoy
a long life. A post as tutor fell in his way, but he had never
liked the profession; while for him to become a civil servant was
out of the question, owing to his weak state of health. Moreover,
in the latter capacity he would have had to have waited a long
time for his first instalment of salary. Again, he always looked
at the darker side of things, for his character was gradually
being warped, and his health undermined by his illness, though he