read the book of which you speak. That is to say, though I began
to read it, I soon saw that it was nonsense, and written only to
make people laugh. "However," thought I, "it is at least a
CHEERFUL work, and so may please Barbara." That is why I sent it
you.

Rataziaev has now promised to give me something really literary
to read; so you shall soon have your book, my darling. He is a
man who reflects; he is a clever fellow, as well as himself a
writer--such a writer! His pen glides along with ease, and in
such a style (even when he is writing the most ordinary, the most
insignificant of articles) that I have often remarked upon the
fact, both to Phaldoni and to Theresa. Often, too, I go to spend
an evening with him. He reads aloud to us until five o'clock in
the morning, and we listen to him. It is a revelation of things
rather than a reading. It is charming, it is like a bouquet of
flowers--there is a bouquet of flowers in every line of each
page. Besides, he is such an approachable, courteous, kind-
hearted fellow! What am I compared with him? Why, nothing, simply
nothing! He is a man of reputation, whereas I--well, I do not
exist at all. Yet he condescends to my level. At this very moment
I am copying out a document for him. But you must not think that
he finds any DIFFICULTY in condescending to me, who am only a
copyist. No, you must not believe the base gossip that you may
hear. I do copying work for him simply in order to please myself,
as well as that he may notice me--a thing that always gives me
pleasure. I appreciate the delicacy of his position. He is a
good--a very good--man, and an unapproachable writer.

What a splendid thing is literature, Barbara--what a splendid