When I’m in town, there’s nowhere else I stay except with him. The moment I arrive I go straight to his place, and stay there for weeks at a time – God forbid that I should even think of staying with anyone else. He gives me food and drink, and after dinner we play cards until late at night. And it’s a man like this that they have passed over for promotion, and they are pestering him to send in his resignation. Like a good father, please go to see those bigwigs and make them see what kind of man Afanasy Ivanych really is. Whenever there’s work to be done, he does it in a flash; tell them that he is the victim of a trumped-up denunciation engineered by the scheming provincial secretary – they will listen to you – and then send me a letter by the first post. And go and see my old colleague, Kostyakov. I heard from a visitor from St Petersburg by the name of Studenitsyn, whom you probably know, that he lives at Peski; the neighbourhood kids will show you his house; and write back to me by the same post – and make an effort to find out whether he is alive, in good health, what he is doing and whether he remembers me. Get to know him and make friends with him, he’s a great fellow, easy-going and a real clown. Before I finish I just have one more little favour to ask…”

Aduyev stopped reading, slowly tore the letter into four pieces, and threw them into the waste-paper basket under the desk. Then he stretched and yawned.

He took up another letter, and started to read it, once again under his breath.

“‘Dear brother, kind sir, Pyotr Ivanych!’ Who can this be, calling herself my sister?” said Aduyev, looking at the signature. “Maria Gorbatova…” He looked up towards the ceiling, trying to recall…

“Who on earth can it be?… Sounds somehow familiar. Yes, now I’ve got it, my brother was married to a Gorbatova, so it must be her sister; yes, now I remember…”

He frowned, and continued reading.

“‘Although fate has kept us apart, perhaps for ever, and there’s a great gulf between us, the years have slipped away…’”

He skipped a few lines and went on reading:

“One memory I will carry to my grave was when we were strolling together around our lake, when you, at the risk of your life and limb, ventured into the water up to your knees to fetch me a big yellow flower growing among the reeds. There was some kind of sap trickling from the stalk which got our hands dirty, and you filled your cap with water so that we could wash the dirt off. That made us laugh so much, and how happy I was then! Ever since, I’ve kept that flower pressed inside a book…”

Aduyev stopped reading. Clearly, something in what he had read was bothering him; he even shook his head in disbelief.

He read on.

“‘And do you still have that ribbon, that you filched from one of my drawers in spite of all my protestations and pleading?’ I pinched her ribbon?” he said aloud, scowling. He fell silent and, skipping a few more lines, continued reading.

“‘I have resigned myself to life as a single woman and am very happy with it, but no one can stop me recalling those blissful old days…’ Ah, an old maid,” Pyotr Ivanych thought to himself. “No wonder she can’t get those yellow flowers out of her head! What else does she have to say?

“Are you married, my dear brother, and if so, to whom? Who is that dear companion who now graces the path of your existence? Tell me her name; I will love her like my own sister, and in my dreams I will join your two images and pray for you both. And if you are not married, what’s the reason – please write and tell me frankly; there’s no one here to read your secrets, I will lock them in my bosom, and someone would have to tear out my heart to get at them. Please write back without delay: I’m burning with impatience to read your ineffable words…

“Well – how’s that for your own ‘ineffable’ words!” Pyotr Ivanych thought to himself.

“‘I didn’t know,’” he read on,

“that dear Sasha would suddenly take it into his head to visit our magnificent capital – how lucky he will be to see those beautiful houses and shops, to enjoy such luxury and to clasp to his bosom the uncle he adores, while I will be shedding tears as I am reminded of those happy days. If I had known he would be leaving, I would have spent the days and nights embroidering a blackamoor with two dogs on a cushion for you; you won’t believe how often I have burst into tears at the sight of that design; what could be more sacred than friendship and loyalty?… Now I am possessed by a single thought, and I will devote my days to it, but I don’t have any good wool here. So may I most humbly request you, my dear brother, as soon as possible and from the best shop, to procure some of the highest-quality English wool for embroidering the designs which I have enclosed. But what am I saying? A most horrifying thought has frozen the pen in my hand! What if you have already forgotten us, and why should you even remember this poor unfortunate who has hidden herself from the world and sheds tears? But no, I refuse to believe that you could possibly be a brute like all other men – no! My heart tells me that amidst all the luxury and pleasure of our magnificent capital you still have the same feelings as always for all of us. It is this thought which is balm to my soul. Forgive me, I cannot continue, my hand is trembling.

“I remain to the grave,

yours,

Maria Gorbatova.

“P.S. My brother, do you happen to have any nice books? If you have any to spare, please send them. As I turn every page, I will be reminded of you, and will weep, otherwise please buy some new ones, but not expensive ones. I hear that there are some good ones by Mr Zagoskin and Mr Marlinsky,* so perhaps those; otherwise, I’ve also seen something in the papers about a book called On Prejudice by Mr Puzin* – please send it, I can’t stand prejudices.”

After finishing the letter, Aduyev felt like throwing it into the same waste basket as the one before, but he stopped himself.

“No,” he thought, “I’ll keep it: there are people who value letters like this; some people even collect them, maybe I can give it to someone, and he will owe me a favour. He threw the letter into the beaded basket hanging on the wall and then picked up the third letter and began to read it.

“My dearest brother-in-law Pyotr Ivanych,

“Do you remember the send-off we gave you when you left seventeen years ago?

“Well, now it has been God’s will that I should be blessing my own son on his long journey. Be kind to him, my dear, and remember our dear departed Fyodor Ivanych, whom Sashenka resembles in every way. God alone knows the anguish in this mother’s heart when I saw him off on his journey into the unknown.