 Story 1 of Dostoyevsky's Short Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. An Honest Thief. One morning, just as I was about to set off to my office, Agrafina, my cook, washerwoman, and housekeeper, came into me and, to my surprise, entered into conversation. She had always been such a silent, simple creature that, except her daily inquiry about dinner, she had not uttered a word for the last six years. I, at least, had heard nothing else from her. Here I have come in to have a word with you, sir." She began abruptly. You really ought to let the little room. Which little room? Why, the one next to the kitchen, to be sure. What for? What for? Why, because folks do take in lodgers, to be sure. But who would take it? Who would take it? Why, a lodger would take it, to be sure. But my good woman, one could not put a bed-stand in it. There wouldn't be room to move. Who could live in it? Who wants to live there, as long as he has a place to sleep in? Why, he would live in the window. In what window? In what window? As though you didn't know, the one in the passage, to be sure. He would sit there sewing or doing anything else. Maybe he would sit on a chair, too. He's got a chair, and he has a table, too. He's got everything. Who is he, then? Oh, a good man, a man of experience. I will cook for him, and I'll ask him three rubles a month for his board and lodging. After prolonged efforts, I succeeded at last in learning from Agrafina that an elderly man had somehow managed to persuade her to admit him into the kitchen as a lodger and boarder. Any notion Agrafina took into her head had to be carried out. If not, I knew she would give me no peace. When anything was not to her liking, she had once began to brood and sank into a deep dejection that would last for a fortnight or three weeks. During that period my dinners were spoiled, my linen was mislaid, my floors went unscrubbed. In short, I had a great deal to put up with. I had observed long ago that this inarticulate woman was incapable of conceiving a project of originating an idea of her own. But if anything like a notion or a project was by some means put into her feeble brain to prevent its being carried out meant, for a time, her moral assassination. And so, as I cared more for my peace of mind than for anything else, I consented forthwith. Has he a passport anyway or something of the sort? To be sure he has. He is a good man, a man of experience, three rubles he's promised to pay. The very next day the new lodger made his appearance in my modest bachelor quarters, but I was not put out by this. Indeed, I was inwardly pleased. I lead as a rule of very lonely hermit's existence. I have scarcely any friends. I hardly ever go anywhere. As I had spent ten years never coming out of my shell, I had, of course, grown used to solitude, but another ten or fifteen years or more of the same solitary existence with the same Agraphina in the same bachelor quarters was, in truth, a somewhat cheerless prospect. And therefore a new inmate, if well behaved, was a heaven sent blessing. Agraphina had spoken truly. My lodger was certainly a man of experience. From his passport it appeared that he was an old soldier, a fact which I should have known indeed from his face. An old soldier is easily recognized. Astafi Ivanovich was a favourable specimen of his class. We got on very well together. What was best of all, Astafi Ivanovich would sometimes tell a story describing some incident in his own life. In the perpetual boredom of my existence such a storyteller was a veritable treasure. One day he told me one of these stories. It made an impression on me. The following event was what led to it. I was left alone in the flat. Both Astafi and Agraphina were out on business of their own. All of a sudden I heard from the inner room somebody. I fancied a stranger come in. I went out. There actually was a stranger in the passage, a short fellow wearing no overcoat in spite of the cold autumn weather. What do you want? Does a clerk called Alexandrov live here? Nobody of that name here, brother. Goodbye. Why? The Dvornik told me it was here. Said my visitor cautiously retiring towards the door. Be off. Be off, brother. Get along. Next day after dinner while Astafi Ivanovich was fitting on a coat which she was altering for me, again someone came into the passage. I half opened the door. Before my very eyes my yesterday's visitor with perfect composure took my wadded great coat from the peg and stuffing it under his arm darted out of the flat. Agraphina stood all the time staring at him, a gape with astonishment and doing nothing for the protection of my property. Astafi Ivanovich flew in pursuit of the thief and ten minutes later came back out of breath and empty-handed. He had vanished completely. Well, there's a piece of luck, Astafi Ivanovich. It's a good job your cloak is left, or he would have put you in a plight, the thief. But the whole incident had so impressed Astafi Ivanovich that I forgot the theft as I looked at him. He could not get over it. Every minute or two he would drop the work upon which he was engaged and would describe over again how it all happened, how he had been standing, how the great coat had been taken down before his very eyes not a yard away, and how it had come to pass that he could not catch the thief. Then he would sit down to his work again and leave it once more, and at last I saw him go down to the Dvornik and tell him all about it, and to up braid him for letting such a thing happen in his domain. Then he came back and began scolding Agraphina. Then he sat down to his work again and long afterwards he was still muttering to himself how it all happened, how he stood there, and I was here, how before our eyes not a yard away the thief took the coat off the peg and so on. In short, though Astafi Ivanovich understood his business, he was a terrible slow-coach and busybody. He's made fools of us, Astafi Ivanovich. I said to him in the evening, as I gave him a glass of tea, I wanted to wile away the time by recalling the story of the lost great coat, the frequent repetition of which, together with the great earnestness of the speaker, was beginning to become very amusing. Fools indeed, sir. Even though it is no business of mine, I am put out. It makes me angry, though it is not my coat that was lost. To my thinking there is no vermin in the world worse than a thief. Another takes what you can spare, but a thief steals the work of your hands, the sweat of your brow, your time. It's nasty. One can't speak of it. It's too vexing. How is it you don't feel the loss of your property, sir? Yes, you are right, Astafi Ivanovich. Better if the thing had been burnt. It's annoying to let the thief have it. It's disagreeable. Disagreeable, I should think so, yet to be sure there are thieves and thieves, and I have happened, sir, to come across an honest thief. An honest thief? But how can a thief be honest, Astafi Ivanovich? There you are right indeed, sir. How can a thief be honest? There are none such. I only meant to say that he was an honest man, sure enough, and yet he stole. I was simply sorry for him. Why? How was that, Astafi Ivanovich? It was about two years ago, sir. I had been nearly a year out of a place, and just before I lost my place I made the acquaintance of a poor lost creature. We got acquainted in a public house. He was a drunkard, a vagrant, a beggar. He had been in a situation of some sort, but from his drinking habits he had lost his work. Such a near-dwell. God only knows what he had on. Often you wouldn't be sure if he'd a shirt under his coat. Everything he could lay his hands upon he would drink away. But he was not one to quarrel. He was a quiet fellow, a soft, good-natured chap, and he'd never ask. He was ashamed, but you could see for yourself the poor fellow wanted a drink. And you would stand at him. And so we got friendly, that's to say, he stuck to me. It was all one to me. And what a man he was, to be sure. Like a little dog he would follow me, wherever I went there he would be, and all that after our first meeting and he as thin as a thread-paper. At first it was, let me stay the night. Well, I let him stay. I looked at his passport too. The man was all right. Well, the next day it was the same story, and then the third day he came again and sat all day in the window and stayed the night. Well, thanks I, he is sticking to me. Give him food and drink and shelter at night too. Here I am, a poor man, and a hangar on to keep as well. And before he came to me he used to go in the same way to a government clerk's. He attached himself to him. They were always drinking together, but he, through trouble of some sort, drank himself into the grave. My man was called Emilian Ilyich. I pondered and pondered what I was to do with him. To drive him away I was ashamed. I was sorry for him. Such a pitiful, God-forsaken creature I never did set eyes on. And not a word said either. He does not ask but just sits there and looks into your eyes like a dog. To think what drinking will bring a man down to. I kept asking myself how am I to say to him. You must be moving, Emilian Ushka. There's nothing for you here. You've come to the wrong place. I shall soon not have a bite for myself. How am I to keep you too? I sat and wondered what he'd do when I said that to him. And I seemed to see how he'd stare at me. If he were to hear me say that, how long he would sit and not understand a word of it. And when it did get home to him at last, how he would get up from the window would take up his bundle. I can see it now. The red check-hankerchief full of holes, with God knows what wrapped up in it, which he had always with him, and then how he would set his shabby old coat to rights so that it would look decent and keep him warm so that no holes would be seen. He was a man of delicate feelings. And how he'd open the door and go out with tears in his eyes. Well, there's no letting a man go to ruin like that. One's sorry for him. And then again I'd think, how am I off myself? Wait a bit, Emilian Ushka, says I to myself. You've not longed to feast with me. I shall soon be going away, and then you will not find me. Well, sir, our family made a move, and Alexander Filimanovich, my master, now deceased, God rest his soul, said, I am thoroughly satisfied with you, a stuffy ofanovich. When we come back from the country we will take you on again. I had been butler with them, a nice gentleman he was, but he died that same year. Well, after seeing him off I took my belongings, what little money I had, and I thought I'd have a rest for a time. So I went to an old woman I knew, and I took a corner in her room. There was only one corner free in it. She had been a nurse, so now she had a pension and a room of her own. Well, now goodbye, Emilian Ushka, thinks I. He won't find me now, my boy. And what do you think, sir? I had gone out to see a man I knew, and when I came back in the evening, the first thing I saw was Emilian Ushka. There he was, sitting on my box, and his check bundle beside him. He was sitting in his ragged old coat, waiting for me. And to a while away the time he had borrowed a church-book from the old lady, and was holding it wrong-side upwards. He'd scented me out. My heart sank. Well, thinks I, there's no help for it. Why didn't I turn him out at first? So I asked him straight off. Have you brought your passport, Emilian Ushka? I sat down on the spot, sir, and began to ponder. Will a vagabond like that be very much trouble to me? And on thinking it over, it seemed he would not be much trouble. He must be fed, I thought. Well, a bit of bread in the morning, and to make it go down better I'll buy him an onion. At midday I should have to give him another bit of bread and an onion, and in the evening onion again with kvass, with some more bread if he wanted it. And if some cabbage soup were to come our way, then we should both have had our fill. I am no great eater myself. And a drinking man, as we all know, never eats. All he wants is herb brandy or green vodka. He'll ruin me with his drinking, I thought, but then another idea came into my head, sir, and took great hold on me. So much so that if Emilian Ushka had gone away, I should have felt that I had done nothing to live for. I do believe. I determined on the spot to be a father and guardian to him. I'll keep him from ruin, I thought. I'll wean him from the glass. You wait a bit, thought I. Very well, Emilian Ushka, you may stay. Only you must behave yourself. You must obey orders. Well, thinks I to myself. I'll begin by training him to work of some sort, but not all at once. Let him enjoy himself a little first, and I'll look round and find something you are fit for, Emilian Ushka. For every sort of work a man needs a special ability, you know, sir. And I began to watch him on the quiet. I soon saw Emilian Ushka was a desperate character. I began, sir, with a word of advice. I said this and that to him. Emilian Ushka, said I, you ought to take a thought and mend your ways. Have done with drinking. Just look what rags you go about in. That old coat of yours, if I may make bold to say so, is fit for nothing but a sieve. A pretty state of things. It's time to draw the line. Sure enough. Emilian Ushka sat and listened to me with his head hanging down. Would you believe it, sir? It had come to such a pass with him. He'd lost his tongue through drink and could not speak a word of sense. Talk to him of cucumbers and he'd answer back about beans. He would listen and listen to me, and then heave such a sigh. What are you sighing for, Emilian Ilyich? I asked him. Oh, nothing. Don't you mind me, Astafievanovich? Do you know there were two women fighting in the street today, Astafievanovich? One upset the other woman's basket of cranberries by accident. Well, what of that? And the second one upset the other's cranberries on purpose and trampled them underfoot, too. Well, and what of it, Emilian Ilyich? Why, nothing, Astafievanovich. I just mentioned it. Nothing, I just mentioned it. Emilian Ushka, my boy. I thought you've squandered and drunk away your brains. And do you know a gentleman dropped a money note on the pavement in Gorhov Street? No, it was Sadovy Street, and a peasant saw it and said that's my luck, and at the same time another man saw it and said, no, it's my bit of luck. I saw it before you did. Well, Emilian Ilyich? And the fellows had a fight over it, Astafievanovich. But a policeman came up, took away the note, gave it back to the gentleman and threatened to take up both men. Well, but what of that? What is there edifying about it, Emilian Ushka? Why, nothing to be sure, folks, laugh, Astafievanovich. Ah, Emilian Ushka, what do the folks matter? You've sold your soul for a brass farthing. But do you know what I have to tell you, Emilian Ilyich? What, Astafievanovich? Take a job of some sort. That's what you must do. For the hundredth time, I say to you, set to work. Have some mercy on yourself. What could I set to, Astafievanovich? I don't know what job I could set to, and there is no one who will take me on, Astafievanovich. That's how you came to be turned off, Emilian Ushka, you drinking man! And do you know, Vlas the waiter was sent for to the office today, Astafievanovich? Why did they send for him, Emilian Ushka? I asked. I could not say why, Astafievanovich. I suppose they wanted him there, and that's why they sent for him. Ah, thought I. We are in a bad way, poor Emilian Ushka. The Lord is chastising us for our sins. Well, sir, what is one to do with such a man? But a cunning fellow he was, and no mistake. He'd listen and listen to me, but at last I suppose he got sick of it. As soon as he sees I'm beginning to get angry, he'd pick up his old coat and out he'd slip and leave no trace. He'd wander about all day and come back at night drunk. Where he got the money from, the Lord only knows I had no hand in that. No, said I. Emilian Ilyich, you'll come to a bad end. Give over drinking mind what I say now. Give it up! Next time you come home and liquor you can spend the night on the stairs I won't let you in. After hearing that threat, Emilian Ushka sat at home that day and the next, but on the third he slipped off again. I waited and waited. He didn't come back. Well, at least I don't mind owning. I was in a fright and I felt for the man too. What have I done to him? I thought. I've scared him away. Where's the poor fellow gone to now? He'll get lost, maybe. Lord have mercy upon us. Night came on, he did not come. In the morning I went out into the porch I looked, and if he hadn't gone to sleep in the porch, there he was with his head on the step and chilled to the marrow of his bones. What next, Emilian Ushka? God have mercy on you. Where will you get to next? Why, you were sort of angry with me, Astafievanovich, the other day. You were vexed and promised to put me to sleep in the porch, so I didn't sort of venture to come in, Astafievanovich, and so I lay down here. I did feel angry. And sorry too. Surely you might undertake some other duty, Emilian Ushka, instead of lying here guarding the steps, I said. Why, what other duty, Astafievanovich? You lost soul. I was in such a rage. I called him that. If you could but learn tellering work. Look, at your old rag of a coat. It's not enough to have it in tatters. Here you are sweeping the steps with it. You might take a needle and boggle up your rags as decency demands. You drunken man. What do you think, sir? He actually did take a needle. Of course, I said it in jest, but he was so scared he set to work. He took off his coat and began threading the needle. I watched him as you may well guess. His eyes were all red and bleary, and his hands were all of a shake. He kept shoving and shoving the thread and could not get it through the eye of the needle. He kept screwing his eyes up and wetting the thread and twisting it in his fingers. It was no good. He gave it up and looked at me. Well, said I, this is a nice way to treat me. If there had been folks by to see, I don't know what I should have done. Why, you simple fellow, I set it to you in a joke as a reproach. Give over your nonsense. God bless you, sir. Sit quiet and don't put me to shame. Don't sleep on my stairs and make a laughingstock of me. Why, what am I to do, Astafi Yovanovich? I know very well. I am a drunkard and good for nothing. I can do nothing but vex you, my bene... bene... factor. And all that, his blue lips began all of a sudden to quiver, and a tear ran down his white cheek and trembled on his stubbly chin, and Benpo Emelyanushka burst into a regular flood of tears. Mercy on us. I felt as though a knife were thrust into my heart. The sensitive creature. I'd never have expected it. Who could have guessed it? No. Emelyanushka thought I. I shall give you up altogether. You can go your way like the rubbish you are. Well, sir, why make a long story of it? And the whole affair so trifling it's not worth wasting words upon why you, for instance, sir, would not have given a thought to it, but I would have given a great deal, if I had a great deal to give, that it never should have happened at all. I had a pair of riding breeches by me, sir. Deuce take them. Fine. First rate riding breeches they were, too. Blew with a check on it. They'd been ordered by a gentleman from the country, but he would not have them after all, said they were not full enough. So they were left on my hands. It struck me that they were worth something. At the secondhand dealers I ought to get five silver rubles for them, or if not I could turn them into two pairs of trousers for Petersburg gentlemen and have a peace over for a waistcoat for myself. Of course, for poor people like us everything comes in. And it happened just then that Emelyanushka was having a sad time of it. There he sat day after day. He did not drink, not a drop past his lips, but he sat and moped like an owl. It was sad to see him. He just sat and brooded. Well, thought I, either you've got not a copper to spend my lad or else you're turning over a new leaf of yourself. You've given it up. You've listened to reason. Well, sir, that's how it was with us. And just then came a holiday. I went to Vespers. When I came home, I found Emelyanushka sitting in the window, drunk and rocking to and fro. Ah, so that's what you've been up to my lad. And I went to get something out of my chest. And when I looked in, the breeches were not there. I rummaged here and there. They'd vanished. When I ransacked everywhere and saw they were not there, something seemed to stab me to the heart. I ran first to the old dame and began accusing her of Emelyanushka, not the faintest suspicion, though there was cause for it in his sitting there drunk. No, said the old body. God be with you, my fine gentleman. What good are riding breeches to me? Am I going to wear such things? Why, a skirt I had, I'd lost the other day through a fellow of your sort. I know nothing. I can tell you nothing about it, she said. Who has been here? Who has been in? I asked. Why, nobody has been in my good sir, says she. I've been here all the while. Emelyan Ilyich went out and came back again. There he sits. Ask him. Emelyanushka said I. Have you taken those new riding breeches for anything? You remember the pair I made for that gentleman from the country? No, Stafievanovich said he. I've not sort of touched them. I was in a state. I hunted high and low for them. They were nowhere to be found and Emelyanushka sits there rocking himself to and fro. I was squatting on my heels facing him and bending over the chest and all at once I stole a glance at him. A lack, I thought. My heart suddenly grew hot within me and I felt myself flushing up too and suddenly Emelyanushka looked at me. No, Astafievanovich said he. Those riding breeches of yours, maybe you are thinking, maybe I took them, but I never touched them. But what can have become of them, Emelyan Ilyich? No, Astafievanovich said he. I've never seen them. Why, Emelyan Ilyich, I suppose they run off of themselves, eh? Maybe they have, Astafievanovich. When I heard him say that, I got up at once, went up to him, lighted the lamp and sat down to work to my sewing. I was altering a waistcoat for a clerk who lived below us and wasn't there a burning pain and ache in my breast. I shouldn't have minded so much if I had put all the clothes I had in the fire. Emelyanushka seemed to have an inkling of what a rage I was in. When a man is guilty, you know, sir, he's sensed trouble far off, like the birds of the air before a storm. Do you know what Astafievanovich? Emelyanushka began, and his poor old voice was shaking as he said the words. Antiprohorich, the apothecary, married the coachman's wife this morning who died the other day. I did give him a look, sir, a nasty look it was. Emelyanushka understood it, too. I saw him get up, go to the bed, and began to rummage there for something. I waited. He was busy there a long time and kept muttering all the while. No, not there. Where can the blessed things have got to? I waited to see what he'd do. I saw him creep under the bed on all fours. I couldn't bear it any longer. What are you crawling about under the bed for, Emelyanushka? said I. Looking for the breeches of Astafievanovich, maybe they've dropped down there somewhere. Why should you try to help a poor simple man like me? said I, crawling on your knees for nothing, sir. I called him that in my vexation. Oh, never mind Astafievanovich, I'll just look. They'll turn up and maybe somewhere. Hmm, said I. Look here, Emelyanushka. What is it, Astafievanovich? said he. Haven't you simply stolen them from me like a thief in a robber in return for the bread and salt you've eaten here? said I. I felt so angry, sir, at seeing him folding about on his knees before me. No, Astafievanovich. And he stayed lying as he was on his face under the bed. A long time he lay there and then at last crept out. I looked at him and the man was as white as a sheet. He stood up and sat down near me in the window and sat for some ten minutes. No, Astafievanovich, he said. And all at once he stood up and came towards me and I can see him now. He looked dreadful. No, Astafievanovich, he said he. I never sort of touched your breeches. He was all of a shake, poking himself in the chest with a trembling finger and his poor old voice shook so that I was frightened, sir, and sat though I was rooted to the window seat. Well, Emelian Ilyich, said I, as you will. Forgive me if I and my foolishness have accused you unjustly as for the breeches let them go hang. We can live without them. We still are hands, thank God. We need not go thieving or begging from some other poor man. We'll earn our bread. Emelian Ushka heard me out and went on standing there before me. I looked up and he had sat down and there he sat all the evening without stirring. At last I lay down to sleep. Emelian Ushka went on sitting in the same place. When I looked out in the morning he was lying curled up in his old coat on the bare floor. He felt too crushed even to come to bed. Well, sir, I felt no more liking for the fellow from that day. In fact, for the first few days I hated him. I felt as if one may say as though my own son had robbed me and done me a deadly hurt. Ah, thought I. Emelian Ushka. Emelian Ushka! And Emelian Ushka, sir, went on drinking for a whole fortnight without stopping. He was drunk all the time and regularly besotted. He went out in the morning and came back late at night and for a whole fortnight I didn't get a word out of him. It was as though grief was gnawing at his heart or as though he wanted to do something for himself completely. At last he stopped. He must have come to the end of all he'd got. And then he sat in the window again. I remember he sat there without speaking for three days and three nights. All of a sudden I saw that he was crying. He was just sitting there, sir, and crying like anything. A perfect stream as though he didn't know how his tears were flowing. And it's a sad thing, sir, to see a grown-up man and an old man, too, crying from woe and grief. What's the matter, Emelian Ushka? said I. He began to tremble so that he shook all over. I spoke to him for the first time since that evening. Nothing astoffee of Onovitch. God be with you, Emelian Ushka. What's lost is lost. Why are you moping about like this? I felt sorry for him. Oh, nothing astoffee of Onovitch. It's no matter. I want to find some work to do astoffee of Onovitch. And what sort of work, pray, Emelian Ushka? Why, any sort. Perhaps I could find a situation such as I used to have. I've been all ready to ask Fidoze Ivanovitch. I don't like to be a burden on you, astoffee of Onovitch. If I can find a situation, astoffee of Onovitch, then I'll pay at you all back and make you a return for all your hospitality. Enough, Emelian Ushka, enough. Let bygones be bygones, and no more to be said about it. Let us go on as we used to do before. No astoffee of Onovitch, you maybe think. But I never touched your riding-breaches. Well, have it your own way. God be with you, Emelian Ushka. No astoffee of Onovitch, I can't go on living with you. That's clear. You must excuse me, astoffee of Onovitch. Why, God bless you, Emelian Ilyich. Who's offending you and driving you out of the place? Am I doing it? No, it's not the proper thing for me to live with you like this, astoffee of Onovitch. I'd better be going. He was so hurt, it seemed. He stuck to his point. I looked at him, and sure enough, up he got and pulled his old coat over his shoulders. But where are you going, Emelian Ilyich? Listen to reason. What are you about? Where are you off to? No, goodbye, astoffee of Onovitch. Don't keep me now. And he was blubbering again. I'd better be going. You're not the same now. Not the same as what? I am the same. But you'll be lost by yourself like a poor helpless babe, Emelian Ilyich. No, astoffee of Onovitch. When you go out now, you lock up your chest, and it makes me cry to see it, astoffee of Onovitch. You'd better let me go, astoffee of Onovitch, and forgive me all the trouble I've given you while I've been living with you. Well, sir, the man went away. I waited for a day. I expected he'd be back in the evening. No. Next day no sign of him. Nor the third day either. I began to get frightened. I was so worried I couldn't drink, I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. The fellow had quite disarmed me. On the fourth day I went out to look for him. I peeped into all the taverns to inquire for him, but, no, Emelian Nushka was lost. Have you managed to keep yourself alive, Emelian Nushka? I wondered. Perhaps he is lying dead under some hedge. Poor drunkard, like a sodden log. I went home more dead than alive. Next day I went out to look for him again, and I kept cursing myself that I'd been such a fool as to let the man go off by himself. On the fifth day it was a holiday. In the early morning I heard the door creak. I looked up, and there was my Emelian Nushka coming in. His face was blue, and his hair was covered with dirt as though he'd been sleeping in the street. He was as thin as a match. He took off his old coat, sat down on the chest, and looked at me. I was delighted to see him, but I felt more upset about him than ever. For you see, sir, if I'd been overtaken in some sin as true as I am here, sir, I'd have died like a dog before I'd have come back. But Emelian Nushka did come back, and a sad thing it was, sure enough, to see a man sunk so low. I began to look after him, to talk kindly to him, to comfort him. Well, Emelian Nushka, said I, I am glad you've come back. Had you been away much longer, I should have gone to look for you in the taverns again today. Are you hungry? No, Astafi Ivanovich. Come now, aren't you really? Here, brother, is some cabbage soup left over from yesterday. There was meat in it. It is good stuff. And here is some bread and onion. Come, eat it. It'll do you no harm. I made him eat it. And I saw at once that the man had not tasted food for, maybe, three days. He was as hungry as a wolf, so it was hunger that had driven him to me. My heart was melted looking at the poor deer. Let me run to the tavern, thought I. I'll get something to ease his heart, and then we'll make an end of it. I've no more anger in my heart against you, Emelian Nushka. I brought him some vodka. Here, Emelian Ilyich, let us have a drink for the holiday. Like a drink, it will do you good. He held out his hand, held it out greedily. He was just taking it, and then he stopped himself. But a minute after I saw him take it and lift it to his mouth, spilling it on his sleeve. But though he got it to his lips, he set it down on the table again. What is it, Emelian Nushka? Nothing, Astafi Ivanovich. I sort of. Won't you drink it? Well, Astafi Ivanovich, I'm not sort of going to drink any more Astafi Ivanovich. Do you mean you've given it up altogether, Emelian Nushka? Or are you only not going to drink today? He did not answer. A minute later I saw him rest his head on his hand. What's the matter, Emelian Nushka? Are you ill? Why, yes, Astafi Ivanovich. I don't feel well. I took him and laid him down on the bed. I saw that he really was ill. His head was burning hot, and he was shivering with fever. I sat by him all day. Toward night he was worse. I mixed him some oil and onion and cavasse and bread broken up. Come, eat some of this, said I, and perhaps you'll feel better. He shook his head. No, said he, I won't have any dinner today, Astafi Ivanovich. I made some tea for him. I quite flustered our old woman. He was no better. Well, thinks I. It's a bad look-out. The third morning I went for a medical gentleman. There was one I knew living close by, Kostaprov by name. I had made his acquaintance when I was in service with the Bosomyagans. He attended me. The doctor come and looked at him. He's in a bad way, said he. It was no use sending for me, but if you like I can give him a powder. Well, I didn't give him a powder. I thought that's just the doctor's little game. And then the fifth day came. He lay, sir, dying before my eyes. I sat in the window with my work in my hands. The old woman was heeding the stove. We were all silent. My heart was simply breaking over him, the good-for-nothing fellow. I felt as if it were a son of my own I was losing. I knew that Emilia Nushka was looking at me. I'd seen the man all the day long making up his mind to say something, and not daring to. At last I looked up at him. I saw such misery in the poor fellow's eyes. He had kept them fixed on me, but when he saw that I was looking at him, he looked down at once. Astafi Ivanovich? What is it, Emilia Nushka? If you were to take my old coat, who a secondhand dealer's, how much do you think they'd give you for it, Astafi Ivanovich? There's no knowing how much they'd give. Maybe they would give me a ruble for it, Emilia Niliich. But if I had taken it they wouldn't have given a farthing for it, but would have laughed in my face for bringing such a trumpery thing. I simply said that to comfort the poor fellow, knowing the simpleton he was. But I was thinking, Astafi Ivanovich, they might give you three rubles for it. It's made of cloth, Astafi Ivanovich. How could they only give one ruble for a cloth coat? I don't know, Emilia Niliich, said I. If you are thinking of taking it you should certainly ask three rubles to begin with. Emilia Nushka was silent for a time, and then he addressed me again. Astafi Ivanovich? What is it, Emilia Nushka? I asked. Sell my coat when I die, and don't bury me in it. I can lie as well without it, and it's a thing of some value. It might come in useful. I can't tell you how it made my heart ache to hear him. I saw that the death agony was coming on him. We were silent again for a bit. So an hour passed by. I looked at him again. He was still staring at me, and when he met my eyes he looked down again. Do you want some water to drink, Emilia Niliich? I asked. Give me some. God bless you, Astafi Ivanovich. I gave him a drink. Thank you, Astafi Ivanovich, said he. Is there anything else you would like, Emilia Nushka? No, Astafi Ivanovich. There's nothing I want, but I sort of. What? I only. What is it, Emilia Nushka? Those riding breeches, it was sort of I who took them Astafi Ivanovich. Well, God forgive you, Emilia Nushka, said I. You poor, sorrowful creature, depart in peace. And I was choking myself, sir, and the tears were in my eyes. I turned aside for a moment. Astafi Ivanovich. I saw Emilia Nushka wanted to tell me something. He was trying to sit up, trying to speak, and mumbling something. He flushed red all over, suddenly looked at me. Then I saw him turn white again. Whiter and whiter. Then he seemed to sink away all in a minute. His head fell back. He drew one breath and gave up his soul to God. End of An Honest Thief by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Section Two of Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoevsky. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A novel in nine letters. One from Peter Ivanovich to Ivan Petrovich. Dear sir and most precious friend Ivan Petrovich, for the last two days I have been, I may say, in pursuit of you, my friend, having to talk over most urgent business with you and I cannot come across you anywhere. Yesterday, while we were at Semyon Alexiich's, my wife made a very good joke about you, saying that Tatyana Petrovna and you were a pair of birds always on the wing. You have not been married three months and you already neglect your domestic hearth. We all laughed heartily, from our genuine kindly feeling for you, of course, but joking apart, my precious friend, you have given me a lot of trouble. Semyon Alexiich said to me that you might be going to the ball at the Social Union's club. Meeting my wife with Semyon Alexiich as good lady, I flew off to the Social Union. It was funny and tragic, fancy my position, me at the ball and alone, without my wife. Ivan Andreiich, meeting me in the porter's lodge and seeing me alone, at once concluded, the rascal, that I had a passion for dances and taking me by the arm wanted to drag me off by force to a dancing class, saying that it was too crowded at the Social Union, that an ardent spirit had not room to turn and that his head ached from the Petruly and Minyanet. I found neither you nor Tatyana Petrovna. Ivan Andreiich vowed and declared that you would be at woe from wit at the Alexandrinsky Theatre. I flew off to the Alexandrinsky Theatre. You were not there either. This morning I expected to find you at Chesnokinov's. No sign of you there. Chesnokinov sent to the Parapalkans. The same thing there. In fact, I am quite worn out. You can judge how much trouble I have taken. Now I am writing you. There is nothing else I can do. My business by no means a literary one. You understand me? It would be better to meet face to face. It is extremely necessary to discuss something with you. And as quickly as possible. And so I beg you to come to us today with Tatyana Petrovna to tea and for a chat in the evening. My Anna Miholovna will be extremely pleased to see you. You will truly, as they say, oblige me to my dying day. By the way, my precious friend, since I have taken up my pen I'll go into all I have against you. I have a slight complaint I must make. In fact, I must reproach you, my worthy friend, for an apparently very innocent little trick which you have played at my expense. You are a rascal, a man without conscience. About the middle of last month you brought into my house an acquaintance of yours, Yevgeny Nikoliich. You vouched for him by your friendly and, for me, of course, sacred recommendation. I rejoice that the opportunity of receiving the young man with open arms, and when I did so I put my head in a noose. A noose it hardly is, but it has turned out a pretty business. I have not time now to explain, and indeed it is an awkward thing to do in writing. Only a very humble request to you, my malicious friend. Could you not, somehow, very delicately, in passing, drop a hint into the young man's ear that there are a great many houses in the metropolis besides ours? It is more than I can stand, my dear fellow. We fall at your feet, as our friend Semyonovich says. I will tell you all about it when we meet. I don't mean to say that the young man has sinned against good manners, or is lacking in spiritual qualities, or is not up to the mark in some other way. On the contrary, he is an amiable and pleasant fellow. But wait, we shall meet. Meanwhile, if you see him, for goodness' sake, whisper a hint to him, my good friend. I would do it myself, but you know what I am. I simply can't, and that's all about it. You introduced him, but I will explain myself more fully this evening, anyway. Now, good-bye, I remain, etc. P.S., my little boy has been ailing for the last week and gets worse and worse every day. He is cutting his poor little teeth. My wife is nursing him all the time in his depressed poor thing. Be sure to come. You will give us real pleasure, my precious friend. To. From Ivan Petrovich to Peter Ivanish. Dear sir, Peter Ivanish, I got your letter yesterday, I read it, and was perplexed. You looked for me, goodness knows where, and I was simply at home. Till ten o'clock I was expecting Ivan Ivanish Toloknov. At once, on getting your letter, I set out with my wife. I went to the expense of taking a cab and reached your house about half past six. You were not at home, but we were met by your wife. I waited to see you till half past ten. I could not stay later. I set off with my wife, went to the expense of a cab again, saw her home, and went on myself to the parapalcans, thinking I might meet you there. But again I was out in my reckoning. When I get home I did not sleep all night. I felt uneasy. In the morning I drove round to you three times at nine, at ten, and at eleven. And at eleven, three times I went to the expense of a cab, and again you left me in the lurch. I read your letter and was amazed. You write about Yevgeny Nikoliich, beg me to whisper some hint and do not tell me what about. I commend your caution, but all letters are not alike, and I don't give documents of importance to my wife for curl papers. I am puzzled, in fact, to know with what motive you wrote all this to me. However, if it comes to that, why should I meddle in the matter? I don't poke my nose into other people's business. You can be not at home to him. I only see that I must have a brief and decisive explanation with you. And moreover, time is passing, and I am in straits, and don't know what to do if you are going to neglect the terms of our agreement. A journey for nothing. A journey cost something too, and my wife's whining for me to get her a velvet mantle of the latest fashion. About Yevgeny Nikoliich, I hastened to mention that when I was at Pavel Semjanovich, Pera Palkins yesterday, I made inquiries without loss of time. He has five hundred serfs in the province of Yaroslav, and he has expectations from his grandmother of an estate of three hundred serfs near Moscow. How much money he has, I cannot tell. I think you ought to know that better. I beg you once for all to appoint a place where I can meet you. You met Ivan Andreiich yesterday, and you write that he told you I was at the Alex Andrinsky Theatre with my wife? I write that he is a liar, and it shows how little he is to be trusted in such cases, that only the day before yesterday he did his grandmother out of eight hundred rubles. I have the honor to remain, etc. P.S. My wife is going to have a baby. She is nervous about it and feels depressed at times. At the theatre they sometimes have firearms going off and sham thunderstorms, and so for fear of a shock to my wife's nerves I do not take her to the theatre. I have no great partiality for the theatre myself. Three. From Peter Ivanich to Ivan Petrovich. My precious friend Ivan Petrovich, I am to blame, to blame a thousand times to blame, but I hasten to defend myself between five and six yesterday, just as we were talking of you with the warmest affection. A messenger from Uncle Stepan Alexiich galloped up with the news that my aunt was very bad. Being afraid of alarming my wife I did not say a word of this to her, but on the pretext of other urgent business I drove off to my aunt's house. I found her almost dying. Just at five o'clock she had had a stroke, the third she has had in the last two years. Carl Fyodorich, their family doctor, told us that she might not live through the night. You can judge at my position, dearest friend. We were on our legs all night in grief and anxiety. It was not till morning that, utterly exhausted and overcome by moral and physical weakness, I lay down on the sofa. I forgot to tell them to wake me and only walk at half past eleven. My aunt was better. I drove home to my wife. The poor thing was quite worn out expecting me. I snatched a bite of something and braced my little boy, reassured my wife and set off to call on you. You were not at home? At your flat I found Yevgeny Nikolayich. When I got home I took up a pen and here I am writing you. Don't grumble and be cross to me, my true friend. Beat me, chopped my guilty head off at my shoulders. But don't deprive me of your affection. From your wife I learned that you will be at the Slavyanov's this evening. I will certainly be there. I look forward with the greatest impatience to seeing you. I remain, etc. P.S. We are in perfect despair about our little boy. Carl Fyodorich prescribes a rhubarb. He moans. Yesterday he did not know anyone. This morning he did know us and began lisping, Papa, Mama, Boo. My wife was in tears the whole morning. Four. From Ivan Petrovich to Peter Ivanich. My dear sir, Peter Ivanich, I am writing you in your room at your bureau and before taking up my pen I have been waiting for more than two and a half hours for you. Now allow me to tell you straight out, Peter Ivanich, my frank opinion about this shabby incident. From your last letter I gathered that you were expected at the Slavyanov's, that you were inviting me to go there. I turned up, I stayed for five hours and there was no sign of you. Why am I to be made a laughingstock to people do you suppose? Excuse me, my dear sir. I came to you this morning. I hope to find you not imitating certain deceitful persons who look for people. God knows where, when they can be found at home at any suitably chosen time. There is no sign of you at home. I don't know what restrains me from telling you now the whole harsh truth. I will only say that I see you seem to be going back on your bargain regarding our agreement and only now reflecting on the whole affair. I cannot but confess that I am absolutely astounded at the artful workings of your mind. I see clearly now that you have been cherishing your unfriendly design for a long time. This supposition of mine is confirmed by the fact that last week in an almost unpardonable way you took possession of that letter of yours addressed to me in which you laid down yourself, though rather vaguely and incoherently the terms of our agreement in regard to a circumstance of which I need not remind you. You are afraid of documents, you destroy them, and you try to make a fool of me. But I won't allow myself to be made a fool of, for no one has ever considered me one hitherto and everyone has thought well of me in that respect. I am opening my eyes. You try and put me off, confuse me with talk of Yevgeny Nikolayevich and when with your letter of the seventh of this month, which I am still at a loss to understand, I seek a personal explanation from you. You make humbugging appointments while you keep out of the way. Surely you do not oppose, sir, that I am not equal to noticing all this. You promise to reward me for my services, of which you are very well aware in the way of introducing various persons and at the same time. And I don't know how you do it. You can try to borrow money from me in considerable sums without giving a receipt as happened no longer ago than last week. Now, having got the money, you keep out of the way and what's more, you repudiate the service I have done you in regard to Yevgeny Nikolayevich. You are probably reckoning on my speedy departure to Simpersk and hoping I may not have time to settle your business. But I assure you solemnly and testify on my word of honor that if it comes to that, I am prepared to spend two more months in Petersburg expressly to carry through my business, to attain my objects and to get hold of you, for I too on occasion know how to get the better of people. In conclusion, I beg to inform you that if you do not give me a satisfactory explanation today, first in writing and then personally face to face and do not make a fresh statement in your letter of the chief points of the agreement existing between us and do not explain fully your views in regard to Yevgeny Nikolayevich. I shall be compelled to have recourse to measures that will be highly unpleasant to you and indeed repugnant to me also. Allow me to remain, etc. Five from Pyotr Ivanovich to Ivan Petrovich, November 11th. My dear and honored friend Ivan Petrovich, I was cut to the heart by your letter. I wondered you were not ashamed, my dear but unjust friend, to behave like this to one of your most devoted friends. Why be in such a hurry and without explaining things fully wound me with such insulting suspicions? But I hastened to reply to your charges. You did not find me yesterday, Ivan Petrovich, because I was suddenly and quite unexpectedly called away to a death bed. My aunt Yefemia Nikolayevna passed away yesterday evening at eleven o'clock in the night. By the general consent of the relatives I was selected to make the arrangements for the sad and sorrowful ceremony. I had so much to do that that I had not time to see you this morning, nor even to send you a line. I am grieved to the heart at the misunderstanding which has arisen between us. My words about Yevgevni Nikolayevich uttered casually and ingest. You have taken in quite a wrong sense, and have ascribed to them a meaning deeply offensive to me. You refer to money and express your anxiety about it, but without wasting words I am ready to satisfy all your claims and demands. Though I must remind you that the three hundred and fifty rubles I had from you last week were in accordance with a certain agreement, and not by way of a loan, in the latter case there would certainly have been a receipt. I will not condescend to discuss the other points mentioned in your letter. I see that it is a misunderstanding. I see it is your habitual hastiness, hot temper and obscenity. I know that your good-heartedness and open character will not allow doubts to persist in your heart, and that you will be, in fact, the first to hold out your hand to me. You are mistaken, Ivan Petrovich. You are greatly mistaken. Although your letter has deeply wounded me, I should be prepared even today to come to you and apologize. But I have been since yesterday in such a rush and flurry that I am utterly exhausted and can scarcely stand on my feet. To complete my troubles, my wife is laid up. I am afraid she is seriously ill. Our little boy, thank God, is better, but I must lay down my pen. I have a mass of things to do, and they are urgent. Allow me, my dear friend, to remain, etc. 6. From Ivan Petrovich to Peter Ivanich. November 14. Dear sir, Peter Ivanich, I have been waiting for three days. I tried to make a profitable use of them. Meanwhile, I feel that politeness and good manners are the greatest of ornaments for everyone. Since my last letter of the tenth of this month, I have neither by word nor deed reminded you of my existence, partly in order to allow you undisturbed to perform the duty of a Christian in regard to your aunt, partly because I needed the time for certain considerations and investigations in regard to a business you know of. Now I hasten to explain myself to you in the most thoroughgoing and decisive manner. I frankly confess that on reading your first two letters, I seriously suppose that you did not understand what I wanted. That was how it was that I rather sought an interview with you and explanations face to face. I was afraid of writing and blamed myself for lack of clearness in the expression of my thoughts on paper. You are aware that I have not the advantages of education and good manners, and that I shun a hollow show of gentility because I have learned from bitter experience how misleading appearances often are, and that a snake sometimes lies hidden under flowers. But you understood me. You did not answer me as you should have done because, in the treachery of your heart, you had planned beforehand to be faithless to your word of honor and to the friendly relations existing between us. You have proved this absolutely by your abominable conduct toward me of late, which is fatal to my interests, which I did not expect and which I refuse to believe till the present moment. From the very beginning of our acquaintance you captivated me by your clever manners, by the subtlety of your behavior, your knowledge of affairs, and the advantages to be gained by association with you. I imagined that I had found a true friend and well-wisher. Now I recognize clearly that there are many people who under a flattering and brilliant exterior hide venom in their hearts, who use their cleverness to weave snares for their neighbor and for unpardonable deception, and so are afraid of pen and paper, and at the same time use their fine language not for the benefit of their neighbor and their country, but to drug and bewitch the reason of those who have entered into business relations of any sort with them. Your treachery to me, my dear sir, can be clearly seen from what follows, in the first place. When, in the clear and distinct terms of my letter, I describe my position, sir, and at the same time ask you in my first letter what you meant by certain expressions and intentions of yours, principally in regard to Yevgeny Nikolaevich, you tried for the most part to avoid answering, and confounding me by doubts and suspicions, you calmly put the subject aside. Then, after treating me in a way which cannot be described by any seemly word, you began writing that you were wounded. Pray, what am I to call that, sir? Then, when every minute was precious to me and when you had set me running after you all over the town, you wrote, pretending personal friendship, letters in which intentionally avoiding all mention of business. You spoke of utterly irrelevant matters, to wit of the illness of your good lady for whom I have in any case every respect, and of how your baby had been dosed with rhubarb and was cutting a tooth, all this you alluded to in every letter with a disgusting regularity that was insulting to me. Of course, I am prepared to admit that a father's heart may be torn by the sufferings of his babe. But why make mention of this when something different, far more important and interesting was needed? I endured it in silence, but now when time has elapsed, I think it my duty to explain myself. Finally, treacherously deceiving me several times by making humbugging appointments, you tried, it seems, to make me play the part of a fool and a laughingstock for you which I never intended to be. Then, after first inviting me and thoroughly deceiving me, you informed me that you were called away to your suffering aunt who had had a stroke, precisely at five o'clock as you stated with shameful exactitude. Luckily for me, sir, in the course of these three days, I have succeeded in making inquiries and have learnt from them that your aunt had a stroke on the day before the seventh, not long before midnight. From this fact, I see that you have made use of sacred family relations in order to deceive persons in no way concerned with them. Finally, in your last letter, you mentioned the death of your relatives as though it had taken place precisely at the time when I was to have visited you to consult about various business matters. But here, the vileness of your arts and calculations exceeds all belief, for from trustworthy information which I was able by a lucky chance to obtain just in the nick of time, I have found out that your aunt died twenty-four hours later than the time you so impiously fixed for her decease in your letter. I shall never have done if I enumerate all the signs by which I have discovered your treachery in regard to me. It is sufficient indeed for any impartial observer that in every letter you style me your true friend, then call me all sorts of polite names which you do to the best of my belief for no other object than to put my conscience to sleep. I have come now to your principal act of deceit and treachery in regard to me to wit your continual silence of late in regard to everything concerning our common interests. In regard to your wicked theft of the letter in which you stated, though in language somewhat obscure and not perfectly intelligible to me, our mutual agreements, your barbarous forcible loan of three hundred and fifty rubles which you borrowed from me as your partner without giving any receipt, and finally your abominable slanders of our common acquaintance, Yevgeny Nikolayevich. I see clearly now that you meant to show me that he was, if you will allow me to say so, like a billy goat good for neither milk nor wool, that he was neither one thing nor the other, neither fish nor flesh, which you put down as a vice in him in your letter of the sixth instant. I knew Yevgeny Nikolayevich as a modest and well-behaved young man, whereby he may well attract, gain, and deserve respect in society. I know also that every evening for the last fortnight you've put into your pocket dozens and sometimes even hundreds of rubles playing games of chance with Yevgeny Nikolayevich. Now you disavow all this and not only refuse to compensate me for what I have suffered, but have even appropriated money belonging to me, tempting me by suggestions that I should be partner in the affair and luring me with various advantages which were to accrue. After having appropriated in a most illegal way money of mine and of Yevgeny Nikolayevich's, you declined to compensate me, resorting for that object to calamny with which you have unjustifiably blackened in my eyes a man whom I, by my efforts and exertions, introduced into your house. While on the contrary, from what I hear from your friends, you are still almost slobbering over him and give out to the whole world that he is your dearest friend, though there is no one in the world such a fool as not to guess at once what your designs are aiming at and what your friendly relations really mean. I should say that they mean deceit, treachery, forgetfulness of human duties and propriities contrary to the law of God and vicious in every way. I take myself as a proof and example in what way have I offended you and why have you treated me in this godless fashion. I will end my letter. I have explained myself. Now in conclusion, if, sir, you do not in the shortest possible time after receiving this letter return me in full, first the 350 rubles I gave you and secondly all the sums that should come to me according to your promise, I will have recourse to every possible means to compel you to return it, even to open force. Secondly, to the protection of the laws and finally I beg to inform you that I am in possession of facts, which, if they remain in the hands of your humble servant, may ruin and disgrace your name in the eyes of all the world. Allow me to remain, etc. 7. From Peter Ivanich to Ivan Petrovich, November 15th Ivan Petrovich? When I received your vulgar and at the same time queer letter, my impulse for the first minute was to tear it into shreds, but I have preserved it as a curiosity. I do, however, sincerely regret our misunderstandings and unpleasant relations. I did not mean to answer you, but I am compelled by necessity. I must in these lines inform you that it would be very unpleasant for me to see you in my house at any time. My wife feels the same. She is in delicate health and the smell of tar upsets her. My wife sends your wife the book Don Quixote de la Mancha with her sincere thanks. As for the galoshes you say you left behind here on your last visit, I must regretfully inform you that they are nowhere to be found. They are still being looked for, but if they do not turn up then I will buy you a new pair. I have the honour to remain your sincere friend. 8. On the 16th of November, Peter Ivanich received by post two letters addressed to him. Opening the first envelope he took out a carefully folded note on pale pink paper. The handwriting was his wife's. It was addressed to Yevgeny Nikolayich and dated November the 2nd. There was nothing else in the envelope. Peter Ivanich read. Dear Eugene, yesterday was utterly impossible. My husband was at home the whole evening. Be sure to come tomorrow punctually at eleven. At half past ten my husband is going to Tsarsko and not coming back till evening. I was in a rage all night. Thank you for sending me the information and the correspondence. What a lot of paper! Did she really write all that? She has style, though. Many thanks, dear. I see that you love me. Don't be angry, but for goodness' sake come tomorrow. A. Peter Ivanich tore open the other letter. Peter Ivanich, I should never have set foot again in your house anyway. You need not have trouble to soil paper about it. Next week I am going to Zimbirsk. Yevgeny Nikolayich remained your precious and beloved friend. I wish you luck and don't trouble about the galoshes. 9. On the 17th of November Ivan Petrovich received by post two letters addressed to him. Opening the first letter he took out a hasty and carelessly written note. The handwriting was his wife's. It was addressed to Yevgeny Nikolayich and dated August the 4th. There was nothing else in the envelope. Ivan Petrovich read. Good-bye, good-bye Yevgeny Nikolayich. The Lord reward you for this, too. May you be happy, but my lot is bitter, terribly bitter. It is your choice. If it had not been for my aunt I should not have put such trust in you. Do not laugh at me, nor at my aunt. Tomorrow is our wedding. Aunt is relieved that a good man has been found and that he will take me without a dowry. I took a good look at him for the first time today. He seems good-natured. They are hurrying me. Farewell, farewell, my darling. Think of me sometimes. I shall never forget you. Farewell, I sign this last, like my first letter. Do you remember? Tatyana. The second letter was as follows. Ivan Petrovich, tomorrow you will receive a new pair of galoshes. It is not my habit to filch from other men's pockets, and I am not fond of picking up all sorts of rubbish in the streets. Yevgeny Nikolayich is going to Simbersk in a day or two on his grandfather's business, and he has asked me to find a traveling companion for him. Wouldn't you like to take him with you? End of a novel in nine letters by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia.