son addressed a remark to him, the
old man always rose a little from his chair, and replied softly,
cringingly, almost reverently, and always made an effort to employ the
most select, that is to say, the most ridiculous expressions. But
he had not the gift of language; he always became confused and
frightened, so that he did not know what to do with his hands, or
what to do with his person, and went on, for a long time afterward,
whispering his answer to himself, as though desirous of recovering his
composure. But if he succeeded in making a good answer, the old man
gained courage, set his waistcoat to rights, and his cravat and his
coat, and assumed an air of personal dignity. Sometimes his courage
rose to such a point, his daring reached such a height, that he rose
gently from his chair, went up to the shelf of books, took down a
book. He did all this with an air of artificial indifference and
coolness, as though he could always handle his son's books in this
proprietary manner, as though his son's caresses were no rarity to
him. But I once happened to witness the old man's fright when
Pokrovsky asked him not to touch his books. He became confused,
hurriedly replaced the book upside down, then tried to put it right,
turned it round and set it wrong side to, leaves out, smiled,
reddened, and did not know how to expiate his crime.

One day old Pokrovsky came in to see us. He chatted with us for a long
time, was unusually cheerful, alert, talkative; he laughed and joked
after his fashion, and at last revealed the secret of his raptures,
and announced to us that his Petinka's birthday fell precisely a week
later, and that it was his intention to call upon his son, without
fail, on that day; that he would don a new waistcoat, and that his
wife had promised to buy him some new boots. In short, the old man was
perfectly happy, and chattered about everything that came into his
head.

His birthday! That birthday gave me no peace, either day or night. I
made up my mind faithfully to remind Pokrovsky of my friendship, and
to make him a present. But what? At last I hit upon the idea of giving
him some books. I knew that he wished to own the complete works of
Pushkin, in the latest edition. I had thirty rubles of my own, earned
by my handiwork. I had put this money aside for a new gown. I
immediately sent old Matryona, our cook, to inquire the price of a
complete set. Alas! The price of the eleven volumes, together with the
exp