Oh
Lord! A strange man comes, examines you, and takes you unto himself
for years, if you please him! How disgraceful that is, how terrible. Oh
Lord, my God! If I could only run away! If I only had someone to advise
me what to do! Who is he? How can I learn to know him? I cannot do
anything! And I have thought, ah, how much I have thought! I have read.
To what purpose have I read? Why should I know that it is possible to
live otherwise, so as I cannot live? And it may be that were it not for
the books my life would be easier, simpler. How painful all this is!
What a wretched, unfortunate being I am! Alone. If Taras at least were
here."

At the recollection of her brother she felt still more grieved, still
more sorry for herself. She had written to Taras a long, exultant
letter, in which she had spoken of her love for him, of her hope in him;
imploring her brother to come as soon as possible to see his father, she
had pictured to him plans of arranging to live together, assuring Taras
that their father was extremely clever and understood everything; she
told about his loneliness, had gone into ecstasy over his aptitude for
life and had, at the same time, complained of his attitude toward her.

For two weeks she impatiently expected a reply, and when she had
received and read it she burst out sobbing for joy and disenchantment.
The answer was dry and short; in it Taras said that within a month he
would be on the Volga on business and would not fail to call on his
father, if the old man really had no objection to it. The letter was
cold, like a block of ice; with tears in her eyes she perused it over
and over again, rumpled it, creased it, but it did not turn warmer on
this account, it only became wet. From the sheet of stiff note paper
which was covered with writing in a large, firm hand, a wrinkled and
suspiciously frowning face, thin and angular like that of her father,
seemed to look at her.

On Yakov Tarasovich the letter of his son made a different impression.
On learning the contents of Taras's reply the old man started and
hastily turned to his daughter with animation and with a peculiar smile:

"Well, let me see it! Show it to me! He-he! Let's read how wise men
write. Where are my spectacles? Mm! 'Dear sister!' Yes."

The old man became silent; he read to himself the message of his son,
put it on the table, and, raising his eyebrows, silently paced the room
to and fro, with an expression of amazement on his co