enses of binding, would be sixty rubles at the very least. I
thought and thought, but could not tell what to do. I did not wish to
ask my mother. Of course she would have helped me; but, in that case
every one in the house would have known about our gift; moreover, the
gift would have been converted into an expression of gratitude, a
payment for Pokrovsky's labors for the whole year. My desire was to
make the present privately, unknown to any one. And for his toilsome
lessons to me I wished to remain forever indebted to him, without any
payment whatever. At last I devised an escape from my predicament. I
knew that one could often buy at half price from the old booksellers
in the Gostinny Dvor, if one bargained well, little used and almost
entirely new books. I made up my mind to go to the Gostinny Dvor
myself. So it came about; the very next morning both Anna Feodorovna
and we needed something. Mamma was not feeling well, and Anna
Feodorovna, quite opportunely, had a fit of laziness, so all the
errands were turned over to me, and I set out with Matryona.

To my delight I soon found a Pushkin, and in a very handsome binding.
I began to bargain for it. How I enjoyed it! But alas! My entire
capital consisted of thirty rubles in paper, and the merchant would
not consent to accept less than ten rubles in silver. At last I began
to entreat him, and I begged and begged, until eventually he yielded.
But he only took off two rubles and a half, and swore that he had done
so only for my sake, because I was such a nice young lady, and that he
would not have come down in his price for any one else. Two rubles and
a half were still lacking! I was ready to cry with vexation. But the
most unexpected circumstance came to my rescue in my grief. Not far
from me, at another stall, I caught sight of old Pokrovsky. Four or
five old booksellers were clustered about him; he had completely lost
his wits, and they had thoroughly bewildered him. Each one was
offering him his wares, and what stuff they were offering, and what
all was he not ready to buy! I stepped up to him and asked him what he
was doing there? The old man was very glad to see me; he loved me
unboundedly,--no less than his Petinka, perhaps. "Why, I am buying a
few little books, Varvara Alexievna," he replied; "I am buying some
books for Petinka." I asked him if he had much money? "See here,"--and
the poor old man took out all his money, which was wrapped up in a
dirty scrap of ne