ives me some now and then. He knows that. Consequently, he will see
what use I have made of my money, and he will know that I have done
this for his sake alone."...

"Well, yes," he said, after thinking it over, "yes! That will be very
fine, that would be very fine indeed,--only, what are you going to
do, Varvara Alexievna?"--"Why, I shall not give anything."--"What!"
cried the old man almost in terror; "so you will not give Petinka
anything, so you do not wish to give him anything?" He was alarmed. At
that moment it seemed as though he were ready to relinquish his own
suggestions, so that I might have something to give his son. He was a
kind-hearted old man! I explained that I would be glad to give
something, only I did not wish to deprive him of the pleasure.

* * * * *

On the festive day he made his appearance at precisely eleven o'clock,
straight from the mass, in his dress coat, decently patched, and
actually in a new waistcoat and new boots. We were all sitting in the
hall with Anna Feodorovna, and drinking coffee (it was Sunday). The
old man began, I believe, by saying that Pushkin was a good poet; then
he lost the thread of his discourse and got confused, and suddenly
jumped to the assertion that a man must behave well, and that if he
does not behave himself well, then it simply means that he indulges
himself; he even cited several terrible examples of intemperance, and
wound up by stating that for some time past he had been entirely a
reformed character, and that he now behaved with perfect propriety.
That even earlier he had recognized the justice of his son's
exhortations, and had treasured them all in his heart, and had
actually begun to be sober. In proof of which he now presented these
books, which had been purchased with money which he had been hoarding
up for a long time.

I could not refrain from tears and laughter, as I listened to the poor
old fellow; he knew well how to lie when the occasion demanded! The
books were taken to Pokrovsky's room and placed on the shelf.
Pokrovsky immediately divined the truth.

* * * * *

Pokrovsky fell ill, two months after the events which I have described
above. During those two months he had striven incessantly for the
means of existence, for up to that time he had never had a settled
position. Like all consumptives, he bade farewell only with his last
breath to the hope of a very long life.... Ann