I cried, as I finished my story—’has left us, unnoticed, almost unappreciated! But that’s no great loss. What is the use of man’s appreciation? What pains me, what wounds me, is that such a man, with such a loving and devoted heart, is dead without having once known the bliss of love returned, without having awakened interest in one woman’s heart worthy of him!… Such as I may well know nothing of such happiness; we don’t deserve it; but Pasinkov!… And yet haven’t I met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare with him in any respect, who were loved? Must one believe that some faults in a man—conceit, for instance, or frivolity—are essential to gain a woman’s devotion? Or does love fear perfection, the perfection possible on earth, as something strange and terrible?’

Sophia Nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern, searching eyes off me, without moving her lips; only her eyebrows contracted from time to time.

‘What makes you suppose,’ she observed after a brief silence, ‘that no woman ever loved your friend?’

‘Because I know it, know it for a fact.’

Sophia Nikolaevna seemed about to say something, but she stopped. She seemed to be struggling with herself.

‘You are mistaken,’ she began at last; ‘I know a woman who loved your dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this day … and the news of his death will be a fearful blow for her.’

‘Who is this woman? may I know?’

‘My sister, Varia.’

‘Varvara Nikolaevna!’ I cried in amazement.

‘Yes.’

‘What? Varvara Nikolaevna?’ I repeated, ‘that…’

‘I will finish your sentence,’ Sophia Nikolaevna took me up; ‘that girl you thought so cold, so listless and indifferent, loved your friend; that is why she has never married and never will marry. Till this day no one has known of this but me; Varia would die before she would betray her secret. In our family we know how to suffer in silence.’

I looked long and intently at Sophia Nikolaevna, involuntarily pondering on the bitter significance of her last words.

‘You have surprised me,’ I observed at last. ‘But do you know, Sophia Nikolaevna, if I were not afraid of recalling disagreeable memories, I might surprise you too….’

‘I don’t understand you,’ she rejoined slowly, and with some embarrassment.

‘You certainly don’t understand me,’ I said, hastily getting up; ‘and so allow me, instead of verbal explanation, to send you something …’

‘But what is it?’ she inquired.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Sophia Nikolaevna, it’s nothing to do with me.’

I bowed, and went back to my room, took out the little silken bag I had taken off Pasinkov, and sent it to Sophia Nikolaevna with the following note—

‘This my friend wore always on his breast and died with it on him. In it is the only note you ever wrote him, quite insignificant in its contents; you can read it. He wore it because he loved you passionately; he confessed it to me only the day before his death. Now, when he is dead, why should you not know that his heart too was yours?’

Elisei returned quickly and brought me back the relic.

‘Well?’ I queried; ‘didn’t she send any message?’

‘No.’

I was silent for a little.

‘Did she read my note?’

‘No doubt she did; the maid took it to her.’

‘Unapproachable,’ I thought, remembering Pasinkov’s last words. ‘All right, you can go,’ I said aloud.

Elisei smiled somewhat queerly and did not go.

‘There’s a girl …’ he began, ‘here to see you.’

‘What girl?’

Elisei hesitated.

‘Didn’t my master say anything to you?’

‘No…. What is it?’

‘When my master was in Novgorod,’ he went on, fingering the door-post, ‘he made acquaintance, so to say, with a girl. So here is this girl, wants to see you. I met her the other day in the street. I said to her, «Come along; if the master allows it, I’ll let you see him.»

‘Ask her in, ask her in, of course. But … what is she like?’

‘An ordinary girl… working class… Russian.’

‘Did Yakov Ivanitch care for her?’

‘Well, yes … he was fond of her. And she…when she heard my master was dead, she was terribly upset. She’s a good sort of girl.’

‘Ask her in, ask her in.’

Elisei went out and at once came back. He was followed by a girl in a striped cotton gown, with a dark kerchief on her head, that half hid her face. On seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away.

‘What’s the matter?’ Elisei said to her; ‘go on, don’t be afraid.’

I went up to her and took her by the hand.

‘What is your name?’ I asked her.

‘Masha,’ she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me.

She looked about two- or three-and-twenty; she had a round, rather simple-looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and very pretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed.

‘You knew Yakov Ivanitch?’ I pursued.

‘I used to know him,’ she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief, and the tears stood in her eyes.

I asked her to sit down.

She sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation of ceremony. Elisei went out.

‘You became acquainted with him in Novgorod?’

‘Yes, in Novgorod,’ she answered, clasping her hands under her kerchief. ‘I only heard the day before yesterday, from Elisei Timofeitch, of his death. Yakov Ivanitch, when he went away to Siberia, promised to write to me, and twice he did write, and then he wrote no more. I would have followed him out to Siberia, but he didn’t wish it.’

‘Have you relations in Novgorod?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you live with them?’

‘I used to live with mother and my married sister; but afterwards mother was cross with me, and my sister was crowded up, too; she has a lot of children: and so I moved. I always rested my hopes on Yakov Ivanitch, and longed for nothing but to see him, and he was always good to me—you can ask Elisei Timofeitch.’

Masha paused.

‘I have his letters,’ she went on. ‘Here, look.’ She took several letters out of her pocket, and handed them to me. ‘Read them,’ she added.

I opened one letter and recognised Pasinkov’s hand.

‘Dear Masha!’ (he wrote in large, distinct letters) ‘you leaned your little head against my head yesterday, and when I asked why you do so, you told me—»I want to hear what you are thinking.» I’ll tell you what I was thinking; I was thinking how nice it would be for Masha to learn to read and write! She could make out this letter …’

Masha glanced at the letter.

‘That he wrote me in Novgorod,’ she observed, ‘when he was just going to teach me to read. Look at the others. There’s one from Siberia. Here, read this.’

I read the letters. They were very affectionate, even tender. In one of them, the first one from Siberia, Pasinkov called Masha his best friend, promised to send her the money for the journey to Siberia, and ended with the following words—’I kiss your pretty little hands; the girls here have not hands like yours; and their heads are no match for yours, nor their hearts either…. Read the books I gave you, and think of me, and I’ll not forget you. You are the only, only girl that ever cared for me; and so I want to belong only to you….’

‘I see he was very much attached to you,’ I said, giving the letters back to her.

‘He was very fond of me,’ replied Masha, putting the letters carefully into her pocket, and the tears flowed slowly down her cheeks. ‘I always trusted in him; if the Lord had vouchsafed him long life, he would not have abandoned me. God grant him His heavenly peace!’…

She wiped her eyes with a corner of her kerchief.

‘Where are you living now?’ I inquired.

‘I’m here now, in Moscow; I came here with my mistress, but now I’m out of a place. I did go to Yakov Ivanitch’s aunt, but she is very poor herself. Yakov Ivanitch used often to talk of you,’ she added, getting up and bowing; ‘he always loved you and thought of you. I met Elisei Timofeitch the day before yesterday, and wondered whether you wouldn’t be willing to assist me, as I’m out of a place just now….’

‘With the greatest pleasure, Maria … let me ask, what’s your name from your father?’

‘Petrovna,’ answered Masha, and she cast down her eyes.

‘I will do anything for you I can, Maria Petrovna,’ I continued; ‘I am only sorry that I am a visitor here, and know few good families.’

Masha sighed.

‘If I could get a situation of some sort … I can’t cut out, but I can sew, so I’m always doing sewing … and I can look after children too.’

‘Give her money,’ I thought; ‘but how’s one to do it?’

‘Listen, Maria Petrovna,’ I began, not without faltering; ‘you must, please, excuse me, but you know from Pasinkov’s own words what a friend of his I was … won’t you allow me to offer you—for the immediate present—a small sum?’ …

Masha glanced at me.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Aren’t you in want of money?’ I said.

Masha flushed all over and hung her head.

‘What do I want with money?’ she murmured; ‘better get me a situation.’

‘I will try to get you a situation, but I can’t answer for it for certain; but you ought not to make any scruple, really … I’m not like a stranger to you, you know…. Accept this from me, in memory of our friend….’

I turned away, hurriedly pulled a few notes out of my pocket-book, and handed them to her.

Masha was standing motionless, her head still more downcast.

‘Take it,’ I persisted.

She slowly raised her