And I resolved to wait and be patient. Alas!
what would I not have agreed to, what would I not
have borne, simply to do his will! That letter
became my holy thing, my guiding star, my anchor.
Sometimes when my stepfather would begin abusing and
insulting me, I would softly lay my hand on my bosom
(I wore Michel’s letter sewed into an amulet)
and only smile. And the more violent and abusive
was Mr. Ratsch, the easier, lighter, and sweeter was
the heart within me.... I used to see, at last,
by his eyes, that he began to wonder whether I was
going out of my mind.... Following on this first
letter came a second, still more full of hope....
It spoke of our meeting soon.
Alas! instead of that meeting there came a morning...
I can see Mr. Ratsch coming in—and triumph
again, malignant triumph, in his face—and
in his hands a page of the Invalid, and there
the announcement of the death of the Captain of the
Guards—Mihail Koltovsky.
What can I add? I remained alive, and went on
living in Mr. Ratsch’s house. He hated
me as before—more than before—he
had unmasked his black soul too much before me, he
could not pardon me that. But that was of no
consequence to me. I became, as it were, without
feeling; my own fate no longer interested me.
To think of him, to think of him! I had no interest,
no joy, but that. My poor Michel died with my
name on his lips.... I was told so by a servant,
devoted to him, who had been with him when he came
into the country. The same year my stepfather
married Eleonora Karpovna. Semyon Matveitch died
shortly after. In his will he secured to me and
increased the pension he had allowed me.... In
the event of my death, it was to pass to Mr. Ratsch....
Two—three—years passed... six
years, seven years.... Life has been passing,
ebbing away... while I merely watched how it was ebbing.
As in childhood, on some river’s edge one makes
a little pond and dams it up, and tries in all sorts
of ways to keep the water from soaking through, from
breaking in. But at last the water breaks in,
and then you abandon all your vain efforts, and you
are glad instead to watch all that you had guarded
ebbing away to the last drop....
So I lived, so I existed, till at last a new, unhoped-for
ray of warmth and light....’
The manuscript broke off at this word; the following
leaves had been torn off, and several lines completing
the sentence had been crossed through and blotted
out.
The reading of this manuscript so upset me, the impression
made by Susanna’s visit was so great, that I
could not sleep all night, and early in the morning
I sent an express messenger to Fustov with a letter,
in which I besought him to come to Moscow as soon as
possible, as his absence might have the most terrible
results. I mentioned also my interview with Susanna,
and the manuscript she had left in my hands.
