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I beheld a woman of five-and-twenty,–belonging to the petty burgher class, to judge from her attire,–with a large kerchief on her head. Her face was simple, rather round in contour, not devoid of agreeability; her gaze was downcast and rather melancholy, her movements were embarrassed.

“Are you Madame Polteff?” I asked, inviting her to be seated.

“Just so, sir,” she answered, in a low voice, and without sitting down.–“I am the widow of your nephew, Mikhail Andreevitch Polteff.”

“Is Mikhail Andreevitch dead? Has he been dead long?–But sit down, I beg of you.”

She dropped down on a chair.

“This is the second month since he died.”

“And were you married to him long ago?”

“I lived with him one year in all.”

“And whence come you now?”

“I come from the vicinity of Tula…. There is a village there called Znamenskoe-Glushkovo–perhaps you deign to know it. I am the daughter of the sexton there. Mikhail Andreitch and I lived there…. He settled down with my father. We lived together a year in all.” The young woman’s lips twitched slightly, and she raised her hand to them. She seemed to be getting ready to cry, but conquered herself, and cleared her throat.

“The late Mikhail Andreitch, before his death,” she went on, “bade me go to you. ‘Be sure to go,’ he said. And he told me that I was to thank you for all your goodness, and transmit to you … this … trifle” (she drew from her pocket a small package), “which he always carried on his person…. And Mikhail Andreitch said, Wouldn’t you be so kind as to accept it in memory–that you must not scorn it…. ‘I have nothing else to give him,’ … meaning you … he said….”

In the packet was a small silver cup with the monogram of Mikhail’s mother. This tiny cup I had often seen in Mikhail’s hands; and once he had even said to me, in speaking of a pauper, that he must be stripped bare, since he had neither cup nor bowl, “while I have this here,” he said.

I thanked her, took the cup and inquired, “Of what malady did Mikhail Andreitch die?–Probably….”

Here I bit my tongue, but the young woman understood my unspoken thought…. She darted a swift glance at me, then dropped her eyes, smiled sadly, and immediately said, “Akh, no! He had abandoned that entirely from the time he made my acquaintance…. Only, what health had he?!… It was utterly ruined. As soon as he gave up drinking, his malady immediately manifested itself. He became so steady, he was always wanting to help my father, either in the household affairs, or in the vegetable garden … or whatever other work happened to be on hand … in spite of the fact that he was of noble birth. Only, where was he to get the strength?… And he would have liked to busy himself in the department of writing also,–he knew how to do that beautifully, as you are aware; but his hands shook so, and he could not hold the pen properly…. He was always reproaching himself: ‘I’m an idle dog,’ he said. ‘I have done no one any good, I have helped no one, I have not toiled!’ He was very much afflicted over that same…. He used to say, ‘Our people toil, but what are we doing?…’ Akh, Nikolai Nikolaitch, he was a fine man–and he loved me … and I…. Akh, forgive me….”

Here the young woman actually burst into tears. I would have liked to comfort her, but I did not know how.

“Have you a baby?” I asked at last.

She sighed.–“No, I have not…. How could I have?”–And here tears streamed worse than before.

So this was the end of Misha’s wanderings through tribulations [old P. concluded his story].–You will agree with me, gentlemen, as a matter of course, that I had a right to call him reckless; but you will probably also agree with me that he did not resemble the reckless fellows of the present day, although we must suppose that any philosopher would find traits of similarity between him and them. In both cases there is the thirst for self-annihilation, melancholy, dissatisfaction…. And what that springs from I will permit precisely that philosopher to decide.