Rataziaev has now promised to give me something really literary to read; so you shall soon have your book, my darling. He is a man who reflects; he is a clever fellow, as well as himself a writer--such a writer! His pen glides along with ease, and in such a style (even when he is writing the most ordinary, the most insignificant of articles) that I have often remarked upon the fact, both to Phaldoni and to Theresa. Often, too, I go to spend an evening with him. He reads aloud to us until five o’clock in the morning, and we listen to him. It is a revelation of things rather than a reading. It is charming, it is like a bouquet of flowers--there is a bouquet of flowers in every line of each page. Besides, he is such an approachable, courteous, kind-hearted fellow! What am I compared with him? Why, nothing, simply nothing! He is a man of reputation, whereas I--well, I do not exist at all. Yet he condescends to my level. At this very moment I am copying out a document for him. But you must not think that he finds any DIFFICULTY in condescending to me, who am only a copyist. No, you must not believe the base gossip that you may hear. I do copying work for him simply in order to please myself, as well as that he may notice me--a thing that always gives me pleasure. I appreciate the delicacy of his position. He is a good--a very good--man, and an unapproachable writer. What a splendid thing is literature, Barbara--what a splendid thing! This I learnt before I had known Rataziaev even for three days. It strengthens and instructs the heart of man.... No matter what there be in the world, you will find it all written down in Rataziaev’s works. And so well written down, too! Literature is a sort of picture--a sort of picture or mirror. It connotes at once passion, expression, fine criticism, good learning, and a document. Yes, I have learned this from Rataziaev himself. I can assure you, Barbara, that if only you could be sitting among us, and listening to the talk (while, with the rest of us, you smoked a pipe), and were to hear those present begin to argue and dispute concerning different matters, you would feel of as little account among them as I do; for I myself figure there only as a blockhead, and feel ashamed, since it takes me a whole evening to think of a single word to interpolate--and even then the word will not come! In a case like that a man regrets that, as the proverb has it, he should have reached man’s estate but not man’s understanding.... What do I do in my spare time? I sleep like a fool, though I would far rather be occupied with something else--say, with eating or writing, since the one is useful to oneself, and the other is beneficial to one’s fellows. You should see how much money these fellows contrive to save! How much, for instance, does not Rataziaev lay by? A few days’ writing, I am told, can earn him as much as three hundred roubles! Indeed, if a man be a writer