We began to send each other love letters, full of passionate avowals of love. I was always fond of music, and Irena used to play enchantingly upon the clavichord, and would sing in a lovely voice pieces from Glück, Bach, and Handel. We met often. In this way the summer passed. Ah! dear and never-to-be-forgotten days! Unfortunately, one of my letters fell into the hands of Irena’s father. Was Rakitin too stern with his daughter, or did he talk her over, and so persuade her to give me up, to change me for another?… I know not; it is all too painful for me even to try to remember. It was autumn, and, as I well recollect, a praznik (holiday); we were preparing for church, when suddenly we heard a carriage drive into our yard. A footman in splendid livery came forward, and placed in my grandmother’s hands a packet which he had brought for her. My heart throbbed; my presentiments were fulfilled: Irena’s father had sent a firm and decided refusal to my suit. “MATUSHKA[5] AGRAFFENA VLASSOVNA,-- “Your Pavel Efstafevitch[6] is worthy in every way, but he is not a fit husband for my daughter; and it is useless for him to send love letters to her. Let him not be offended; we always were and always shall be friends. My earnest hope is that your godson and grandchild may find another bride, a hundred times more suitable than my daughter.” That letter moved me deeply. The light of heaven seemed extinguished: all that was dearest to me was lost; all my happiness ruined. Proud, rich, and related to the Razoumovskis, Rakitin mercilessly scorned the poor suitor, who also was of noble blood; yea, of nobler blood perhaps than Rakitin’s own. His pride in his distinguished relatives, who had been favourites of the late empress, had hardened his heart. Often had I heard Irena addressed by her father as the future Fräulein (maid of honour).