I BEGAN to feel more and more lonely, until my chief lay in reflection and observation. Of the favourite subject of my reflections I shall speak in the next chapter. The scene where I indulged in them was, for preference, the maidservants’ room, where a plot suitable for a novel was in progress—a plot which touched and me to the highest degree. The heroine of the romance was, of course, Masha. She was in love with Basil, who had known her before she had become a servant in our house, and who had promised to marry her some day. Unfortunately, fate, which had separated them five years ago, and afterwards reunited them in Grandmamma’s , next proceeded to interpose an obstacle between them in the shape of Masha’s uncle, our man Nicola, who would not hear of his niece marrying that “uneducated and fellow,” as he called Basil. One effect of the obstacle had been to make the otherwise slightly cool and indifferent Basil fall as in love with Masha as it is possible for a man to be who is only a servant and a tailor, wears a red shirt, and has his hair pomaded. Although his methods of expressing his affection were odd (for instance, whenever he met Masha he always endeavoured to upon her some bodily pain, either by pinching her, giving her a slap with his open hand, or squeezing her so hard that she could scarcely breathe), that affection was sincere enough, and he proved it by the fact that, from the moment when Nicola refused him his niece’s hand, his grief led him to drinking, and to frequenting , until he proved so unruly that more than once he had to be sent to undergo a humiliating at the police-station.  
Nevertheless, these faults of his and their consequences only served to elevate him in Masha’s eyes, and to increase her love for him. Whenever he was in the hands of the police, she would sit crying the whole day, and complain to Gasha of her hard fate (Gasha played an active part in the affairs of these unfortunate lovers). Then, regardless of her uncle’s anger and blows, she would stealthily make her way to the police-station, there to visit and console her swain.
 
Excuse me, reader, for introducing you to such company. Nevertheless, if the cords of love and have not wholly snapped in your soul, you will find, even in that maidservants’ room, something which may cause them to vibrate again.
 
So, whether you please to follow me or not, I will return to the on the staircase whence I was able to observe all that passed in that room. From my post I could see the stove-couch, with, upon it, an iron, an old cap-stand with its , a wash-tub, and a basin. There, too, was the window, with, in fine before it, a piece of black wax, some fragments of silk, a half-eaten cucumber, a box of sweets, and so on. There, too, was the large table at which SHE used to sit in the pink cotton dress which I admired so much and the blue handkerchief which always caught my attention so. She would be sewing-though interrupting her work at to scratch her head a little, to bite the end of her thread, or to snuff the candle—and I would think to myself: “Why was she not born a lady—she with her blue eyes, beautiful fair hair, and magnificent ? How splendid she would look if she were sitting in a drawing-room and dressed in a cap with pink ribbons and a silk gown—not one like Mimi’s, but one like the gown which I saw the other day on the Tverski Boulevard!” Yes, she would work at the embroidery-frame, and I would sit and look at her in the mirror, and be ready to do she wanted—to help her on with her or to hand her food. As for Basil’s drunken face and figure in the coat with the red shirt showing beneath it, well, in his every gesture, in his every movement of his back, I seemed always to see signs of the humiliating chastisements which he had undergone.
 
“Ah, Basil! AGAIN?” cried Masha on one occasion as she stuck her needle into the pincushion, but without looking up at the person who was entering.
 
“What is the good of a man like HIM?” was Basil’s first remark.
 
“Yes. If only he would say something DECISIVE! But I am powerless in the matter—I am all at and ends, and through his fault, too.”
 
“Will you have some tea?” put in Madesha (another servant).
 
“No, thank you.—But why does he hate me so, that old thief of an uncle of yours? Why? Is it because of the clothes I wear, or of my height, or of my walk, or what? Well, damn and confound him!” finished Basil, snapping his fingers.
 
“We must be patient,” said Masha, threading her needle.
 
“You are so—”
 
“It is my nerves that won&rs............