And suddenly she grew strangely terrified and distraught；she began to shift from foot to foot without moving fromthe place， and spluttered comically， as if she wanted to saysomething and couldn’t. I waited to see what would come ofall this， and I saw and felt that， apparently， I had made a greatmistake in suspecting her of wishing to draw me from the pathof righteousness. It was evidently something very different.
“Mr. Student！” she began， and suddenly， waving her hand，she turned abruptly towards the door and went out. I remainedwith a very unpleasant feeling in my mind. I listened. Herdoor was flung violently to—plainly the poor wench wasvery angry… I thought it over， and resolved to go to her， and，inviting her to come in here， write everything she wanted.
I entered her apartment. I looked round. She was sitting atthe table， leaning on her elbows， with her head in her hands.
“Listen to me，” I said.
Now， whenever I come to this point in my story， I alwaysfeel horribly awkward and idiotic. Well， well！
“Listen to me，” I said.
She leaped from her seat， came towards me with flashingeyes， and laying her hands on my shoulders， began to whisper，or rather to hum in her peculiar bass voice：
“Look you， now！ It’s like this. There’s no Boles at all， andthere’s no Teresa either. But what’s that to you？ Is it a hardthing for you to draw your pen over paper？ Eh？ Ah， and you，too！ Still such a little fair-haired boy！ There’s nobody at all，neither Boles， nor Teresa， only me. There you have it， andmuch good may it do you！”
“Pardon me！” said I， altogether flabbergasted by such areception， “what is it all about？ There’s no Boles， you say？”
“No. So it is.”
“And no Teresa either？”
“And no Teresa. I’m Teresa.”
I didn’t understand it at all. I fixed my eyes upon her， andtried to make out which of us was taking leave of his or hersenses. But she went again to the table， searched about forsomething， came back to me， and said in an offended tone：
“If it was so hard for you to write to Boles， look， there’s yourletter， take it！ Others will write for me.”
I looked. In her hand was my letter to Boles. Phew！
“Listen， Teresa！ What is the meaning of all this？ Why mustyou get others to write for you when I have already written it，and you haven’t sent it？”
“Sent it where？”
“Why， to this—Boles.”
“There’s no such person.”
I absolutely did not understand it. There was nothing for mebut to spit and go. Then she explained.
“What is it？” she said， still offended. “There’s no suchperson， I tell you，” and she extended her arms as if she herselfdid not understand why there should be no such person. “ButI wanted him to be… Am I then not a human creature likethe rest of them？ Yes， yes， I know， I know， of course… Yetno harm was done to any one by my writing to him that I cansee…”
“Pardon me—to whom？”
“To Boles， of course.”
“But he doesn’t exist.”
“Alas！ alas！ But what if he doesn’t？ He doesn’t exist， buthe might！I write to him， and it looks as if he did exist. AndTeresa—that’s me， and he replies to me， and then I write tohim again…”
I understood at last. And I felt so sick， so miserable， soashamed， somehow. Alongside of me， not three yards away，lived a human creature who had nobody in the world to treather kindly， affectionately， and this human being had invented afriend for herself！
“Look， now！ you wrote me a letter to Boles， and I gave itto some one else to read it to me； and when they read it tome I listened and fancied that Boles was there. And I askedyou to write me a letter from Boles to Teresa—that is to me.
When they write such a letter for me， and read it to me， I feelquite sure that Boles is there. And life grows easier for me inconsequence.”
“Deuce take you for a blockhead！” said I to myself when Iheard this.
And from thenceforth， regularly， twice a week， I wrote aletter to Boles， and an answer from Boles to Teresa. I wrotethose answers well… She， of course， listened to them， andwept like anything， roared， I should say， with her bass voice.
And in return for my thus moving her to tears by real lettersfrom the imaginary Boles， she began to mend the holes I had inmy socks， shirts， and other articles of clothing. Subsequently，about three months after this history began， they put her inprison for something or other. No doubt by this time she isdead.
My acquaintance shook the ash from his cigarette， lookedpensively up at the sky， and thus concluded：
Well， well， the more a human creature has tasted of bitterthings the more it hungers after the sweet things of life. Andwe， wrapped round in the rags of our virtues， and regardingothers through the mist of our self-sufficiency， and persuadedof our universal impeccability， do not understand this.
And the whole thing turns out pretty stupidly—and verycruelly. The fallen classes， we say. And who are the fallenclasses， I should like to know？ They are， first of all， peoplewith the same bones， flesh， and blood and nerves as ourselves.
We have been told this day after day for ages. And we actuallylisten—and the devil only knows how hideous the whole thingis. Or are we completely depraved by the loud sermonising ofhumanism？ In reality， we also are fallen folks， and， so far asI can see， very deeply fallen into the abyss of self-sufficiencyand the conviction of our own superiority. But enough of this.
It is all as old as the hills—so old that it is a shame to speak ofit. Very old indeed—yes， that’s what it is！