My dearest Barbara Alexievna ⁠—To think that a day like this should have fallen to my miserable lot! Surely you are making fun of an old man?⁠ ⁠… However, it was my own fault⁠—my own fault entirely. One ought not to grow old holding a lock of Cupid’s hair in one’s hand. Naturally one is misunderstood.⁠ ⁠… Yet man is sometimes a very strange being. By all the Saints, he will talk of doing things, yet leave them undone, and remain looking the kind of fool from whom may the Lord preserve us!⁠ ⁠… Nay, I am not angry, my beloved; I am only vexed to think that I should have written to you in such stupid, flowery phraseology. Today I went hopping and skipping to the office, for my heart was under your influence, and my soul was keeping holiday, as it were. Yes, everything seemed to be going well with me. Then I betook myself to my work. But with what result? I gazed around at the old familiar objects, at the old familiar grey and gloomy objects. They looked just the same as before. Yet were those the same inkstains, the same tables and chairs, that I had hitherto known? Yes, they were