By Maxim Gorky
An acquaintance of mine once told me the following story.
When I was a student at Moscow I happened to livealongside one of those ladies whose repute is questionable.
She was a Pole， and they called her Teresa. She was a tallish，powerfully-built brunette， with black， bushy eyebrows anda large coarse face as if carved out by a hatchet—the bestialgleam of her dark eyes， her thick bass voice， her cabman-likegait and her immense muscular vigour， worthy of a fishwife，inspired me with horror. I lived on the top flight and hergarret was opposite to mine. I never left my door open whenI knew her to be at home. But this， after all， was a very rareoccurrence. Sometimes I chanced to meet her on the staircaseor in the yard， and she would smile upon me with a smilewhich seemed to me to be sly and cynical. Occasionally， I sawher drunk， with bleary eyes， tousled hair， and a particularlyhideous grin. On such occasions she would speak to me.
“How d’ye do， Mr. Student！” and her stupid laugh wouldstill further intensify my loathing of her. I should have likedto have changed my quarters in order to have avoided suchencounters and greetings； but my little chamber was a niceone， and there was such a wide view from the window， and itwas always so quiet in the street below—so I endured.
And one morning I was sprawling on my couch， trying tofind some sort of excuse for not attending my class， whenthe door opened， and the bass voice of Teresa the loathsomeresounded from my threshold：
“Good health to you， Mr. Student！”
“What do you want？” I said. I saw that her face wasconfused and supplicatory… It was a very unusual sort of facefor her.
“Sir！ I want to beg a favour of you. Will you grant it me？”
I lay there silent， and thought to myself：
“Gracious！… Courage， my boy！”
“I want to send a letter home， that’s what it is，” she said； hervoice was beseeching， soft， timid.
“Deuce take you！” I thought； but up I jumped， sat down atmy table， took a sheet of paper， and said：
“Come here， sit down， and dictate！”
She came， sat down very gingerly on a chair， and looked atme with a guilty look.
“Well， to whom do you want to write？”
“To Boleslav Kashput， at the town of Svieptziana， on theWarsaw Road…”
“Well， fire away！”
“My dear Boles … my darling … my faithful lover. May theMother of God protect thee！ Thou heart of gold， why hast thounot written for such a long time to thy sorrowing little dove，Teresa？”
I very nearly burst out laughing. “A sorrowing little dove！”
more than five feet high， with fists a stone and more in weight，and as black a face as if the little dove had lived all its life in achimney， and had never once washed itself！ Restraining myselfsomehow， I asked：
“Who is this Bolest？”
“Boles， Mr. Student，” she said， as if offended with me forblundering over the name， “he is Boles—my young man.”
“Young man！”
“Why are you so surprised， sir？ Cannot I， a girl， have ayoung man？”
She？ A girl？ Well！
“Oh， why not？” I said. “All things are possible. And has hebeen your young man long？”
“Six years.”
“Oh， ho！” I thought. “Well， let us write your letter…”
And I tell you plainly that I would willingly have changedplaces with this Boles if his fair correspondent had been notTeresa but something less than she.
“I thank you most heartily， sir， for your kind services，” saidTeresa to me， with a curtsey. “Perhaps I can show you someservice， eh？”
“No， I most humbly thank you all the same.”
“Perhaps， sir， your shirts or your trousers may want a littlemending？”
I felt that this mastodon in petticoats had made me growquite red with shame， and I told her pretty sharply that I had noneed whatever of her services.
She departed.
A week or two passed away. It was evening. I was sittingat my window whistling and thinking of some expedient forenabling me to get away from myself. I was bored； the weatherwas dirty. I didn’t want to go out， and out of sheer ennui Ibegan a course of self-analysis and reflection. This also wasdull enough work， but I didn’t care about doing anything else.
Then the door opened. Heaven be praised！ Some one came in.
“Oh， Mr. Student， you have no pressing business， I hope？”
It was Teresa. Humph！
“No. What is it？”
“I was going to ask you， sir， to write me another letter.”
“Very well！ To Boles， eh？”
“No， this time it is from him.”
“Wha-at？”
“Stupid that I am！ It is not for me， Mr. Student， I beg yourpardon. It is for a friend of mine， that is to say， not a friend butan acquaintance—a man acquaintance. He has a sweetheartjust like me here， Teresa. That’s how it is. Will you， sir， write aletter to this Teresa？”
I looked at her—her face was troubled， her fingers weretrembling. I was a bit fogged at first—and then I guessed howit was.
“Look here， my lady，” I said， “there are no Boleses orTeresas at all， and you’ve been telling me a pack of lies. Don’tyou come sneaking about me any longer. I have no wishwhatever to cultivate your acquaintance. Do you understand？”