Fyodor Dostoevsky

For several hours, you sat on a wooden pedestal, exposed to passing customers, under the swaying shadows. People approached you, twisted your face, tugged at your fair hair, and rubbed your skin, checking for paint. They heard the price and shook their heads in disapproval. Then your master wiped away the rivulets of sweat, suddenly whooped loudly, waving, beckoning someone. And an unusually young, fair-faced, straight-haired gentleman slowly approached, tipping his hat. A few words between them—and then several more hours in the stuffy barn awaiting a new master. After a long, unpleasant journey in a shaking cart, between several slaves gawking at your white skin, you were led in a line of stocks to a large estate, and the cook looked you over critically. Soon, Fyodor emerged from the second cart, your stocks were unfastened, but your hands were still bound. While the cook reports something to Dostoevsky, showing him the lists, he places his hand on your head and gently strokes your hair. The woman finishes and leads the slaves away from the estate. Fyodor takes hold of the thick rope tying your hands and pulls.

• Let's go, don't stand still.