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Childhood

By Leo Tolstoy

April, 2000  [Etext #2142]


The Project Gutenberg Etext of Childhood, by Leo Tolstoy/Tolstoi
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Scanning and first proofing by Martin Adamson
martin@grassmarket.freeserve.co.uk





Childhood

By Leo Tolstoy

Translated by CJ Hogarth




I

THE TUTOR, KARL IVANITCH

On the 12th of August, 18-- (just three days after my tenth 
birthday, when I had been given such wonderful presents), I was 
awakened at seven o'clock in the morning by Karl Ivanitch 
slapping the wall close to my head with a fly-flap made of sugar 
paper and a stick. He did this so roughly that he hit the image 
of my patron saint suspended to the oaken back of my bed, and the 
dead fly fell down on my curls. I peeped out from under the 
coverlet, steadied the still shaking image with my hand, flicked 
the dead fly on to the floor, and gazed at Karl Ivanitch with 
sleepy, wrathful eyes. He, in a parti-coloured wadded dressing-
gown fastened about the waist with a wide belt of the same 
material, a red knitted cap adorned with a tassel, and soft 
slippers of goat skin, went on walking round the walls and taking 
aim at, and slapping, flies.

"Suppose," I thought to myself," that I am only a small boy, 
yet why should he disturb me? Why does he not go killing flies 
around Woloda's bed? No; Woloda is older than I, and I am the 
youngest of the family, so he torments me. That is what he thinks 
of all day long--how to tease me. He knows very well that he has 
woken me up and frightened me, but he pretends not to notice it. 
Disgusting brute! And his dressing-gown and cap and tassel too--
they are all of them disgusting."

While I was thus inwardly venting my wrath upon Karl Ivanitch, he 
had passed to his own bedstead, looked at his watch (which hung 
suspended in a little shoe sewn with bugles), and deposited the 
fly-flap on a nail, then, evidently in the most cheerful mood 
possible, he turned round to us.

"Get up, children! It is quite time, and your mother is already 
in the drawing-room," he exclaimed in his strong German accent. 
Then he crossed over to me, sat down at my feet, and took his 
snuff-box out of his pocket. I pretended to be asleep. Karl 
Ivanitch sneezed, wiped his nose, flicked his fingers, and began 
amusing himself by teasing me and tickling my toes as he said 
with a smile, "Well, well, little lazy one!"

For all my dread of being tickled, I determined not to get out of 
bed or to answer him,. but hid my head deeper in the pillow, 
kicked out with all my strength, and strained every nerve to keep 
from laughing.

"How kind he is, and how fond of us!" I thought to myself,
Yet to think that I could be hating him so just now!"

I felt angry, both with myself and with Karl Ivanitch, I wanted 
to laugh and to cry at the same time, for my nerves were all on 
edge.

"Leave me alone, Karl!" I exclaimed at length, with tears in my 
eyes, as I raised my head from beneath the bed-clothes.

Karl Ivanitch was taken aback, He left off tickling my feet, and 
asked me kindly what the matter was, Had I had a disagreeable 
dream? His good German face and the sympathy with which he sought 
to know the cause of my tears made them flow the faster. I felt 
conscience-stricken, and could not understand how, only a minute 
ago, I had been hating Karl, and thinking his dressing-gown and 
cap and tassel disgusting. On the contrary, they looked eminently 
lovable now. Even the tassel seemed another token of his 
goodness. I replied that I was crying because I had had a bad 
dream, and had seen Mamma dead and being buried. Of course it was 
a mere invention, since I did not remember having dreamt anything 
at all that night, but the truth was that Karl's sympathy as he 
tried to comfort and reassure me had gradually made me believe 
that I HAD dreamt such a horrible dream, and so weep the more--
though from a different cause to the one he imagined

When Karl Ivanitch had left me, I sat up in bed and proceeded to 
draw my stockings over my little feet. The tears had quite dried 
now, yet the mournful thought of the invented dream was still 
haunting me a little. Presently Uncle [This term is often applied 
by children to old servants in Russia] Nicola came in--a neat 
little man who was always grave, methodical, and respectful, as 
well as a great friend of Karl's, He brought with him our 
clothes and boots--at least, boots for Woloda, and for myself the 
old detestable, be-ribanded shoes. In his presence I felt ashamed 
to cry, and, moreover, the morning sun was shining so gaily 
through the window, and Woloda, standing at the washstand as he 
mimicked Maria Ivanovna (my sister's governess), was laughing so 
loud and so long, that even the serious Nicola--a towel over his 
shoulder, the soap in one hand, and the basin in the other--could 
not help smiling as he said, "Will you please let me wash you, 
Vladimir Petrovitch?" I had cheered up completely.

"Are you nearly ready?" came Karl's voice from the schoolroom. 
The tone of that voice sounded stern now, and had nothing in it of 
the kindness which had just touched me so much. In fact, in the 
schoolroom Karl was altogether a different man from what he was 
at other times. There he was the tutor. I washed and dressed 
myself hurriedly, and, a brush still in my hand as I smoothed my 
wet hair, answered to his call.  Karl, with spectacles on nose 
and a book in his hand, was sitting, as usual, between the door 
and one of the windows. To the left of the door were two shelves--
one of them the children's (that is to say, ours), and the other 
one Karl's own. Upon ours were heaped all sorts of books--lesson 
books and play books--some standing up and some lying down. The 
only two standing decorously against the wall were two large 
volumes of a Histoire des Voyages, in red binding. On that shelf 
could be seen books thick and thin and books large and small, as 
well as covers without books and books without covers, since 
everything got crammed up together anyhow when play time arrived 
and we were told to put the "library" (as Karl called these 
shelves) in order The collection of books on his own shelf was, 
if not so numerous as ours, at least more varied. Three of them 
in particular I remember, namely, a German pamphlet (minus a 
cover) on Manuring Cabbages in Kitchen-Gardens, a History of the 
Seven Years' War (bound in parchment and burnt at one corner), 
and a Course of Hydrostatics. Though Karl passed so much of his 
time in reading that he had injured his sight by doing so, he 
never read anything beyond these books and The Northern Bee.

Another article on Karl's shelf I remember well. This was a 
round piece of cardboard fastened by a screw to a wooden stand, 
with a sort of comic picture of a lady and a hairdresser glued to 
the cardboard. Karl was very clever at fixing pieces of cardboard 
together, and had devised this contrivance for shielding his weak 
eyes from any very strong light.

I can see him before me now--the tall figure in its wadded 
dressing-gown and red cap (a few grey hairs visible beneath the 
latter) sitting beside the table; the screen with the 
hairdresser shading his face; one hand holding a book, and the 
other one resting on the arm of the chair. Before him lie his 
watch, with a huntsman painted on the dial, a check cotton 
handkerchief, a round black snuff-box, and a green spectacle-
case, The neatness and orderliness of all these articles show 
clearly that Karl Ivanitch has a clear conscience and a quiet 
mind.

Sometimes, when tired of running about the salon downstairs, I 
would steal on tiptoe to the schoolroom and find Karl sitting 
alone in his armchair as, with a grave and quiet expression on 
his face, he perused one of his favourite books. Yet sometimes, 
also, there were moments when he was not reading, and when the 
spectacles had slipped down his large aquiline nose, and the 
blue, half-closed eyes and faintly smiling lips seemed to be 
gazing before them with a curious expression, All would be quiet 
in the room--not a sound being audible save his regular breathing 
and the ticking of the watch with the hunter painted on the dial. 
He would not see me, and I would stand at the door and think: 
"Poor, poor old man! There are many of us, and we can play 
together and be happy, but he sits there all alone, and has 
nobody to be fond of him. Surely he speaks truth when he says 
that he is an orphan. And the story of his life, too--how terrible 
it is! I remember him telling it to Nicola, How dreadful to be in 
his position!" Then I would feel so sorry for him that I would 
go to him, and take his hand, and say, "Dear Karl Ivanitch!" and 
he would be visibly delighted whenever I spoke to him like this, 
and would look much brighter.

On the second wall of the schoolroom hung some maps--mostly torn, 
but glued together again by Karl's hand. On the third wall (in 
the middle of which stood the door) hung, on one side of the 
door, a couple of rulers (one of them ours--much bescratched, and 
the other one his--quite a new one), with, on the further side of 
the door, a blackboard on which our more serious faults were 
marked by circles and our lesser faults by crosses. To the left 
of the blackboard was the corner in which we had to kneel when 
naughty. How well I remember that corner--the shutter on the 
stove, the ventilator above it, and the noise which it made when 
turned! Sometimes I would be made to stay in that corner till my 
back and knees were aching all over, and I would think to myself. 
"Has Karl Ivanitch forgotten me? He goes on sitting quietly in 
his arm-chair and reading his Hydrostatics, while I--!" Then, to 
remind him of my presence, I would begin gently turning the 
ventilator round. Or scratching some plaster off the wall; but if 
by chance an extra large piece fell upon the floor, the fright of 
it was worse than any punishment. I would glance round at Karl, 
but he would still be sitting there quietly, book in hand, and 
pretending that he had noticed nothing.

In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a torn 
black oilcloth so much cut about with penknives that the edge of 
the table showed through. Round the table stood unpainted chairs 
which, through use, had attained a high degree of polish. The 
fourth and last wall contained three windows, from the first of 
which the view was as follows, Immediately beneath it there ran a 
high road on which every irregularity, every pebble, every rut 
was known and dear to me. Beside the road stretched a row of 
lime-trees, through which glimpses could be caught of a wattled 
fence, with a meadow with farm buildings on one side of it and a 
wood on the other--the whole bounded by the keeper's hut at the 
further end of the meadow, The next window to the right 
overlooked the part of the terrace where the "grownups" of the 
family used to sit before luncheon. Sometimes, when Karl was 
correcting our exercises, I would look out of that window and see 
Mamma's dark hair and the backs of some persons with her, and 
hear the murmur of their talking and laughter. Then I would feel 
vexed that I could not be there too, and think to myself, "When 
am I going to be grown up, and to have no more lessons, but sit 
with the people whom I love instead of with these horrid 
dialogues in my hand?" Then my anger would change to sadness, 
and I would fall into such a reverie that I never heard Karl when 
he scolded me for my mistakes.

At last, on the morning of which I am speaking, Karl Ivanitch 
took off his dressing-gown, put on his blue frockcoat with its 
creased and crumpled shoulders, adjusted his tie before the 
looking-glass, and took us down to greet Mamma.

II

MAMMA

Mamma was sitting in the drawing-room and making tea. In one hand 
she was holding the tea-pot, while with the other one she was 
drawing water from the urn and letting it drip into the tray. 
Yet though she appeared to be noticing what she doing, in 
reality she noted neither this fact nor our entry.

However vivid be one's recollection of the past, any attempt to 
recall the features of a beloved being shows them to one's vision 
as through a mist of tears--dim and blurred. Those tears are the 
tears of the imagination. When I try to recall Mamma as she was 
then, I see, true, her brown eyes, expressive always of love and 
kindness, the small mole on her neck below where the small hairs 
grow, her white embroidered collar, and the delicate, fresh hand 
which so often caressed me, and which I so often kissed; but her 
general appearance escapes me altogether.

To the left of the sofa stood an English piano, at which my dark-
haired sister Lubotshka was sitting and playing with manifest 
effort (for her hands were rosy from a recent washing in cold 
water) Clementi's "Etudes." Then eleven years old, she was 
dressed in a short cotton frock and white lace-frilled trousers, 
and could take her octaves only in arpeggio. Beside her was 
sitting Maria Ivanovna, in a cap adorned with pink ribbons and a 
blue shawl, Her face was red and cross, and it assumed an 
expression even more severe when Karl Ivanitch entered the room. 
Looking angrily at him without answering his bow, she went on 
beating time with her foot and counting, " One, two, three--one, 
two, three," more loudly and commandingly than ever.

Karl Ivanitch paid no attention to this rudeness, but went, as 
usual, with German politeness to kiss Mamma's hand, She drew 
herself up, shook her head as though by the movement to chase 
away sad thoughts from her, and gave Karl her hand, kissing him 
on his wrinkled temple as he bent his head in salutation. 

"I thank you, dear Karl Ivanitch," she said in German, and then, 
still using the same language asked him how we (the children) had 
slept. Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and the added noise of 
the piano now prevented him from hearing anything at all. He 
moved nearer to the sofa, and, leaning one hand upon the table 
and lifting his cap above his head, said with, a smile which in 
those days always seemed to me the perfection of politeness: 
"You, will excuse me, will you not, Natalia Nicolaevna?"

The reason for this was that, to avoid catching cold, Karl never 
took off his red cap, but invariably asked permission, on 
entering the drawing-room, to retain it on his head.

"Yes, pray replace it, Karl Ivanitch," said Mamma, bending 
towards him and raising her voice, "But I asked you whether the 
children had slept well? "

Still he did not hear, but, covering his bald head again with the 
red cap, went on smiling more than ever,

"Stop a moment, Mimi." said Mamma (now smiling also) to Maria 
Ivanovna. "It is impossible to hear anything."

How beautiful Mamma's face was when she smiled! It made her so 
infinitely more charming, and everything around her seemed to 
grow brighter! If in the more painful moments of my life I could 
have seen that smile before my eyes, I should never have known 
what grief is. In my opinion, it is in the smile of a face that 
the essence of what we call beauty lies. If the smile heightens 
the charm of the face, then the face is a beautiful one. If the 
smile does not alter the face, then the face is an ordinary one. 
But if the smile spoils the face, then the face is an ugly one 
indeed.

Mamma took my head between her hands, bent it gently backwards, 
looked at me gravely, and said: "You have been crying this 
morning?"

I did not answer. She kissed my eyes, and said again in German: 
"Why did you cry?"

When talking to us with particular intimacy she always used this 
language, which she knew to perfection.

"I cried about a dream, Mamma" I replied, remembering the 
invented vision, and trembling involuntarily at the recollection.

Karl Ivanitch confirmed my words, but said nothing as to the 
subject of the dream. Then, after a little conversation on the 
weather, in which Mimi also took part, Mamma laid some lumps of 
sugar on the tray for one or two of the more privileged servants, 
and crossed over to her embroidery frame, which stood near one of 
the windows.

"Go to Papa now, children," she said, "and ask him to come to 
me before he goes to the home farm."

Then the music, the counting, and the wrathful looks from Mimi 
began again, and we went off to see Papa. Passing through the 
room which had been known ever since Grandpapa's time as "the 
pantry," we entered the study,

III

PAPA

He was standing near his writing-table, and pointing angrily to 
some envelopes, papers, and little piles of coin upon it as he 
addressed some observations to the bailiff, Jakoff Michaelovitch, 
who was standing in his usual place (that is to say, between the 
door and the barometer) and rapidly closing and unclosing the 
fingers of the hand which he held behind his back, The more angry 
Papa grew, the more rapidly did those fingers twirl, and when 
Papa ceased speaking they came to rest also. Yet, as soon as ever 
Jakoff himself began to talk, they flew here, there, and 
everywhere with lightning rapidity. These movements always 
appeared to me an index of Jakoff's secret thoughts, though his 
face was invariably placid, and expressive alike of dignity and 
submissiveness, as who should say, "I am right, yet let it be as 
you wish." On seeing us, Papa said, "Directly--wait a moment," 
and looked towards the door as a hint for it to be shut.

"Gracious heavens! What can be the matter with you to-day, 
Jakoff?" he went on with a hitch of one shoulder (a habit of 
his). "This envelope here with the 800 roubles enclosed,"--Jacob 
took out a set of tablets, put down "800" and remained looking 
at the figures while he waited for what was to come next--"is for 
expenses during my absence. Do you understand? From the mill you 
ought to receive 1000 roubles. Is not that so? And from the 
Treasury mortgage you ought to receive some 8000 roubles. From 
the hay--of which, according to your calculations, we shall be 
able to sell 7000 poods [The pood = 40 lbs.]at 45 copecks a piece 
there should come in 3000, Consequently the 
sum-total that you ought to have in hand soon is--how much?--12,000 
roubles. Is that right?"

"Precisely," answered Jakoff, Yet by the extreme rapidity with 
which his fingers were twitching I could see that he had an 
objection to make. Papa went on:

"Well, of this money you will send 10,000 roubles to the 
Petrovskoe local council, As for the money already at the office, 
you will remit it to me, and enter it as spent on this present 
date." Jakoff turned over the tablet marked "12,000," and put 
down "21,000"--seeming, by his action, to imply that 
12,000 roubles had been turned over in the same fashion as he had 
turned the tablet. "And this envelope with the enclosed money," 
concluded Papa, "you will deliver for me to the person to whom 
it is addressed."

I was standing close to the table, and could see the address. It 
was "To Karl Ivanitch Mayer." Perhaps Papa had an idea that I 
had read something which I ought not, for he touched my shoulder 
with his hand and made me aware, by a slight movement, that I 
must withdraw from the table. Not sure whether the movement was 
meant for a caress or a command, I kissed the large, sinewy hand 
which rested upon my shoulder.

"Very well," said Jakoff. "And what are your orders about the 
accounts for the money from Chabarovska?" (Chabarovska was 
Mamma's village.)

"Only that they are to remain in my office, and not to be taken 
thence without my express instructions."

For a minute or two Jakoff was silent. Then his fingers began to 
twitch with extraordinary rapidity, and, changing the expression 
of deferential vacancy with which he had listened to his orders 
for one of shrewd intelligence, he turned his tablets back and 
spoke.

"Will you allow me to inform you, Peter Alexandritch," he said, 
with frequent pauses between his words, "that, however much you 
wish it, it is out of the question to repay the local council 
now. You enumerated some items, I think, as to what ought to come 
in from the mortgage, the mill, and the hay (he jotted down each 
of these items on his tablets again as he spoke)." Yet I fear 
that we must have made a mistake somewhere in the accounts." Here 
he paused a while, and looked gravely at Papa.

"How so?"

"Well, will you be good enough to look for yourself? There is the 
account for the mill. The miller has been to me twice to ask for 
time, and I am afraid that he has no money whatever in hand. He 
is here now. Would you like to speak to him?"

"No. Tell me what he says," replied Papa, showing by a movement 
of his head that he had no desire to have speech with the miller,

"Well, it is easy enough to guess what he says. He declares that 
there is no grinding to be got now, and that his last remaining 
money has gone to pay for the dam. What good would it do for us 
to turn him out? As to what you were pleased to say about the 
mortgage, you yourself are aware that your money there is locked 
up and cannot be recovered at a moment's notice. I was sending a 
load of flour to Ivan Afanovitch to-day, and sent him a letter as 
well, to which he replies that he would have been glad to oblige 
you, Peter Alexandritch, were it not that the matter is out of 
his hands now, and that all the circumstances show that it would 
take you at least two months to withdraw the money.   From the 
hay I understood you to estimate a return of 3000 roubles?" 
(Here Jakoff jotted down "3000" on his tablets, and then looked 
for a moment from the figures to Papa with a peculiar expression 
on his face.) "Well, surely you see for yourself how little that 
is? And even then we should lose if we were to sell the stuff 
now, for you must know that--"

It was clear that he would have had many other arguments to 
adduce had not Papa interrupted him,

"I cannot make any change in my arrangements," said Papa. "Yet 
if there should REALLY have to be any delay in the recovery of 
these sums, we could borrow what we wanted from the Chabarovska 
funds."

"Very well, sir." The expression of Jakoff's face and the way in 
which he twitched his fingers showed that this order had given 
him great satisfaction. He was a serf, and a most zealous, 
devoted one, but, like all good bailiffs, exacting and 
parsimonious to a degree in the interests of his master. Moreover, 
he had some queer notions of his own. He was forever endeavouring 
to increase his master's property at the expense of his 
mistress's, and to prove that it would be impossible to avoid 
using the rents from her estates for the benefit of Petrovskoe 
(my father's village, and the place where we lived). This point 
he had now gained and was delighted in consequence.

Papa then greeted ourselves, and said that if we stayed much 
longer in the country we should become lazy boys; that we were 
growing quite big now, and must set about doing lessons in 
earnest,

"I suppose you know that I am starting for Moscow to-night?" he 
went on, "and that I am going to take you with me? You will live 
with Grandmamma, but Mamma and the girls will remain here. You 
know, too, I am sure, that Mamma's one consolation will be to 
hear that you are doing your lessons well and pleasing every one 
around you."

The preparations which had been in progress for some days past 
had made us expect some unusual event, but this news left us 
thunderstruck, Woloda turned red, and, with a shaking voice, 
delivered Mamma's message to Papa.

"So this was what my dream foreboded!" I thought to myself.  
"God send that there come nothing worse!" I felt terribly sorry 
to have to leave Mamma, but at the same rejoiced to think that I 
should soon be grown up, "If we are going to-day, we shall 
probably have no lessons to do, and that will be splendid, 
However, I am sorry for Karl Ivanitch, for he will certainly be 
dismissed now. That was why that envelope had been prepared for 
him. I think I would almost rather stay and do lessons here than 
leave Mamma or hurt poor Karl. He is miserable enough already."

As these thoughts crossed my mind I stood looking sadly at the 
black ribbons on my shoes, After a few words to Karl Ivanitch 
about the depression of the barometer and an injunction to Jakoff 
not to feed the hounds, since a farewell meet was to be held 
after luncheon, Papa disappointed my hopes by sending us off to 
lessons--though he also consoled us by promising to take us out 
hunting later.

On my way upstairs I made a digression to the terrace. Near the 
door leading on to it Papa's favourite hound, Milka, was lying in 
the sun and blinking her eyes.

"Miloshka," I cried as I caressed her and kissed her nose, we 
are going away today. Good-bye. Perhaps we shall never see each 
other again." I was crying and laughing at the same time.

IV

LESSONS

Karl Ivanitch was in a bad temper, This was clear from his 
contracted brows, and from the way in which he flung his 
frockcoat into a drawer, angrily donned his old dressing-gown 
again, and made deep dints with his nails to mark the place in 
the book of dialogues to which we were to learn by heart. Woloda 
began working diligently, but I was too distracted to do anything 
at all. For a long while I stared vacantly at the book; but tears 
at the thought of the impending separation kept rushing to my 
eyes and preventing me from reading a single word. When at length 
the time came to repeat the dialogues to Karl (who listened to 
us with blinking eyes--a very bad sign), I had no sooner reached 
the place where some one asks, "Wo kommen Sie her?" 
("Where do you come from?") and some one else 
answers him, "lch komme vom Kaffeehaus" ("I come from the 
coffee-house"), than I burst into tears and, for sobbing, could 
not pronounce, "Haben Sie die Zeitung nicht gelesen?" (Have you 
not read the newspaper?") at all. Next, when we came to our 
writing lesson, the tears kept falling from my eyes and, making a 
mess on the paper, as though some one had written on blotting-
paper with water, Karl was very angry. He ordered me to go down 
upon my knees, declared that it was all obstinacy and " puppet-
comedy playing" (a favourite expression of his) on my part, 
threatened me with the ruler, and commanded me to say that I was 
sorry. Yet for sobbing and crying I could not get a word out. At 
last--conscious, perhaps, that he was unjust--he departed to 
Nicola's pantry, and slammed the door behind him. Nevertheless 
their conversation there carried to the schoolroom.

"Have you heard that the children are going to Moscow, Nicola?" 
said Karl.

"Yes. How could I help hearing it?"

At this point Nicola seemed to get up for Karl said, "Sit down, 
Nicola," and then locked the door. However, I came out of my 
corner and crept to the door to listen.

"However much you may do for people, and however fond of them 
you may be, never expect any gratitude, Nicola," said Karl 
warmly. Nicola, who was shoe-cobbling by the window, nodded his 
head in assent.

"Twelve years have I lived in this house," went on Karl, 
lifting his eyes and his snuff-box towards the ceiling, "and 
before God I can say that I have loved them, and worked for them, 
even more than if they had been my own children. You recollect, 
Nicola, when Woloda had the fever? You recollect how, for nine 
days and nights, I never closed my eyes as I sat beside his bed? 
Yes, at that time I was 'the dear, good Karl Ivanitch'--I was wanted 
then; but now"--and he smiled ironically--"the children are 
growing up, and must go to study in earnest. Perhaps they never 
learnt anything with me, Nicola? Eh?"

"I am sure they did," replied Nicola, laying his awl down and 
straightening a piece of thread with his hands.

"No, I am wanted no longer, and am to be turned out. What good 
are promises and gratitude? Natalia Nicolaevna"--here he laid his 
hand upon his heart--"I love and revere, but what can SHE I do 
here? Her will is powerless in this house."

He flung a strip of leather on the floor with an angry gesture.
"Yet I know who has been playing tricks here, and why I am no 
longer wanted. It is because I do not flatter and toady as 
certain people do. I am in the habit of speaking the truth in all 
places and to all persons," he continued proudly, "God be with 
these children, for my leaving them will benefit them little, 
whereas I--well, by God's help I may be able to earn a crust of 
bread somewhere. Nicola, eh?"

Nicola raised his head and looked at Karl as though to consider 
whether he would indeed be able to earn a crust of bread, but he 
said nothing. Karl said a great deal more of the same kind--in 
particular how much better his services had been appreciated at a 
certain general's where he had formerly lived (I regretted to 
hear that). Likewise he spoke of Saxony, his parents, his friend 
the tailor, Schonheit (beauty), and so on.

I sympathised with his distress, and felt dreadfully sorry that 
he and Papa (both of whom I loved about equally) had had a 
difference. Then I returned to my corner, crouched down upon my 
heels, and fell to thinking how a reconciliation between them 
might be effected.

Returning to the study, Karl ordered me to get up and prepare to 
write from dictation. When I was ready he sat down with a 
dignified air in his arm-chair, and in a voice which seemed to 
come from a profound abyss began to dictate: "Von al-len Lei-
den-shaf-ten die grau-samste ist. Have you written that? " He 
paused, took a pinch of snuff, and began again: "Die grausamste 
ist die Un-dank-bar-keit [The most cruel of all passions is 
ingratitude.] a capital U, mind."

The last word written, I looked at him, for him to go on,

"Punctum" (stop), he concluded, with a faintly perceptible 
smile, as he signed to us to hand him our copy-books.

Several times, and in several different tones, and always with an 
expression of the greatest satisfaction, did he read out that 
sentence, which expressed his predominant thought at the moment, 
Then he set us to learn a lesson in history, and sat down near 
the window. His face did not look so depressed now, but, on the 
contrary, expressed eloquently the satisfaction of a man who had 
avenged himself for an injury dealt him.

By this time it was a quarter to one o'clock, but Karl Ivanitch 
never thought of releasing us, He merely set us a new lesson to 
learn. My fatigue and hunger were increasing in equal 
proportions, so that I eagerly followed every sign of the 
approach of luncheon. First came the housemaid with a cloth to 
wipe the plates, Next, the sound of crockery resounded in the 
dining-room, as the table was moved and chairs placed round it, 
After that, Mimi, Lubotshka, and Katenka. (Katenka was Mimi's 
daughter, and twelve years old) came in from the garden, but 
Foka (the servant who always used to come and announce luncheon) 
was not yet to be seen. Only when he entered was it lawful to 
throw one's books aside and run downstairs.

Hark! Steps resounded on the staircase, but they were not 
Foka's.   Foka's I had learnt to study, and knew the creaking 
of his boots well.  The door opened, and a figure unknown to 
me made its appearance,

V

THE IDIOT

The man who now entered the room was about fifty years old, with 
a pale, attenuated face pitted with smallpox, long grey hair, and 
a scanty beard of a reddish hue. Likewise he was so tall that, on 
coming through the doorway, he was forced not only to bend his 
head, but to incline his whole body forward. He was dressed in a 
sort of smock that was much torn, and held in his hand a stout 
staff. As he entered he smote this staff upon the floor, and, 
contracting his brows and opening his mouth to its fullest 
extent, laughed in a dreadful, unnatural way. He had lost the 
sight of one eye, and its colourless pupil kept rolling about and 
imparting to his hideous face an even more repellent expression 
than it otherwise bore.

"Hullo, you are caught!" he exclaimed as he ran to Woloda with 
little short steps and, seizing him round the head, looked at it 
searchingly. Next he left him, went to the table, and, with a 
perfectly serious expression on his face, began to blow under the 
oil-cloth, and to make the sign of the cross over it, "O-oh, 
what a pity! O-oh, how it hurts! They are angry! They fly from 
me!" he exclaimed in a tearful choking voice as he glared at 
Woloda and wiped away the streaming tears with his sleeve, His 
voice was harsh and rough, all his movements hysterical and 
spasmodic, and his words devoid of sense or connection (for he 
used no conjunctions). Yet the tone of that voice was so 
heartrending, and his yellow, deformed face at times so sincere 
and pitiful in its expression, that, as one listened to him, it 
was impossible to repress a mingled sensation of pity, grief, and 
fear.

This was the idiot Grisha. Whence he had come, or who were his 
parents, or what had induced him to choose the strange life which 
he led, no one ever knew. All that I myself knew was that from 
his fifteenth year upwards he had been known as an imbecile who 
went barefooted both in winter and summer, visited convents, gave 
little images to any one who cared to take them, and spoke 
meaningless words which some people took for prophecies; that 
nobody remembered him as being different; that at, rate intervals 
he used to call at Grandmamma's house; and that by some people 
he was said to be the outcast son of rich parents and a pure, 
saintly soul, while others averred that he was a mere peasant 
and an idler.

At last the punctual and wished-for Foka arrived, and we went 
downstairs. Grisha followed us sobbing and continuing to talk 
nonsense, and knocking his staff on each step of the staircase. 
When we entered the drawing-room we found Papa and Mamma walking 
up and down there, with their hands clasped in each other's, and 
talking in low tones. Maria Ivanovna was sitting bolt upright in 
an arm-chair placed at tight angles to the sofa, and giving some 
sort of a lesson to the two girls sitting beside her. When Karl 
Ivanitch entered the room she looked at him for a moment, and 
then turned her eyes away with an expression which seemed to say, 
"You are beneath my notice, Karl Ivanitch." It was easy to see 
from the girls' eyes that they had important news to communicate 
to us as soon as an opportunity occurred (for to leave their 
seats and approach us first was contrary to Mimi's rules). It was 
for us to go to her and say, "Bon jour, Mimi," and then make her 
a low bow; after which we should possibly be permitted to enter 
into conversation with the girls.

What an intolerable creature that Mimi was! One could hardly say 
a word in her presence without being found fault with. Also 
whenever we wanted to speak in Russian, she would say, "Parlez, 
donc, francais," as though on purpose to annoy us, while, if 
there was any particularly nice dish at luncheon which we wished 
to enjoy in peace, she would keep on ejaculating, "Mangez, donc, 
avec du pain!" or, "Comment est-ce que vous tenez votre 
fourchette?" "What has SHE got to do with us?" I used to think 
to myself. "Let her teach the girls. WE have our Karl Ivanitch." 
I shared to the full his dislike of "certain people."

"Ask Mamma to let us go hunting too," Katenka whispered to me, 
as she caught me by the sleeve just when the elders of the family 
were making a move towards the dining-room.

"Very well. I will try."

Grisha likewise took a seat in the dining-room, but at a little 
table apart from the rest. He never lifted his eyes from his 
plate, but kept on sighing and making horrible grimaces, as he 
muttered to himself: "What a pity! It has flown away! The dove 
is flying to heaven! The stone lies on the tomb!" and so forth.

Ever since the morning Mamma had been absent-minded, and Grisha's 
presence, words, and actions seemed to make her more so.

"By the way, there is something I forgot to ask you," she said, 
as she handed Papa a plate of soup,

"What is it?"

"That you will have those dreadful dogs of yours tied up, They 
nearly worried poor Grisha to death when he entered the 
courtyard, and I am sure they will bite the children some day."

No sooner did Grisha hear himself mentioned that he turned 
towards our table and showed us his torn clothes. Then, as he went 
on with his meal, he said: "He would have let them tear me in 
pieces, but God would not allow it! What a sin to let the dogs 
loose--a great sin! But do not beat him, master; do not beat him! 
It is for God to forgive! It is past now!"

"What does he say?" said Papa, looking at him gravely and 
sternly. "I cannot understand him at all." 

"I think he is saying," replied Mamma, "that one of the 
huntsmen set the dogs on him, but that God would not allow him to 
be torn in pieces, Therefore he begs you not to punish the man."

"Oh, is that it? " said Papa, "How does he know that I intended 
to punish the huntsman? You know, I am pot very fond of fellows 
like this," he added in French, "and this one offends me 
particularly. Should it ever happen that--"

"Oh, don't say so," interrupted Mamma, as if frightened by some 
thought. "How can you know what he is?"

"I think I have plenty of opportunities for doing so, since no 
lack of them come to see you--all of them the same sort, and 
probably all with the same story."

I could see that Mamma's opinion differed from his, but that she 
did not mean to quarrel about it.

"Please hand me the cakes," she said to him, "Are they good to-
day or not?"

"Yes, I AM angry," he went on as he took the cakes and put them 
where Mamma could not reach them, "very angry at seeing 
supposedly reasonable and educated people let themselves be 
deceived," and he struck the table with his fork.

"I asked you to hand me the cakes," she repeated with 
outstretched hand.

"And it is a good thing," Papa continued as he put the hand 
aside, "that the police run such vagabonds in. All they are good 
for is to play upon the nerves of certain people who are already 
not over-strong in that respect," and he smiled, observing that 
Mamma did not like the conversation at all. However, he handed 
her the cakes.

"All that I have to say," she replied, "is that one can hardly 
believe that a man who, though sixty years of age, goes 
barefooted winter and summer, and always wears chains of two 
pounds' weight, and never accepts the offers made to him to live 
a quiet, comfortable life--it is difficult to believe that such a 
man should act thus out of laziness." Pausing a moment, she added 
with a sigh: "As to predictions, je suis payee pour y croire, I 
told you, I think, that Grisha prophesied the very day and hour 
of poor Papa's death?"

"Oh, what HAVE you gone and done?" said Papa, laughing and 
putting his hand to his cheek (whenever he did this I used to 
look for something particularly comical from him). "Why did you 
call my attention to his feet? I looked at them, and now can eat 
nothing more."

Luncheon was over now, and Lubotshka and Katenka were winking at 
us, fidgeting about in their chairs, and showing great 
restlessness. The winking, of course, signified, "Why don't you 
ask whether we too may go to the hunt?" I nudged Woloda, and 
Woloda nudged me back, until at last I took heart of grace, and 
began (at first shyly, but gradually with more assurance) to ask 
if it would matter much if the girls too were allowed to enjoy 
the sport. Thereupon a consultation was held among the elder 
folks, and eventually leave was granted--Mamma, to make things 
still more delightful, saying that she would come too,

VI

PREPARATIONS FOR THE CHASE

During dessert Jakoff had been sent for, and orders given him to 
have ready the carriage, the hounds, and the saddle-horses--every 
detail being minutely specified, and every horse called by its 
own particular name. As Woloda's usual mount was lame, Papa 
ordered a "hunter" to be saddled for him; which term, "hunter" 
so horrified Mamma's ears, that she imagined it to be some kind 
of an animal which would at once run away and bring about 
Woloda's death. Consequently, in spite of all Papa's and Woloda's 
assurances (the latter glibly affirming that it was nothing, and 
that he liked his horse to go fast), poor Mamma continued to 
exclaim that her pleasure would be quite spoilt for her.

When luncheon was over, the grown-ups had coffee in the study, 
while we younger ones ran into the garden and went chattering 
along the undulating paths with their carpet of yellow leaves. 
We talked about Woloda's riding a hunter and said what a shame it 
was that Lubotshka, could not run as fast as Katenka, and what 
fun it would be if we could see Grisha's chains, and so forth; 
but of the impending separation we said not a word. Our chatter 
was interrupted by the sound of the carriage driving up, with a 
village urchin perched on each of its springs. Behind the 
carriage rode the huntsmen with the hounds, and they, again, 
were followed by the groom Ignat on the steed intended for 
Woloda, with my old horse trotting alongside. After running to 
the garden fence to get a sight of all these interesting 
objects, and indulging in a chorus of whistling and hallooing, 
we rushed upstairs to dress--our one aim being to make ourselves 
look as like the huntsmen as possible. The obvious way to do this 
was to tuck one's breeches inside one's boots. We lost no time 
over it all, for we were in a hurry to run to the entrance steps 
again there to feast our eyes upon the horses and hounds, and to 
have a chat with the huntsmen. The day was exceedingly warm 
while, though clouds of fantastic shape had been gathering on the 
horizon since morning and driving before a light breeze across 
the sun, it was clear that, for all their menacing blackness, 
they did not really intend to form a thunderstorm and spoil our 
last day's pleasure. Moreover, towards afternoon some of them 
broke, grew pale and elongated, and sank to the horizon again, 
while others of them changed to the likeness of white transparent 
fish-scales. In the east, over Maslovska, a single lurid mass was 
louring, but Karl Ivanitch (who always seemed to know the ways of 
the heavens) said that the weather would still continue to be 
fair and dry.

In spite of his advanced years, it was in quite a sprightly 
manner that Foka came out to the entrance steps. to give the 
order "Drive up." In fact, as he planted his legs firmly apart 
and took up his station between the lowest step and the spot 
where the coachman was to halt, his mien was that of a man who 
knew his duties and had no need to be reminded of them by 
anybody. Presently the ladies, also came out, and after a little 
discussions as to seats and the safety of the girls (all of which 
seemed to me wholly superfluous), they settled themselves in the 
vehicle, opened their parasols, and started. As the carriage was, 
driving away, Mamma pointed to the hunter and asked nervously "Is 
that the horse intended for Vladimir Petrovitch?" On the 
groom answering in the affirmative, she raised her hands in 
horror and turned her head away. As for myself, I was burning 
with impatience. Clambering on to the back of my steed (I was 
just tall enough to see between its ears), I proceeded to perform 
evolutions in the courtyard.

"Mind you don't ride over the hounds, sir," said one of the 
huntsmen,

"Hold your tongue, It is not the first time I have been one of 
the party." I retorted with dignity.

Although Woloda had plenty of pluck, he was not altogether free 
from apprehensions as he sat on the hunter. Indeed, he more than 
once asked as he patted it, "Is he quiet?" He looked very well 
on horseback--almost a grown-up young man, and held himself so 
upright in the saddle that I envied him since my shadow seemed to 
show that I could not compare with him in looks.

Presently Papa's footsteps sounded on the flagstones, the whip 
collected the hounds, and the huntsmen mounted their steeds. 
Papa's horse came up in charge of a groom, the hounds of his 
particular leash sprang up from their picturesque attitudes to 
fawn upon him, and Milka, in a collar studded with beads, came 
bounding joyfully from behind his heels to greet and sport with 
the other dogs. Finally, as soon as Papa had mounted we rode 
away.

VII

THE HUNT

AT the head of the cavalcade rode Turka, on a hog-backed roan. On 
his head he wore a shaggy cap, while, with a magnificent horn 
slung across his shoulders and a knife at his belt, he looked so 
cruel and inexorable that one would have thought he was going to 
engage in bloody strife with his fellow men rather than to hunt a 
small animal. Around the hind legs of his horse the hounds 
gambolled like a cluster of checkered, restless balls. If one of 
them wished to stop, it was only with the greatest difficulty 
that it could do so, since not only had its leash-fellow also to 
be induced to halt, but at once one of the huntsmen would wheel 
round, crack his whip, and shout to the delinquent,

"Back to the pack, there!"

Arrived at a gate, Papa told us and the huntsmen to continue our 
way along the road, and then rode off across a cornfield. The 
harvest was at its height. On the further side of a large, 
shining, yellow stretch of cornland lay a high purple belt of 
forest which always figured in my eyes as a distant, mysterious 
region behind which either the world ended or an uninhabited 
waste began. This expanse of corn-land was dotted with swathes 
and reapers, while along the lanes where the sickle had passed 
could be seen the backs of women as they stooped among the tall, 
thick grain or lifted armfuls of corn and rested them against the 
shocks. In one corner a woman was bending over a cradle, and the 
whole stubble was studded with sheaves and cornflowers. In 
another direction shirt-sleeved men were standing on waggons, 
shaking the soil from the stalks of sheaves, and stacking them 
for carrying. As soon as the foreman (dressed in a blouse and 
high boots, and carrying a tally-stick) caught sight of Papa, he 
hastened to take off his lamb's-wool cap and, wiping his red 
head, told the women to get up. Papa's chestnut horse went 
trotting along with a prancing gait as it tossed its head and 
swished its tail to and fro to drive away the gadflies and 
countless other insects which tormented its flanks, while his two 
greyhounds--their tails curved like sickles--went springing 
gracefully over the stubble. Milka was always first, but every 
now and then she would halt with a shake of her head to await the 
whipper-in. The chatter of the peasants; the rumbling of horses 
and waggons; the joyous cries of quails; the hum of insects as 
they hung suspended in the motionless air; the smell of the soil 
and grain and steam from our horses; the thousand different 
lights and shadows which the burning sun cast upon the yellowish-
white cornland; the purple forest in the distance; the white 
gossamer threads which were floating in the air or resting on the 
soil-all these things I observed and heard and felt to the core.

Arrived at the Kalinovo wood, we found the carriage awaiting us 
there, with, beside it, a one-horse waggonette driven by the 
butler--a waggonette in which were a tea-urn, some apparatus for 
making ices, and many other attractive boxes and bundles, all 
packed in straw! There was no mistaking these signs, for they 
meant that we were going to have tea, fruit, and ices in the open 
air. This afforded us intense delight, since to drink tea in a 
wood and on the grass and where none else had ever drunk tea 
before seemed to us a treat beyond expressing.

When Turka arrived at the little clearing where the carriage was 
halted he took Papa's detailed instructions as to how we were to 
divide ourselves and where each of us was to go (though, as a 
matter of fact, he never acted according to such instructions, 
but always followed his own devices). Then he unleashed the 
hounds, fastened the leashes to his saddle, whistled to the pack, 
and disappeared among the young birch trees the liberated hounds 
jumping about him in high delight, wagging their tails, and 
sniffing and gambolling with one another as they dispersed 
themselves in different directions.

"Has anyone a pocket-handkerchief to spare?" asked Papa. I took 
mine from my pocket and offered it to him.

"Very well, Fasten it to this greyhound here."

"Gizana?" I asked, with the air of a connoisseur.

"Yes. Then run him along the road with you. When you come to a 
little clearing in the wood stop and look about you, and don't 
come back to me without a hare."

Accordingly I tied my handkerchief round Gizana's soft neck, and 
set off running at full speed towards the appointed spot, Papa 
laughing as he shouted after me, "Hurry up, hurry up or you'll 
be late! "

Every now and then Gizana kept stopping, pricking up his ears, 
and listening to the hallooing of the beaters. Whenever he did 
this I was not strong enough to move him, and could do no more 
than shout, "Come on, come on!" Presently he set off so fast 
that I could not restrain him, and I encountered more than one 
fall before we reached our destination. Selecting there a level, 
shady spot near the roots of a great oak-tree, I lay down on the 
turf, made Gizana crouch beside me, and waited. As usual, my 
imagination far outstripped reality. I fancied that I was 
pursuing at least my third hare when, as a matter of fact, the 
first hound was only just giving tongue. Presently, however, 
Turka's voice began to sound through the wood in louder and more 
excited tones, the baying of a hound came nearer and nearer, and 
then another, and then a third, and then a fourth, deep throat 
joined in the rising and falling cadences of a chorus, until the 
whole had united their voices in one continuous, tumultuous 
burst of melody. As the Russian proverb expresses it, "The 
forest had found a tongue, and the hounds were burning as with 
fire."

My excitement was so great that I nearly swooned where I stood. 
My lips parted themselves as though smiling, the perspiration 
poured from me in streams, and, in spite of the tickling 
sensation caused by the drops as they trickled over my chin, I 
never thought of wiping them away. I felt that a crisis was 
approaching. Yet the tension was too unnatural to last. Soon the 
hounds came tearing along the edge of the wood, and then--behold, 
they were racing away from me again, and of hares there was not a 
sign to be seen! I looked in every direction and Gizana did the 
same--pulling at his leash at first and whining. Then he lay down 
again by my side, rested his muzzle on my knees, and resigned 
himself to disappointment. Among the naked roots of the oak-tree 
under which I was sitting. I could see countless ants swarming 
over the parched grey earth and winding among the acorns, 
withered oak-leaves, dry twigs, russet moss, and slender, scanty 
blades of grass. In serried files they kept pressing forward on 
the level track they had made for themselves--some carrying 
burdens, some not. I took a piece of twig and barred their way. 
Instantly it was curious to see how they made light of the 
obstacle. Some got past it by creeping underneath, and some by 
climbing over it. A few, however, there were (especially those 
weighted with loads) who were nonplussed what to do. They either 
halted and searched for a way round, or returned whence they had 
come, or climbed the adjacent herbage, with the evident intention 
of reaching my hand and going up the sleeve of my jacket. From 
this interesting spectacle my attention was distracted by the 
yellow wings of a butterfly which was fluttering alluringly 
before me. Yet I had scarcely noticed it before it flew away to a 
little distance and, circling over some half-faded blossoms of 
white clover, settled on one of them. Whether it was the sun's 
warmth that delighted it, or whether it was busy sucking nectar 
from the flower, at all events it seemed thoroughly comfortable. 
It scarcely moved its wings at all, and pressed itself down into 
the clover until I could hardly see its body. I sat with my chin 
on my hands and watched it with intense interest.

Suddenly Gizana sprang up and gave me such a violent jerk that I 
nearly rolled over. I looked round. At the edge of the wood a 
hare had just come into view, with one ear bent down and the 
other one sharply pricked, The blood rushed to my head, and I 
forgot everything else as I shouted, slipped the dog, and rushed 
towards the spot. Yet all was in vain. The hare stopped, made a 
rush, and was lost to view.

How confused I felt when at that moment Turka stepped from the 
undergrowth (he had been following the hounds as they ran along 
the edges of the wood)! He had seen my mistake (which had 
consisted in my not biding my time), and now threw me a 
contemptuous look as he said, "Ah, master!" And you should have 
heard the tone in which he said it! It would have been a relief 
to me if he had then and there suspended me to his saddle instead 
of the hare. For a while I could only stand miserably where I 
was, without attempting to recall the dog, and ejaculate as I 
slapped my knees, "Good heavens! What a fool I was!" I could 
hear the hounds retreating into the distance, and baying along 
the further side of the wood as they pursued the hare, while 
Turka rallied them with blasts on his gorgeous horn: yet I did 
not stir.

VIII

WE PLAY GAMES

THE hunt was over, a cloth had been spread in the shade of some 
young birch-trees, and the whole party was disposed around it. 
The butler, Gabriel, had stamped down the surrounding grass, 
wiped the plates in readiness, and unpacked from a basket a 
quantity of plums and peaches wrapped in leaves.

Through the green branches of the young birch-trees the sun 
glittered and threw little glancing balls of light upon the 
pattern of my napkin, my legs, and the bald moist head of 
Gabriel. A soft breeze played in the leaves of the trees above 
us, and, breathing softly upon my hair and heated face, 
refreshed me beyond measure, When we had finished the fruit and 
ices, nothing remained to be done around the empty cloth, so, 
despite the oblique, scorching rays of the sun, we rose and 
proceeded to play.

"Well, what shall it be?" said Lubotshka, blinking in the 
sunlight and skipping about the grass, "Suppose we play 
Robinson?"

"No, that's a tiresome game," objected Woloda, stretching 
himself lazily on the turf and gnawing some leaves, "Always
Robinson! If you want to play at something, play at building a 
summerhouse."

Woloda was giving himself tremendous airs. Probably he was proud 
of having ridden the hunter, and so pretended to be very tired. 
Perhaps, also, he had too much hard-headedness and too little 
imagination fully to enjoy the game of Robinson. It was a game 
which consisted of performing various scenes from The Swiss 
Family Robinson, a book which we had recently been reading.

"Well, but be a good boy. Why not try and please us this time?" 
the girls answered. "You may be Charles or Ernest or the father, 
whichever you like best," added Katenka as she tried to raise him 
from the ground by pulling at his sleeve.

"No, I'm not going to; it's a tiresome game," said Woloda again, 
though smiling as if secretly pleased.

"It would be better to sit at home than not to play at 
ANYTHING," murmured Lubotshka, with tears in her eyes. She was a 
great weeper.

"Well, go on, then. Only, DON'T cry; I can't stand that sort of 
thing."

Woloda's condescension did not please us much. On the contrary, 
his lazy, tired expression took away all the fun of the game. 
When we sat on the ground and imagined that we were sitting in a 
boat and either fishing or rowing with all our might, Woloda 
persisted in sitting with folded hands or in anything but a 
fisherman's posture. I made a remark about it, but he replied 
that, whether we moved our hands or not, we should neither gain 
nor lose ground--certainly not advance at all, and I was forced to 
agree with him. Again, when I pretended to go out hunting, and, 
with a stick over my shoulder, set off into the wood, Woloda only 
lay down on his back with his hands under his head, and said that 
he supposed it was all the same whether he went or not. Such 
behaviour and speeches cooled our ardour for the game and were 
very disagreeable--the more so since it was impossible not to 
confess to oneself that Woloda was right, I myself knew that it 
was not only impossible to kill birds with a stick, but to shoot 
at all with such a weapon. Still, it was the game, and if we were 
once to begin reasoning thus, it would become equally impossible 
for us to go for drives on chairs. I think that even Woloda 
himself cannot at that moment have forgotten how, in the long 
winter evenings, we had been used to cover an arm-chair with a 
shawl and make a carriage of it--one of us being the coachman, 
another one the footman, the two girls the passengers, and three 
other chairs the trio of horses abreast. With what ceremony we 
used to set out, and with what adventures we used to meet on the 
way! How gaily and quickly those long winter evenings used to 
pass! If we were always to judge from reality, games would be 
nonsense; but if games were nonsense, what else would there be 
left to do?

IX

A FIRST ESSAY IN LOVE

PRETENDING to gather some "American fruit" from a tree, 
Lubotshka suddenly plucked a leaf upon which was a huge 
caterpillar, and throwing the insect with horror to the ground, 
lifted her hands and sprang away as though afraid it would spit 
at her. The game stopped, and we crowded our heads together as we 
stooped to look at the curiosity.

I peeped over Katenka's shoulder as she was trying to lift the 
caterpillar by placing another leaf in its way. I had observed 
before that the girls had a way of shrugging their shoulders 
whenever they were trying to put a loose garment straight on 
their bare necks, as well as that Mimi always grew angry on 
witnessing this manoeuvre and declared it to be a chambermaid's 
trick. As Katenka bent over the caterpillar she made that very 
movement, while at the same instant the breeze lifted the fichu 
on her white neck. Her shoulder was close to my lips, I looked at 
it and kissed it, She did not turn round, but Woloda remarked 
without raising his head, "What spooniness!" I felt the tears 
rising to my eyes, and could not take my gaze from Katenka. I had 
long been used to her fair, fresh face, and had always been fond 
of her, but now I looked at her more closely, and felt more fond 
of her, than I had ever done or felt before.

When we returned to the grown-ups, Papa informed us, to our great 
joy, that, at Mamma's entreaties, our departure was to be 
postponed until the following morning. We rode home beside the 
carriage--Woloda and I galloping near it, and vieing with one 
another in our exhibition of horsemanship and daring. My shadow 
looked longer now than it had done before, and from that I judged 
that I had grown into a fine rider. Yet my complacency was soon 
marred by an unfortunate occurrence, Desiring to outdo Woloda 
before the audience in the carriage, I dropped a little behind.
Then with whip and spur I urged my steed forward, and at the 
same time assumed a natural, graceful attitude, with the intention 
of whooting past the carriage on the side on which Katenka was 
seated. My only doubt was whether to halloo or not as I did so. 
In the event, my infernal horse stopped so abruptly when just 
level with the carriage horses that I was pitched forward on 
to its neck and cut a very sorry figure! 

X

THE SORT OF MAN MY FATHER WAS

Papa was a gentleman of the last century, with all the chivalrous 
character, self-reliance, and gallantry of the youth of that 
time. Upon the men of the present day he looked with a contempt 
arising partly from inborn pride and partly from a secret feeling 
of vexation that, in this age of ours, he could no longer enjoy 
the influence and success which had been his in his youth. His 
two principal failings were gambling and gallantry, and he had 
won or lost, in the course of his career, several millions of 
roubles.

Tall and of imposing figure, he walked with a curiously quick, 
mincing gait, as well as had a habit of hitching one of his 
shoulders. His eyes were small and perpetually twinkling, his 
nose large and aquiline, his lips irregular and rather oddly 
(though pleasantly) compressed, his articulation slightly 
defective and lisping, and his head quite bald. Such was my 
father's exterior from the days of my earliest recollection. It 
was an exterior which not only brought him success and made him a 
man a bonnes fortunes but one which pleased people of all ranks 
and stations. Especially did it please those whom he desired to 
please.

At all junctures he knew how to take the lead, for, though not 
deriving from the highest circles of society, he had always mixed 
with them, and knew how to win their respect. He possessed in the 
highest degree that measure of pride and self-confidence which, 
without giving offence, maintains a man in the opinion of the 
world. He had much originality, as well as the ability to use it 
in such a way that it benefited him as much as actual worldly 
position or fortune could have done. Nothing in the universe 
could surprise him, and though not of eminent attainments in 
life, he seemed born to have acquired them. He understood so 
perfectly how to make both himself and others forget and keep at 
a distance the seamy side of life, with all its petty troubles 
and vicissitudes, that it was impossible not to envy him. He was 
a connoisseur in everything which could give ease and pleasure, 
as well as knew how to make use of such knowledge. Likewise he 
prided himself on the brilliant connections which he had formed 
through my mother's family or through friends of his youth, and 
was secretly jealous of any one of a higher rank than himself--any 
one, that is to say, of a rank higher than a retired lieutenant 
of the Guards. Moreover, like all ex-officers, he refused to 
dress himself in the prevailing fashion, though he attired 
himself both originally and artistically--his invariable wear 
being light, loose-fitting suits, very fine shirts, and large 
collars and cuffs. Everything seemed to suit his upright figure 
and quiet, assured air. He was sensitive to the pitch of 
sentimentality, and, when reading a pathetic passage, his voice 
would begin to tremble and the tears to come into his eyes, until 
he had to lay the book aside. Likewise he was fond of music, and 
could accompany himself on the piano as he sang the love songs of 
his friend A- or gipsy songs or themes from operas; but he had no 
love for serious music, and would frankly flout received opinion 
by declaring that, whereas Beethoven's sonatas wearied him and 
sent him to sleep, his ideal of beauty was "Do not wake me, 
youth" as Semenoff sang it, or "Not one" as the gipsy Taninsha 
rendered that ditty. His nature was essentially one of those 
which follow public opinion concerning what is good, and consider 
only that good which the public declares to be so. [It may be 
noted that the author has said earlier in the chapter that his 
father possessed "much originality."] God only knows whether he 
had any moral convictions. His life was so full of amusement that 
probably he never had time to form any, and was too successful 
ever to feel the lack of them.

As he grew to old age he looked at things always from a fixed 
point of view, and cultivated fixed rules--but only so long as 
that point or those rules coincided with expediency, The mode of 
life which offered some passing degree of interest--that, in his 
opinion, was the right one and the only one that men ought to 
affect. He had great fluency of argument; and this, I think, 
increased the adaptability of his morals and enabled him to speak 
of one and the same act, now as good, and now, with abuse, as 
abominable.

XI

IN THE DRAWING-ROOM AND THE STUDY

Twilight had set in when we reached home. Mamma sat down to the 
piano, and we to a table, there to paint and draw in colours and 
pencil. Though I had only one cake of colour, and it was blue, I 
determined to draw a picture of the hunt. In exceedingly vivid 
fashion I painted a blue boy on a blue horse, and--but here I 
stopped, for I was uncertain whether it was possible also to 
paint a blue HARE. I ran to the study to consult Papa, and as he 
was busy reading he never lifted his eyes from his book when I 
asked, "Can there be blue hares?" but at once replied, "There 
can, my boy, there can." Returning to the table I painted in my 
blue hare, but subsequently thought it better to change it into a 
blue bush. Yet the blue bush did not wholly please me, so I 
changed it into a tree, and then into a rick, until, the whole 
paper having now become one blur of blue, I tore it angrily in 
pieces, and went off to meditate in the large arm-chair.

Mamma was playing Field's second concerto. Field, it may be said, 
had been her master. As I dozed, the music brought up before my 
imagination a kind of luminosity, with transparent dream-shapes. 
Next she played the "Sonate Pathetique" of Beethoven, and I at 
once felt heavy, depressed, and apprehensive. Mamma often played 
those two pieces, and therefore I well recollect the feelings 
they awakened in me. Those feelings were a reminiscence--of what? 
Somehow I seemed to remember something which had never been.

Opposite to me lay the study door, and presently I saw Jakoff 
enter it, accompanied by several long-bearded men in kaftans. 
Then the door shut again.

"Now they are going to begin some business or other," I thought. 
I believed the affairs transacted in that study to be the most 
important ones on earth. This opinion was confirmed by the fact 
that people only approached the door of that room on tiptoe and 
speaking in whispers. Presently Papa's resonant voice sounded 
within, and I also scented cigar smoke--always a very attractive 
thing to me. Next, as I dozed, I suddenly heard a creaking of 
boots that I knew, and, sure enough, saw Karl Ivanitch go on 
tiptoe, and with a depressed, but resolute, expression on his 
face and a written document in his hand, to the study door and 
knock softly. It opened, and then shut again behind him.

"I hope nothing is going to happen," I mused. "Karl Ivanitch is 
offended, and might be capable of anything--" and again I dozed 
off.

Nevertheless something DID happen. An hour later I was disturbed 
by the same creaking of boots, and saw Karl come out, and 
disappear up the stairs, wiping away a few tears from his cheeks 
with his pocket handkerchief as he went and muttering something 
between his teeth. Papa came out behind him and turned aside into 
the drawing-room.

"Do you know what I have just decided to do?" he asked gaily as 
he laid a hand upon Mamma's shoulder.

"What, my love?"

"To take Karl Ivanitch with the children. There will be room 
enough for him in the carriage. They are used to him, and he 
seems greatly attached to them. Seven hundred roubles a year 
cannot make much difference to us, and the poor devil is not at 
all a bad sort of a fellow." I could not understand why Papa 
should speak of him so disrespectfully.

"I am delighted," said Mamma, "and as much for the children's 
sake as his own. He is a worthy old man."

"I wish you could have seen how moved he was when I told him 
that he might look upon the 500 roubles as a present! But the 
most amusing thing of all is this bill which he has just handed 
me. It is worth seeing," and with a smile Papa gave Mamma a paper 
inscribed in Karl's handwriting. "Is it not capital? " he 
concluded.

The contents of the paper were as follows: [The joke of this bill 
consists chiefly in its being written in very bad Russian, with 
continual mistakes as to plural and singular, prepositions and so 
forth.]

"Two book for the children--70 copeck. Coloured paper, gold 
frames, and a pop-guns, blockheads [This word has a double 
meaning in Russian.] for cutting out several box for presents--6 
roubles, 55 copecks. Several book and a bows, presents for the 
childrens--8 roubles, 16 copecks. A gold watches promised to me by 
Peter Alexandrovitch out of Moscow, in the years 18-- for 140 
roubles. Consequently Karl Mayer have to receive 139 rouble, 79 
copecks, beside his wage."

If people were to judge only by this bill (in which Karl Ivanitch 
demanded repayment of all the money he had spent on presents, as 
well as the value of a present promised to himself), they would 
take him to have been a callous, avaricious egotist yet they 
would be wrong.

It appears that he had entered the study with the paper in his 
hand and a set speech in his head, for the purpose of declaiming 
eloquently to Papa on the subject of the wrongs which he believed 
himself to have suffered in our house, but that, as soon as ever 
he began to speak in the vibratory voice and with the expressive 
intonations which he used in dictating to us, his eloquence 
wrought upon himself more than upon Papa; with the result that, 
when he came to the point where he had to say, "however sad it 
will be for me to part with the children," he lost his self-
command utterly, his articulation became choked, and he was 
obliged to draw his coloured pocket-handkerchief from his pocket.

"Yes, Peter Alexandrovitch," he said, weeping (this formed no 
part of the prepared speech), "I am grown so used to the 
children that I cannot think what I should do without them. I 
would rather serve you without salary than not at all," and with 
one hand he wiped his eyes, while with the other he presented the 
bill.

Although I am convinced that at that moment Karl Ivanitch was 
speaking with absolute sincerity (for I know how good his heart 
was), I confess that never to this day have I been able quite to 
reconcile his words with the bill.

"Well, if the idea of leaving us grieves you, you may be sure 
that the idea of dismissing you grieves me equally," said Papa, 
tapping him on the shoulder. Then, after a pause, he added, "But 
I have changed my mind, and you shall not leave us."

Just before supper Grisha entered the room. Ever since he had 
entered the house that day he had never ceased to sigh and weep--a 
portent, according to those who believed in his prophetic powers, 
that misfortune was impending for the household. He had now come 
to take leave of us, for to-morrow (so he said) he must be moving 
on. I nudged Woloda, and we moved towards the door.

"What is the matter?" he said.

"This--that if we want to see Grisha's chains we must go upstairs 
at once to the men-servants' rooms. Grisha is to sleep in the 
second one, so we can sit in the store-room and see everything."

"All right. Wait here, and I'll tell the girls."

The girls came at once, and we ascended the stairs, though the 
question as to which of us should first enter the store-room gave 
us some little trouble. Then we cowered down and waited.

XII

GRISHA

WE all felt a little uneasy in the thick darkness, so we pressed 
close to one another and said nothing. Before long Grisha arrived 
with his soft tread, carrying in one hand his staff and in the 
other a tallow candle set in a brass candlestick. We scarcely 
ventured to breathe.

"Our Lord Jesus Christ! Holy Mother of God! Father, Son, and 
Holy Ghost!" he kept repeating, with the different intonations 
and abbreviations which gradually become peculiar to persons who 
are accustomed to pronounce the words with great frequency.

Still praying, he placed his staff in a corner and looked at the 
bed; after which he began to undress. Unfastening his old black 
girdle, he slowly divested himself of his torn nankeen kaftan, 
and deposited it carefully on the back of a chair. His face had 
now lost its usual disquietude and idiocy. On the contrary, it 
had in it something restful, thoughtful, and even grand, while 
all his movements were deliberate and intelligent.

Next, he lay down quietly in his shirt on the bed, made the sign 
of the cross towards every side of him, and adjusted his chains 
beneath his shirt--an operation which, as we could see from his 
face, occasioned him considerable pain. Then he sat up again, 
looked gravely at his ragged shirt, and rising and taking the 
candle, lifted the latter towards the shrine where the images of 
the saints stood. That done, he made the sign of the cross again, 
and turned the candle upside down, when it went out with a 
hissing noise.

Through the window (which overlooked the wood) the moon (nearly 
full) was shining in such a way that one side of the tall white 
figure of the idiot stood out in the pale, silvery moonlight, 
while the other side was lost in the dark shadow which covered 
the floor, walls, and ceiling. In the courtyard the watchman was 
tapping at intervals upon his brass alarm plate. For a while 
Grisha stood silently before the images and, with his large hands 
pressed to his breast and his head bent forward, gave occasional 
sighs. Then with difficulty he knelt down and began to pray.

At first he repeated some well-known prayers, and only accented a 
word here and there. Next, he repeated thee same prayers, but 
louder and with increased accentuation. Lastly he repeated them 
again and with even greater emphasis, as well as with an evident 
effort to pronounce them in the old Slavonic Church dialect. 
Though disconnected, his prayers were very touching. He prayed 
for all his benefactors (so he called every one who had received 
him hospitably), with, among them, Mamma and ourselves. Next he 
prayed for himself, and besought God to forgive him his sins, at 
the same time repeating, "God forgive also my enemies!" Then, 
moaning with the effort, he rose from his knees--only to fall to 
the floor again and repeat his phrases afresh. At last he 
regained his feet, despite the weight of the chains, which 
rattled loudly whenever they struck the floor.

Woloda pinched me rudely in the leg, but I took no notice of that 
(except that I involuntarily touched the place with my hand), as 
I observed with a feeling of childish astonishment, pity, and 
respect the words and gestures of Grisha. Instead of the laughter 
and amusement which I had expected on entering the store-room, I 
felt my heart beating and overcome.

Grisha continued for some time in this state of religious ecstasy 
as he improvised prayers and repeated again and yet again, "Lord, 
have mercy upon me!" Each time that he said, "Pardon me, 
Lord, and teach me to do what Thou wouldst have done," he 
pronounced the words with added earnestness and emphasis, as 
though he expected an immediate answer to his petition, and then 
fell to sobbing and moaning once more. Finally, he went down on 
his knees again, folded his arms upon his breast, and remained 
silent. I ventured to put my head round the door (holding my 
breath as I did so), but Grisha still made no movement except for 
the heavy sighs which heaved his breast. In the moonlight I could 
see a tear glistening on the white patch of his blind eye.

"Yes, Thy will be done!" he exclaimed suddenly, with an 
expression which I cannot describe, as, prostrating himself with 
his forehead on the floor, he fell to sobbing like a child.

Much sand has run out since then, many recollections of the past 
have faded from my memory or become blurred in indistinct 
visions, and poor Grisha himself has long since reached the end 
of his pilgrimage; but the impression which he produced upon me, 
and the feelings which he aroused in my breast, will never leave 
my mind. O truly Christian Grisha, your faith was so strong that 
you could feel the actual presence of God; your love so great 
that the words fell of themselves from your lips. You had no 
reason to prove them, for you did so with your earnest praises of 
His majesty as you fell to the ground speechless and in tears!

Nevertheless the sense of awe with which I had listened to Grisha 
could not last for ever. I had now satisfied my curiosity, and, 
being cramped with sitting in one position so long, desired to 
join in the tittering and fun which I could hear going on in the 
dark store-room behind me. Some one took my hand and whispered, 
"Whose hand is this?" Despite the darkness, I knew by the touch 
and the low voice in my ear that it was Katenka. I took her by 
the arm, but she withdrew it, and, in doing so, pushed a cane 
chair which was standing near. Grisha lifted his head looked 
quietly about him, and, muttering a prayer, rose and made the 
sign of the cross towards each of the four corners of the room.

XIII

NATALIA SAVISHNA

In days gone by there used to run about the seignorial courtyard 
of the country-house at Chabarovska a girl called Natashka. She 
always wore a cotton dress, went barefooted, and was rosy, plump, 
and gay. It was at the request and entreaties of her father, the 
clarionet player Savi, that my grandfather had "taken her 
upstairs"--that is to say, made her one of his wife's female 
servants. As chamber-maid, Natashka so distinguished herself by 
her zeal and amiable temper that when Mamma arrived as a baby and 
required a nurse Natashka was honoured with the charge of her. In 
this new office the girl earned still further praises and rewards 
for her activity, trustworthiness, and devotion to her young 
mistress. Soon, however, the powdered head and buckled shoes of 
the young and active footman Foka (who had frequent opportunities 
of courting her, since they were in the same service) captivated 
her unsophisticated, but loving, heart. At last she ventured to 
go and ask my grandfather if she might marry Foka, but her master 
took the request in bad part, flew into a passion, and punished 
poor Natashka by exiling her to a farm which he owned in a remote 
quarter of the Steppes. At length, when she had been gone six 
months and nobody could be found to replace her, she was recalled 
to her former duties. Returned, and with her dress in rags, she 
fell at Grandpapa's feet, and besought him to restore her his 
favour and kindness, and to forget the folly of which she had 
been guilty--folly which, she assured him, should never recur 
again. And she kept her word.

From that time forth she called herself, not Natashka, but 
Natalia Savishna, and took to wearing a cap, All the love in her 
heart was now bestowed upon her young charge. When Mamma had a 
governess appointed for her education, Natalia was awarded the 
keys as housekeeper, and henceforth had the linen and provisions 
under her care. These new duties she fulfilled with equal 
fidelity and zeal. She lived only for her master's advantage. 
Everything in which she could detect fraud, extravagance, or 
waste she endeavoured to remedy to the best of her power. When 
Mamma married and wished in some way to reward Natalia Savishna 
for her twenty years of care and labour, she sent for her and, 
voicing in the tenderest terms her attachment and love, presented 
her with a stamped charter of her (Natalia's) freedom, [It will 
be remembered that this was in the days of serfdom] telling her 
at the same time that, whether she continued to serve in the 
household or not, she should always receive an annual pension Of 
300 roubles. Natalia listened in silence to this. Then, taking 
the document in her hands and regarding it with a frown, she 
muttered something between her teeth, and darted from the room, 
slamming the door behind her. Not understanding the reason for 
such strange conduct, Mamma followed her presently to her room, 
and found her sitting with streaming eyes on her trunk, crushing 
her pocket-handkerchief between her fingers, and looking 
mournfully at the remains of the document, which was lying torn to 
pieces on the floor.

"What is the matter, dear Natalia Savishna?" said Mamma, taking 
her hand.

"Nothing, ma'am," she replied; "only--only I must have 
displeased you somehow, since you wish to dismiss me from the 
house. Well, I will go."

She withdrew her hand and, with difficulty restraining her tears, 
rose to leave the room, but Mamma stopped her, and they wept a 
while in one another's arms.

Ever since I can remember anything I can remember Natalia 
Savishna and her love and tenderness; yet only now have I learnt 
to appreciate them at their full value. In early days it never 
occurred to me to think what a rare and wonderful being this old 
domestic was. Not only did she never talk, but she seemed never 
even to think, of herself. Her whole life was compounded of love 
and self-sacrifice. Yet so used was I to her affection and 
singleness of heart that I could not picture things otherwise. I 
never thought of thanking her, or of asking myself, "Is she also 
happy? Is she also contented?" Often on some pretext or another 
I would leave my lessons and run to her room, where, sitting 
down, I would begin to muse aloud as though she were not there. 
She was forever mending something, or tidying the shelves which 
lined her room, or marking linen, so that she took no heed of the 
nonsense which I talked--how that I meant to become a general, to 
marry a beautiful woman, to buy a chestnut horse, to, build 
myself a house of glass, to invite Karl Ivanitch's relatives to 
come and visit me from Saxony, and so forth; to all of which she 
would only reply, "Yes, my love, yes." Then, on my rising, and 
preparing to go, she would open a blue trunk which had pasted on 
the inside of its lid a coloured picture of a hussar which had 
once adorned a pomade bottle and a sketch made by Woloda, and 
take from it a fumigation pastille, which she would light and 
shake for my benefit, saying:

"These, dear, are the pastilles which your grandfather (now in 
Heaven) brought back from Otchakov after fighting against the 
Turks." Then she would add with a sigh: "But this is nearly the 
last one."

The trunks which filled her room seemed to contain almost 
everything in the world. Whenever anything was wanted, people 
said, "Oh, go and ask Natalia Savishna for it," and, sure 
enough, it was seldom that she did not produce the object 
required and say, "See what comes of taking care of everything!" 
Her trunks contained thousands of things which nobody in the 
house but herself would have thought of preserving.

Once I lost my temper with her. This was how it happened.

One day after luncheon I poured myself out a glass of kvass, and 
then dropped the decanter, and so stained the tablecloth.

"Go and call Natalia, that she may come and see what her darling 
has done," said Mamma.

Natalia arrived, and shook her head at me when she saw the damage 
I had done; but Mamma whispered something in her car, threw a 
look at myself, and then left the room.

I was just skipping away, in the sprightliest mood possible, when 
Natalia darted out upon me from behind the door with the 
tablecloth in her hand, and, catching hold of me, rubbed my
face hard with the stained part of it, repeating, "Don't thou go 
and spoil tablecloths any more!"

I struggled hard, and roared with temper.

"What?" I said to myself as I fled to the drawing-room in a 
mist of tears, "To think that Natalia Savishna-just plain 
Natalia-should say 'THOU' to me and rub my face with a wet 
tablecloth as though I were a mere servant-boy! It is 
abominable!"

Seeing my fury, Natalia departed, while I continued to strut 
about and plan how to punish the bold woman for her offence. Yet 
not more than a few moments had passed when Natalia returned and, 
stealing to my side, began to comfort me,

"Hush, then, my love. Do not cry. Forgive me my rudeness. It was 
wrong of me. You WILL pardon me, my darling, will you not? There, 
there, that's a dear," and she took from her handkerchief a 
cornet of pink paper containing two little cakes and a grape, and 
offered it me with a trembling hand. I could not look the kind 
old woman in the face, but, turning aside, took the paper, while 
my tears flowed the faster--though from love and shame now, not 
from anger.

XIV

THE PARTING

ON the day after the events described, the carriage and the 
luggage-cart drew up to the door at noon. Nicola, dressed for the 
journey, with his breeches tucked into his boots and an old 
overcoat belted tightly about him with a girdle, got into the 
cart and arranged cloaks and cushions on the seats. When he 
thought that they were piled high enough he sat down on them, but 
finding them still unsatisfactory, jumped up and arranged them 
once more.

"Nicola Dimitvitch, would you be so good as to take master's 
dressing-case with you? " said Papa's valet, suddenly standing up 
in the carriage, " It won't take up much room."

"You should have told me before, Michael Ivanitch," answered 
Nicola snappishly as he hurled a bundle with all his might to the 
floor of the cart. "Good gracious! Why, when my head is going 
round like a whirlpool, there you come along with your dressing-
case!" and he lifted his cap to wipe away the drops of 
perspiration from his sunburnt brow.

The courtyard was full of bareheaded peasants in kaftans or 
simple shirts, women clad in the national dress and wearing 
striped handkerchiefs, and barefooted little ones--the latter 
holding their mothers' hands or crowding round the entrance-
steps. All were chattering among themselves as they stared at the 
carriage. One of the postillions, an old man dressed in a winter 
cap and cloak, took hold of the pole of the carriage and tried it 
carefully, while the other postillion (a young man in a white 
blouse with pink gussets on the sleeves and a black lamb's-wool 
cap which he kept cocking first on one side and then on the other 
as he arranged his flaxen hair) laid his overcoat upon the box, 
slung the reins over it, and cracked his thonged whip as he 
looked now at his boots and now at the other drivers where they 
stood greasing the wheels of the cart--one driver lifting up each 
wheel in turn and the other driver applying the grease. Tired 
post-horses of various hues stood lashing away flies with their 
tails near the gate--some stamping their great hairy legs, 
blinking their eyes, and dozing, some leaning wearily against 
their neighbours, and others cropping the leaves and stalks of 
dark-green fern which grew near the entrance-steps. Some of the 
dogs were lying panting in the sun, while others were slinking 
under the vehicles to lick the grease from the wheels. The air 
was filled with a sort of dusty mist, and the horizon was lilac-
grey in colour, though no clouds were to be seen, A strong wind 
from the south was raising volumes of dust from the roads and 
fields, shaking the poplars and birch-trees in the garden, and 
whirling their yellow leaves away. I myself was sitting at a 
window and waiting impatiently for these various preparations to 
come to an end.

As we sat together by the drawing-room table, to pass the last 
few moments en famille, it never occurred to me that a sad moment 
was impending. On the contrary, the most trivial thoughts were 
filling my brain. Which driver was going to drive the carriage 
and which the cart? Which of us would sit with Papa, and which 
with Karl Ivanitch? Why must I be kept forever muffled up in a 
scarf and padded boots?

"Am I so delicate? Am I likely to be frozen?" I thought to 
myself. "I wish it would all come to an end, and we could take 
our seats and start." 

"To whom shall I give the list of the children's linen?" asked 
Natalia Savishna of Mamma as she entered the room with a paper in 
her hand and her eyes red with weeping.

"Give it to Nicola, and then return to say good-bye to them," 
replied Mamma. The old woman seemed about to say something more, 
but suddenly stopped short, covered her face with her 
handkerchief, and left the room. Something seemed to prick at my 
heart when I saw that gesture of hers, but impatience to be off 
soon drowned all other feeling, and I continued to listen 
indifferently to Papa and Mamma as they talked together. They 
were discussing subjects which evidently interested neither of 
them. What must be bought for the house? What would Princess 
Sophia or Madame Julie say? Would the roads be good?--and so 
forth.

Foka entered, and in the same tone and with the same air as 
though he were announcing luncheon said, "The carriages are 
ready." I saw Mamma tremble and turn pale at the announcement, 
just as though it were something unexpected.

Next, Foka was ordered to shut all the doors of the room. This 
amused me highly. As though we needed to be concealed from some 
one! When every one else was seated, Foka took the last remaining 
chair. Scarcely, however, had he done so when the door creaked 
and every one looked that way. Natalia Savishna entered hastily, 
and, without raising her eyes, sat own on the same chair as 
Foka. I can see them before me now-Foka's bald head and wrinkled, 
set face, and, beside him, a bent, kind figure in a cap from 
beneath which a few grey hairs were straggling. The pair settled 
themselves together on the chair, but neither of them looked 
comfortable.

I continued preoccupied and impatient. In fact, the ten minutes 
during which we sat there with closed doors seemed to me an hour. 
At last every one rose, made the sign of the cross, and began to 
say good-bye. Papa embraced Mamma, and kissed her again and 
again.

"But enough," he said presently. "We are not parting for ever."

"No, but it is-so-so sad! " replied Mamma, her voice trembling 
with emotion.

When I heard that faltering voice, and saw those quivering lips 
and tear-filled eyes, I forgot everything else in the world. I 
felt so ill and miserable that I would gladly have run away 
rather than bid her farewell. I felt, too, that when she was 
embracing Papa she was embracing us all. She clasped Woloda to 
her several times, and made the sign of the cross over him; after 
which I approached her, thinking that it was my turn. 
Nevertheless she took him again and again to her heart, and 
blessed him. Finally I caught hold of her, and, clinging to her, 
wept--wept, thinking of nothing in the world but my grief.

As we passed out to take our seats, other servants pressed round 
us in the hall to say good-bye. Yet their requests to shake hands 
with us, their resounding kisses on our shoulders, [The fashion 
in which inferiors salute their superiors in Russia.] and the 
odour of their greasy heads only excited in me a feeling akin to 
impatience with these tiresome people. The same feeling made me 
bestow nothing more than a very cross kiss upon Natalia's cap 
when she approached to take leave of me. It is strange that I 
should still retain a perfect recollection of these servants' 
faces, and be able to draw them with the most minute accuracy in 
my mind, while Mamma's face and attitude escape me entirely. It 
may be that it is because at that moment I had not the heart to 
look at her closely. I felt that if I did so our mutual grief 
would burst forth too unrestrainedly.

I was the first to jump into the carriage and to take one of the 
hinder seats. The high back of the carriage prevented me from 
actually seeing her, yet I knew by instinct that Mamma was still 
there.

"Shall I look at her again or not?" I said to myself. "Well, 
just for the last time," and I peeped out towards the entrance-
steps. Exactly at that moment Mamma moved by the same impulse, 
came to the opposite side of the carriage, and called me by name. 
Rearing her voice behind me. I turned round, but so hastily that 
our heads knocked together. She gave a sad smile, and kissed me 
convulsively for the last time.

When we had driven away a few paces I determined to look at her 
once more. The wind was lifting the blue handkerchief from her 
head as, bent forward and her face buried in her hands, she moved 
slowly up the steps. Foka was supporting her. Papa said nothing 
as he sat beside me. I felt breathless with tears--felt a sensation 
in my throat as though I were going to choke, just as we came out 
on to the open road I saw a white handkerchief waving from the 
terrace. I waved mine in return, and the action of so doing 
calmed me a little. I still went on crying. but the thought that 
my tears were a proof of my affection helped to soothe and 
comfort me.

After a little while I began to recover, and to look with 
interest at objects which we passed and at the hind-quarters of 
the led horse which was trotting on my side. I watched how it 
would swish its tail, how it would lift one hoof after the other, 
how the driver's thong would fall upon its back, and how all its 
legs would then seem to jump together and the back-band, with the 
rings on it, to jump too--the whole covered with the horse's foam. 
Then I would look at the rolling stretches of ripe corn, at the 
dark ploughed fields where ploughs and peasants and horses with 
foals were working, at their footprints, and at the box of the 
carriage to see who was driving us; until, though my face was 
still wet with tears, my thoughts had strayed far from her with 
whom I had just parted--parted, perhaps, for ever. Yet ever and 
again something would recall her to my memory. I remembered too 
how, the evening before, I had found a mushroom under the birch-
trees, how Lubotshka had quarrelled with Katenka as to whose it 
should be, and how they had both of them wept when taking leave 
of us. I felt sorry to be parted from them, and from Natalia 
Savishna, and from the birch-tree avenue, and from Foka. Yes, 
even the horrid Mimi I longed for. I longed for everything at 
home. And poor Mamma!--The tears rushed to my eyes again. Yet even 
this mood passed away before long.

XV

CHILDHOOD

HAPPY, happy, never-returning time of childhood! How can we help 
loving and dwelling upon its recollections? They cheer and 
elevate the soul, and become to one a source of higher 
joys.

Sometimes, when dreaming of bygone days, I fancy that, tired out 
with running about, I have sat down, as of old, in my high arm-
chair by the tea-table. It is late, and I have long since drunk 
my cup of milk. My eyes are heavy with sleep as I sit there and 
listen. How could I not listen, seeing that Mamma is speaking to 
somebody, and that the sound of her voice is so melodious and 
kind? How much its echoes recall to my heart! With my eyes veiled 
with drowsiness I gaze at her wistfully. Suddenly she seems to 
grow smaller and smaller, and her face vanishes to a point; yet I 
can still see it--can still see her as she looks at me and smiles. 
Somehow it pleases me to see her grown so small. I blink and 
blink, yet she looks no larger than a boy reflected in the pupil 
of an eye. Then I rouse myself, and the picture fades. Once more 
I half-close my eyes, and cast about to try and recall the dream, 
but it has gone,

I rise to my feet, only to fall back comfortably into the 
armchair.

"There! You are failing asleep again, little Nicolas," says 
Mamma. "You had better go to by-by."

"No, I won't go to sleep, Mamma," I reply, though almost 
inaudibly, for pleasant dreams are filling all my soul. The sound 
sleep of childhood is weighing my eyelids down, and for a few 
moments I sink into slumber and oblivion until awakened by some 
one. I feel in my sleep as though a soft hand were caressing me. 
I know it by the touch, and, though still dreaming, I seize hold 
of it and press it to my lips. Every one else has gone to bed, 
and only one candle remains burning in the drawing-room. Mamma 
has said that she herself will wake me. She sits down on the arm 
of the chair in which I am asleep, with her soft hand stroking my 
hair, and I hear her beloved, well-known voice say in my ear:

"Get up, my darling. It is time to go by-by."

No envious gaze sees her now. She is not afraid to shed upon me 
the whole of her tenderness and love. I do not wake up, yet I 
kiss and kiss her hand.

"Get up, then, my angel."

She passes her other arm round my neck, and her fingers tickle me 
as they move across it. The room is quiet and in half-darkness, 
but the tickling has touched my nerves and I begin to awake. 
Mamma is sitting near me--that I can tell--and touching me; I can 
hear her voice and feel her presence. This at last rouses me to 
spring up, to throw my arms around her neck, to hide my head in 
her bosom, and to say with a sigh:

"Ah, dear, darling Mamma, how much I love you!"

She smiles her sad, enchanting smile, takes my head between her 
two hands, kisses me on the forehead, and lifts me on to her lap.

"Do you love me so much, then?" she says. Then, after a few 
moments' silence, she continues: "And you must love me always, 
and never forget me. If your Mamma should no longer be here, will 
you promise never to forget her--never, Nicolinka? and she kisses 
me more fondly than ever.

"Oh, but you must not speak so, darling Mamma, my own darling 
Mamma!" I exclaim as I clasp her knees, and tears of joy and 
love fall from my eyes.

How, after scenes like this, I would go upstairs, and stand 
before the ikons, and say with a rapturous feeling, "God bless 
Papa and Mamma!" and repeat a prayer for my beloved mother which 
my childish lips had learnt to lisp-the love of God and of her 
blending strangely in a single emotion!

After saying my prayers I would wrap myself up in the bedclothes. 
My heart would feel light, peaceful, and happy, and one dream 
would follow another. Dreams of what? They were all of them 
vague, but all of them full of pure love and of a sort of 
expectation of happiness. I remember, too, that I used to think 
about Karl Ivanitch and his sad lot. He was the only unhappy 
being whom I knew, and so sorry would I feel for him, and so much 
did I love him, that tears would fall from my eyes as I thought, 
"May God give him happiness, and enable me to help him and to 
lessen his sorrow. I could make any sacrifice for him!" Usually, 
also, there would be some favourite toy--a china dog or hare--
stuck into the bed-corner behind the pillow, and it would please 
me to think how warm and comfortable and well cared-for it was 
there. Also, I would pray God to make every one happy, so that 
every one might be contented, and also to send fine weather to-
morrow for our walk. Then I would turn myself over on to the 
other side, and thoughts and dreams would become jumbled and 
entangled together until at last I slept soundly and peacefully, 
though with a face wet with tears.

Do in after life the freshness and light-heartedness, the craving 
for love and for strength of faith, ever return which we 
experience in our childhood's years? What better time is there in 
our lives than when the two best of virtues--innocent gaiety and a 
boundless yearning for affection--are our sole objects of pursuit?

Where now are our ardent prayers? Where now are our best gifts--
the pure tears of emotion which a guardian angel dries with a 
smile as he sheds upon us lovely dreams of ineffable childish 
joy? Can it be that life has left such heavy traces upon one's 
heart that those tears and ecstasies are for ever vanished? Can 
it be that there remains to us only the recollection of them?

XVI

VERSE-MAKING

RATHER less than a month after our arrival in Moscow I was 
sitting upstairs in my Grandmamma's house and doing some writing 
at a large table. Opposite to me sat the drawing master, who was 
giving a few finishing touches to the head of a turbaned Turk, 
executed in black pencil. Woloda, with out-stretched neck, was 
standing behind the drawing master and looking over his shoulder. 
The head was Woloda's first production in pencil and to-day--
Grandmamma's name-day--the masterpiece was to be presented to her.

"Aren't you going to put a little more shadow there? " said 
Woloda to the master as he raised himself on tiptoe and pointed 
to the Turk's neck.

"No, it is not necessary," the master replied as he put pencil 
and drawing-pen into a japanned folding box. "It is just right 
now, and you need not do anything more to it. As for you, 
Nicolinka " he added, rising and glancing askew at the Turk, 
"won't you tell us your great secret at last? What are you going 
to give your Grandmamma? I think another head would be your best 
gift. But good-bye, gentlemen," and taking his hat and cardboard 
he departed.

I too had thought that another head than the one at which I had 
been working would be a better gift; so, when we were told that 
Grandmamma's name-day was soon to come round and that we must 
each of us have a present ready for her, I had taken it into my 
head to write some verses in honour of the occasion, and had 
forthwith composed two rhymed couplets, hoping that the rest 
would soon materialise. I really do not know how the idea--one so 
peculiar for a child--came to occur to me, but I know that I liked 
it vastly, and answered all questions on the subject of my gift 
by declaring that I should soon have something ready for 
Grandmamma, but was not going to say what it was.

Contrary to my expectation, I found that, after the first two 
couplets executed in the initial heat of enthusiasm, even my most 
strenuous efforts refused to produce another one. I began to read 
different poems in our books, but neither Dimitrieff nor 
Derzhavin could help me. On the contrary, they only confirmed my 
sense of incompetence. Knowing, however, that Karl Ivanitch was 
fond of writing verses, I stole softly upstairs to burrow among 
his papers, and found, among a number of German verses, some in 
the Russian language which seemed to have come from his own pen.

To L

Remember near 
Remember far, 
Remember me. 
To-day be faithful, and for ever--
Aye, still beyond the grave--remember 
That I have well loved thee.

"KARL MAYER."

These verses (which were written in a fine, round hand on thin 
letter-paper) pleased me with the touching sentiment with which 
they seemed to be inspired. I learnt them by heart, and decided 
to take them as a model. The thing was much easier now. By the 
time the name-day had arrived I had completed a twelve-couplet 
congratulatory ode, and sat down to the table in our school-room 
to copy them out on vellum.

Two sheets were soon spoiled--not because I found it necessary to 
alter anything (the verses seemed to me perfect), but because, 
after the third line, the tail-end of each successive one would 
go curving upward and making it plain to all the world that the 
whole thing had been written with a want of adherence to the 
horizontal--a thing which I could not bear to see.

The third sheet also came out crooked, but I determined to make 
it do. In my verses I congratulated Grandmamma, wished her many 
happy returns, and concluded thus:

Endeavouring you to please and cheer,
We love you like our Mother dear."

This seemed to me not bad, yet it offended my car somehow.

"Lo-ve you li-ike our Mo-ther dear," I repeated to myself. "What 
other rhyme could I use instead of 'dear'? Fear? Steer? Well, it 
must go at that. At least the verses are better than Karl 
Ivanitch's."

Accordingly I added the last verse to the rest. Then I went into 
our bedroom and recited the whole poem aloud with much feeling 
and gesticulation. The verses were altogether guiltless of metre, 
but I did not stop to consider that. Yet the last one displeased 
me more than ever. As I sat on my bed I thought:

"Why on earth did I write 'like our Mother dear'? She is not 
here, and therefore she need never have been mentioned. True, I 
love and respect Grandmamma, but she is not quite the same as-- 
Why DID I write that? What did I go and tell a lie for? They may 
be verses only, yet I needn't quite have done that."

At that moment the tailor arrived with some new clothes for us.

"Well, so be it!" I said in much vexation as I crammed the 
verses hastily under my pillow and ran down to adorn myself in 
the new Moscow garments.

They fitted marvellously-both the brown jacket with yellow 
buttons (a garment made skin-tight and not "to allow room for 
growth," as in the country) and the black trousers (also close-
fitting so that they displayed the figure and lay smoothly over 
the boots).

"At last I have real trousers on!" I thought as I looked at my 
legs with the utmost satisfaction. I concealed from every one the 
fact that the new clothes were horribly tight and uncomfortable, 
but, on the contrary, said that, if there were a fault, it was 
that they were not tight enough. For a long while I stood before 
the looking-glass as I combed my elaborately pomaded head, but, 
try as I would, I could not reduce the topmost hairs on the crown 
to order. As soon as ever I left off combing them, they sprang up 
again and radiated in different directions, thus giving my face 
a ridiculous expression.

Karl Ivanitch was dressing in another room, and I heard some one 
bring him his blue frockcoat and under-linen. Then at the door 
leading downstairs I heard a maid-servant's voice, and went to 
see what she wanted. In her hand she held a well-starched shirt 
which she said she had been sitting up all night to get ready. I 
took it, and asked if Grandmamma was up yet.

"Oh yes, she has had her coffee, and the priest has come. My 
word, but you look a fine little fellow! " added the girl with a 
smile at my new clothes.

This observation made me blush, so I whirled round on one leg, 
snapped my fingers, and went skipping away, in the hope that by 
these manoeuvres I should make her sensible that even yet she had 
not realised quite what a fine fellow I was.

However, when I took the shirt to Karl I found that he did not 
need it, having taken another one. Standing before a small 
looking-glass, he tied his cravat with both hands--trying, by 
various motions of his head, to see whether it fitted him 
comfortably or not--and then took us down to see Grandmamma. To 
this day I cannot help laughing when I remember what a smell of 
pomade the three of us left behind us on the staircase as we 
descended.

Karl was carrying a box which he had made himself, Woloda, his 
drawing, and I my verses, while each of us also had a form of 
words ready with which to present his gift. Just as Karl opened 
the door, the priest put on his vestment and began to say 
prayers.

During the ceremony Grandmamma stood leaning over the back of a 
chair, with her head bent down. Near her stood Papa. He turned 
and smiled at us as we hurriedly thrust our presents behind our 
backs and tried to remain unobserved by the door. The whole 
effect of a surprise, upon which we had been counting, was 
entirely lost. When at last every one had made the sign of the 
cross I became intolerably oppressed with a sudden, invincible, 
and deadly attack of shyness, so that the courage to, offer my 
present completely failed me. I hid myself behind Karl Ivanitch, 
who solemnly congratulated Grandmamma and, transferring his box 
from his right hand to his left, presented it to her. Then he 
withdrew a few steps to make way for Woloda. Grandmamma seemed 
highly pleased with the box (which was adorned with a gold 
border), and smiled in the most friendly manner in order to 
express her gratitude. Yet it was evident that, she did not know 
where to set the box down, and this probably accounts for the 
fact that she handed it to Papa, at the same time bidding him 
observe how beautifully it was made.

His curiosity satisfied, Papa handed the box to the priest, who 
also seemed particularly delighted with it, and looked with 
astonishment, first at the article itself, and then at the artist 
who could make such wonderful things. Then Woloda presented his 
Turk, and received a similarly flattering ovation on all sides.

It was my turn now, and Grandmamma turned to me with her kindest 
smile. Those who have experienced what embarrassment is know that 
it is a feeling which grows in direct proportion to delay, while 
decision decreases in similar measure. In other words the longer 
the condition lasts, the more invincible does it become, and the 
smaller does the power of decision come to be.

My last remnants of nerve and energy had forsaken me while Karl 
and Woloda had been offering their presents, and my shyness now 
reached its culminating point, I felt the blood rushing from my 
heart to my head, one blush succeeding another across my face, 
and drops of perspiration beginning to stand out on my brow and 
nose. My ears were burning, I trembled from head to foot, and, 
though I kept changing from one foot to the other, I remained 
rooted where I stood.

"Well, Nicolinka, tell us what you have brought?" said Papa. 
"Is it a box or a drawing? "

There was nothing else to be done. With a trembling hand held out 
the folded, fatal paper, but my voiced failed me completely and I 
stood before Grandmamma in silence. I could not get rid of the 
dreadful idea that, instead of a display of the expected drawing, 
some bad verses of mine were about to be read aloud before every 
one, and that the words "our Mother dear " would clearly prove 
that I had never loved, but had only forgotten, her. How shall I 
express my sufferings when Grandmamma began to read my poetry 
aloud?--when, unable to decipher it, she stopped half-way and 
looked at Papa with a smile (which I took to be one of 
ridicule)?--when she did not pronounce it as I had meant it to be 
pronounced?--and when her weak sight not allowing her to finish 
it, she handed the paper to Papa and requested him to read it all 
over again from the beginning? I fancied that she must have done 
this last because she did not like to read such a lot of stupid, 
crookedly written stuff herself, yet wanted to point out to Papa 
my utter lack of feeling. I expected him to slap me in the face 
with the verses and say, "You bad boy! So you have forgotten 
your Mamma! Take that for it!" Yet nothing of the sort happened. 
On the contrary, when the whole had been read, Grandmamma said, 
"Charming!" and kissed me on the forehead. Then our presents, 
together with two cambric pocket-handkerchiefs and a snuff-box 
engraved with Mamma's portrait, were laid on the table 
attached to the great Voltairian arm-chair in which Grandmamma 
always sat.

"The Princess Barbara Ilinitsha!" announced one of the two 
footmen who used to stand behind Grandmamma's carriage, but 
Grandmamma was looking thoughtfully at the portrait on the snuff-
box, and returned no answer.

"Shall I show her in, madam?" repeated the footman.

XVII

THE PRINCESS KORNAKOFF

"Yes, show her in," said Grandmamma, settling herself as far back 
in her arm-chair as possible. The Princess was a woman of about 
forty-five, small and delicate, with a shrivelled skin and 
disagreeable, greyish-green eyes, the expression of which 
contradicted the unnaturally suave look of the rest of her face. 
Underneath her velvet bonnet, adorned with an ostrich feather, 
was visible some reddish hair, while against the unhealthy colour 
of her skin her eyebrows and eyelashes looked even lighter and 
redder that they would other wise have done. Yet, for all that, 
her animated movements, small hands, and peculiarly dry features 
communicated something aristocratic and energetic to her general 
appearance. She talked a great deal, and, to judge from her 
eloquence, belonged to that class of persons who always speak as 
though some one were contradicting them, even though no one else 
may be saying a word. First she would raise her voice, then lower 
it and then take on a fresh access of vivacity as she looked at 
the persons present, but not participating in the conversation, 
with an air of endeavouring to draw them into it.

Although the Princess kissed Grandmamma's hand and repeatedly 
called her "my good Aunt," I could see that Grandmamma did not 
care much about her, for she kept raising her eyebrows in a 
peculiar way while listening to the Princess's excuses why 
Prince Michael had been prevented from calling, and 
congratulating Grandmamma "as he would like so-much to have 
done."  At length, however, she answered the Princess's French 
with Russian, and with a sharp accentuation of certain words.

"I am much obliged to you for your kindness," she said. "As for 
Prince Michael's absence, pray do not mention it. He has so much 
else to do. Besides, what pleasure could he find in coming to see 
an old woman like me?" Then, without allowing the Princess time 
to reply, she went on: "How are your children my dear?"

"Well, thank God, Aunt, they grow and do their lessons and play--
particularly my eldest one, Etienne, who is so wild that it is 
almost impossible to keep him in order. Still, he is a clever and 
promising boy. Would you believe it, cousin" this last to Papa, 
since Grandmamma altogether uninterested in the Princess's 
children, had turned to us, taken my verses out from beneath the 
presentation box, and unfolded them again), "would you believe 
it, but one day not long ago--" and leaning over towards Papa, the 
Princess related something or other with great vivacity. Then, 
her tale concluded, she laughed, and, with a questioning look at 
Papa, went on:

"What a boy, cousin! He ought to have been whipped, but the 
trick was so spirited and amusing that I let him off." Then the 
Princess looked at Grandmamma and laughed again.

"Ah! So you WHIP your children, do you" said Grandmamma, with a 
significant lift of her eyebrows, and laying a peculiar stress on 
the word "WHIP."

"Alas, my good Aunt," replied the Princess in a sort of tolerant 
tone and with another glance at Papa, "I know your views on the 
subject, but must beg to be allowed to differ with them. However 
much I have thought over and read and talked about the matter, I 
have always been forced to come to the conclusion that children 
must be ruled through FEAR. To make something of a child, you 
must make it FEAR something. Is it not so, cousin? And what, 
pray, do children fear so much as a rod?"

As she spoke she seemed, to look inquiringly at Woloda and 
myself, and I confess that I did not feel altogether comfortable.

"Whatever you may say," she went on, "a boy of twelve, or even 
of fourteen, is still a child and should be whipped as such; but 
with girls, perhaps, it is another matter."

"How lucky it is that I am not her son!" I thought to myself.

"Oh, very well," said Grandmamma, folding up my verses and 
replacing them beneath the box (as though, after that exposition 
of views, the Princess was unworthy of the honour of listening to 
such a production). "Very well, my dear," she repeated "But 
please tell me how, in return, you can look for any delicate 
sensibility from your children?"

Evidently Grandmamma thought this argument unanswerable, for she 
cut the subject short by adding:

"However, it is a point on which people must follow their own 
opinions."

The Princess did not choose to reply, but smiled condescendingly,
and as though out of indulgence to the strange prejudices of a person 
whom she only PRETENDED to revere.

"Oh, by the way, pray introduce me to your young people," she 
went on presently as she threw us another gracious smile.

Thereupon we rose and stood looking at the Princess, without in 
the least knowing what we ought to do to show that we were being 
introduced.

"Kiss the Princess's hand," said Papa.

"Well, I hope you will love your old aunt," she said to Woloda, 
kissing his hair, "even though we are not near relatives. But I 
value friendship far more than I do degrees of relationship," she 
added to Grandmamma, who nevertheless, remained hostile, and 
replied:

"Eh, my dear? Is that what they think of relationships nowadays?"

"Here is my man of the world," put in Papa, indicating Woloda; 
"and here is my poet," he added as I kissed the small, dry hand of 
the Princess, with a vivid picture in my mind of that same hand 
holding a rod and applying it vigorously.

"WHICH one is the poet?" asked the Princess.

"This little one," replied Papa, smiling; "the one with the 
tuft of hair on his top-knot."

"Why need he bother about my tuft?" I thought to myself as I 
retired into a corner. "Is there nothing else for him to talk 
about?"

I had strange ideas on manly beauty. I considered Karl Ivanitch 
one of the handsomest men in the world, and myself so ugly that I 
had no need to deceive myself on that point. Therefore any remark 
on the subject of my exterior offended me extremely. I well 
remember how, one day after luncheon (I was then six years of 
age), the talk fell upon my personal appearance, and how Mamma 
tried to find good features in my face, and said that I had 
clever eyes and a charming smile; how, nevertheless, when Papa 
had examined me, and proved the contrary, she was obliged to 
confess that I was ugly; and how, when the meal was over and I 
went to pay her my respects, she said as she patted my cheek; 
"You know, Nicolinka, nobody will ever love you for your face 
alone, so you must try all the more to be a good and clever boy."

Although these words of hers confirmed in me my conviction that I 
was not handsome, they also confirmed in me an ambition to be 
just such a boy as she had indicated. Yet I had my moments of 
despair at my ugliness, for I thought that no human being with 
such a large nose, such thick lips, and such small grey eyes as 
mine could ever hope to attain happiness on this earth. I used to 
ask God to perform a miracle by changing me into a beauty, and 
would have given all that I possessed, or ever hoped to possess, 
to have a handsome face,

XVIII

PRINCE IVAN IVANOVITCH

When the Princess had heard my verses and overwhelmed the writer 
of them with praise, Grandmamma softened to her a little. She 
began to address her in French and to cease calling her "my 
dear." Likewise she invited her to return that evening with her 
children. This invitation having been accepted, the Princess took 
her leave. After that, so many other callers came to congratulate 
Grandmamma that the courtyard was crowded all day long with 
carriages.

"Good morning, my dear cousin," was the greeting of one guest in 
particular as he entered the room and kissed Grandmamma's hand, 
He was a man of seventy, with a stately figure clad in a 
military uniform and adorned with large epaulettes, an 
embroidered collar, and a white cross round the neck. His face, 
with its quiet and open expression, as well as the simplicity and 
ease of his manners, greatly pleased me, for, in spite of the 
thin half-circle of hair which was all that was now left to him, 
and the want of teeth disclosed by the set of his upper lip, his 
face was a remarkably handsome one.

Thanks to his fine character, handsome exterior, remarkable 
valour, influential relatives, and, above all, good fortune, 
Prince, Ivan Ivanovitch had early made himself a career. As that 
career progressed, his ambition had met with a success which left 
nothing more to be sought for in that direction. From his 
earliest youth upward he had prepared himself to fill the exalted 
station in the world to which fate actually called him later; 
wherefore, although in his prosperous life (as in the lives of 
all) there had been failures, misfortunes, and cares, he had 
never lost his quietness of character, his elevated tone of 
thought, or his peculiarly moral, religious bent of mind. 
Consequently, though he had won the universal esteem of his 
fellows, he had done so less through his important position than 
through his perseverance and integrity. While not of specially 
distinguished intellect, the eminence of his station (whence he 
could afford to look down upon all petty questions) had caused 
him to adopt high points of view. Though in reality he was kind 
and sympathetic, in manner he appeared cold and haughty--probably 
for the reason that he had forever to be on his guard against the 
endless claims and petitions of people who wished to profit 
through his influence. Yet even then his coldness was mitigated 
by the polite condescension of a man well accustomed to move in 
the highest circles of society. Well-educated, his culture was 
that of a youth of the end of the last century. He had read 
everything, whether philosophy or belles lettres, which that age 
had produced in France, and loved to quote from Racine, 
Corneille, Boileau, Moliere, Montaigne, and Fenelon. Likewise he 
had gleaned much history from Segur, and much of the old classics 
from French translations of them; but for mathematics, natural 
philosophy, or contemporary literature he cared nothing whatever. 
However, he knew how to be silent in conversation, as well as 
when to make general remarks on authors whom he had never read--
such as Goethe, Schiller, and Byron. Moreover, despite his 
exclusively French education, he was simple in speech and hated 
originality (which he called the mark of an untutored nature). 
Wherever he lived, society was a necessity to him, and, both in 
Moscow and the country he had his reception days, on which 
practically "all the town" called upon him. An introduction 
from him was a passport to every drawing-room; few young and 
pretty ladies in society objected to offering him their rosy 
cheeks for a paternal salute; and people even in the highest 
positions felt flattered by invitations to his parties.

The Prince had few friends left now like Grandmamma--that is to 
say, few friends who were of the same standing as himself, who 
had had the same sort of education, and who saw things from the 
same point of view: wherefore he greatly valued his intimate, 
long-standing friendship with her, and always showed her the 
highest respect.

I hardly dared to look at the Prince, since the honour paid him 
on all sides, the huge epaulettes, the peculiar pleasure with 
which Grandmamma received him, and the fact that he alone, seemed 
in no way afraid of her, but addressed her with perfect freedom 
(even being so daring as to call her "cousin"), awakened in me 
a feeling of reverence for his person almost equal to that which 
I felt for Grandmamma herself.

On being shown my verses, he called me to his side, and said:

"Who knows, my cousin, but that he may prove to be a second 
Derzhavin?" Nevertheless he pinched my cheek so hard that I was 
only prevented from crying by the thought that it must be meant 
for a caress.

Gradually the other guests dispersed, and with them Papa and 
Woloda. Thus only Grandmamma, the Prince, and myself were left in 
the drawing-room.

"Why has our dear Natalia Nicolaevna not come to-day" asked the 
Prince after a silence.

"Ah, my friend," replied Grandmamma, lowering her voice and 
laying a hand upon the sleeve of his uniform, "she would 
certainly have come if she had been at liberty to do what she 
likes. She wrote to me that Peter had proposed bringing her with 
him to town, but that she had refused, since their income had not 
been good this year, and she could see no real reason why the 
whole family need come to Moscow, seeing that Lubotshka was as 
yet very young and that the boys were living with me--a fact, she 
said, which made her feel as safe about them as
though she had been living with them herself."

"True, it is good for the boys to be here," went on Grandmamma, 
yet in a tone which showed clearly that she did not think it was 
so very good, "since it was more than time that they should be 
sent to Moscow to study, as well as to learn how to comport 
themselves in society. What sort of an education could they have 
got in the country? The eldest boy will soon be thirteen, and the 
second one eleven. As yet, my cousin, they are quite untaught, 
and do not know even how to enter a room."

"Nevertheless" said the Prince, "I cannot understand these 
complaints of ruined fortunes. He has a very handsome income, and 
Natalia has Chabarovska, where we used to act plays, and which I 
know as well as I do my own hand. It is a splendid property, and 
ought to bring in an excellent return."

"Well," said Grandmamma with a sad expression on her face, "I do 
not mind telling you, as my most intimate friend, that all this 
seems to me a mere pretext on his part for living alone, for 
strolling about from club to club, for attending dinner-parties, 
and for resorting to--well, who knows what? She suspects nothing; 
you know her angelic sweetness and her implicit trust of him in 
everything. He had only to tell her that the children must go to 
Moscow and that she must be left behind in the country with a 
stupid governess for company, for her to believe him! I almost 
think that if he were to say that the children must be whipped 
just as the Princess Barbara whips hers, she would believe even 
that!" and Grandmamma leant back in her arm-chair with an 
expression of contempt. Then, after a moment of silence, during 
which she took her handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe away a 
few tears which had stolen down her cheeks, she went, on:

"Yes, my friend, I often think that he cannot value and 
understand her properly, and that, for all her goodness and love 
of him and her endeavours to conceal her grief (which, however as 
I know only too well, exists). She cannot really he happy with 
him. Mark my words if he does not--" Here Grandmamma buried her 
face in the handkerchief.

"Ah, my dear old friend," said the Prince reproachfully. "I think 
you are unreasonable. Why grieve and weep over imagined evils? 
That is not right. I have known him a long time, and feel sure 
that he is an attentive, kind, and excellent husband, as well as 
(which is the chief thing of all) a perfectly honourable man."

At this point, having been an involuntary auditor of a 
conversation not meant for my ears, I stole on tiptoe out of the 
room, in a state of great distress.

XIX

THE IWINS

"Woloda, Woloda! The Iwins are just coming." I shouted on seeing 
from the window three boys in blue overcoats, and followed by a 
young tutor, advancing along the pavement opposite our house.

The Iwins were related to us, and of about the same age as 
ourselves. We had made their acquaintance soon after our arrival 
in Moscow. The second brother, Seriosha, had dark curly hair, a 
turned-up, strongly pronounced nose, very bright red lips (which, 
never being quite shut, showed a row of white teeth), beautiful 
dark-blue eyes, and an uncommonly bold expression of face. He 
never smiled but was either wholly serious or laughing a clear, 
merry, agreeable laugh. His striking good looks had captivated me 
from the first, and I felt an irresistible attraction towards 
him. Only to see him filled me with pleasure, and at one time my 
whole mental faculties used to be concentrated in the wish that I 
might do so. If three or four days passed without my seeing him I 
felt listless and ready to cry. Awake or asleep, I was forever 
dreaming of him. On going to bed I used to see him in my dreams, 
and when I had shut my eyes and called up a picture of him I 
hugged the vision as my choicest delight. So much store did I set 
upon this feeling for my friend that I never mentioned it to any 
one. Nevertheless, it must have annoyed him to see my admiring 
eyes constantly fixed upon him, or else he must have felt no 
reciprocal attraction, for he always preferred to play and talk 
with Woloda. Still, even with that I felt satisfied, and wished 
and asked for nothing better than to be ready at any time to make 
any sacrifice for him. Likewise, over and above the strange 
fascination which he exercised upon me, I always felt another 
sensation, namely, a dread of making him angry, of offending him, 
of displeasing him. Was this because his face bore such a haughty 
expression, or because I, despising my own exterior, over-rated 
the beautiful in others, or, lastly (and most probably), because 
it is a common sign of affection? At all events, I felt as much 
fear, of him as I did love. The first time that he spoke to me I 
was so overwhelmed with sudden happiness that I turned pale, then 
red, and could not utter a word. He had an ugly habit of blinking 
when considering anything seriously, as well as of twitching his 
nose and eyebrows. Consequently every one thought that this habit 
marred his face. Yet I thought it such a nice one that I 
involuntarily adopted it for myself, until, a few days after I 
had made his acquaintance, Grandmamma suddenly asked me whether 
my eyes were hurting me, since I was winking like an owl! Never a 
word of affection passed between us, yet he felt his power over 
me, and unconsciously but tyrannically, exercised it in all our 
childish intercourse. I used to long to tell him all that was in 
my heart, yet was too much afraid of him to be frank in any way, 
and, while submitting myself to his will, tried to appear merely 
careless and indifferent. Although at times his influence seemed 
irksome and intolerable, to throw it off was beyond my strength.

I often think with regret of that fresh, beautiful feeling of 
boundless, disinterested love which came to an end without having 
ever found self-expression or return. It is strange how, when a 
child, I always longed to be like grown-up people, and yet how I 
have often longed, since childhood's days, for those days to come 
back to me! Many times, in my relations with Seriosha, this wish 
to resemble grown-up people put a rude check upon the love that 
was waiting to expand, and made me repress it. Not only was I 
afraid of kissing him, or of taking his hand and saying how glad 
I was to see him, but I even dreaded calling him "Seriosha" and 
always said "Sergius" as every one else did in our house. Any 
expression of affection would have seemed like evidence of 
childishness, and any one who indulged in it, a baby. Not having 
yet passed through those bitter experiences which enforce upon 
older years circumspection and coldness, I deprived myself of the 
pure delight of a fresh, childish instinct for the absurd purpose 
of trying to resemble grown-up people.

I met the Iwins in the ante-room, welcomed them, and then ran to 
tell Grandmamma of their arrival with an expression as happy as 
though she were certain to be equally delighted. Then, never 
taking my eyes off Seriosha, I conducted the visitors to the 
drawing-room, and eagerly followed every movement of my 
favourite. When Grandmamma spoke to and fixed her penetrating 
glance upon him, I experienced that mingled sensation of pride 
and solicitude which an artist might feel when waiting for 
revered lips to pronounce a judgment upon his work.

With Grandmamma's permission, the Iwins' young tutor, Herr Frost, 
accompanied us into the little back garden, where he seated 
himself upon a bench, arranged his legs in a tasteful attitude, 
rested his brass-knobbed cane between them, lighted a cigar, and 
assumed the air of a man well-pleased with himself. He was a, 
German, but of a very different sort to our good Karl Ivanitch. 
In the first place, he spoke both Russian and French correctly, 
though with a hard accent Indeed, he enjoyed--especially among the 
ladies--the reputation of being a very accomplished fellow. In the 
second place, he wore a reddish moustache, a large gold pin set 
with a ruby, a black satin tie, and a very fashionable suit. 
Lastly, he was young, with a handsome, self-satisfied face and 
fine muscular legs. It was clear that he set the greatest store 
upon the latter, and thought them beyond compare, especially as 
regards the favour of the ladies. Consequently, whether sitting 
or standing, he always tried to exhibit them in the most 
favourable light. In short, he was a type of the young German-
Russian whose main desire is to be thought perfectly gallant and 
gentlemanly.

In the little garden merriment reigned. In fact, the game of 
"robbers" never went better. Yet an incident occurred which came 
near to spoiling it. Seriosha was the robber, and in pouncing 
upon some travellers he fell down and knocked his leg so badly 
against a tree that I thought the leg must be broken. 
Consequently, though I was the gendarme and therefore bound to 
apprehend him, I only asked him anxiously, when I reached him, if 
he had hurt himself very much. Nevertheless this threw him into a 
passion, and made him exclaim with fists clenched and in a voice 
which showed by its faltering what pain he was enduring, "Why, 
whatever is the matter? Is this playing the game properly? You 
ought to arrest me. Why on earth don't you do so?" This he 
repeated several times, and then, seeing Woloda and the elder 
Iwin (who were taking the part of the travellers) jumping and 
running about the path, he suddenly threw himself upon them with 
a shout and loud laughter to effect their capture.  I cannot 
express my wonder and delight at this valiant behaviour of my 
hero. In spite of the severe pain, he had not only refrained from 
crying, but had repressed the least symptom of suffering and kept 
his eye fixed upon the game! Shortly after this occurrence 
another boy, Ilinka Grap, joined our party. We went upstairs, and 
Seriosha gave me an opportunity of still further appreciating and 
taking delight in his manly bravery and fortitude. This was how 
it was.

Ilinka was the son of a poor foreigner who had been under certain 
obligations to my Grandpapa, and now thought it incumbent upon 
him to send his son to us as frequently as possible. Yet if he 
thought that the acquaintance would procure his son any 
advancement or pleasure, he was entirely mistaken, for not only 
were we anything but friendly to Ilinka, but it was seldom that 
we noticed him at all except to laugh at him. He was a boy of 
thirteen, tall and thin, with a pale, birdlike face, and a quiet, 
good-tempered expression. Though poorly dressed, he always had 
his head so thickly pomaded that we used to declare that on warm 
days it melted and ran down his neck. When I think of him now, it 
seems to me that he  was a very quiet, obliging, and good-
tempered boy, but at the time I thought him a creature so 
contemptible that he was not worth either attention or pity.

Upstairs we set ourselves to astonish each other with gymnastic 
tours de force. Ilinka watched us with a faint smile of 
admiration, but refused an invitation to attempt a similar feat, 
saying that he had no strength.

Seriosha was extremely captivating. His face and eyes glowed with 
laughter as he surprised us with tricks which we had never seen 
before. He jumped over three chairs put together, turned 
somersaults right across the room, and finally stood on his head 
on a pyramid of Tatistchev's dictionaries, moving his legs about 
with such comical rapidity that it was impossible not to help 
bursting with merriment.

After this last trick he pondered for a moment (blinking his
eyes as usual), and then went up to Ilinka with a very serious 
face.

"Try and do that," he said. "It is not really difficult."

Ilinka, observing that the general attention was fixed upon him, 
blushed, and said in an almost inaudible voice that he could not 
do the feat.

"Well, what does he mean by doing nothing at all? What a girl 
the fellow is! He has just GOT to stand on his head," and 
Seriosha, took him by the hand.

"Yes, on your head at once! This instant, this instant!" every 
one shouted as we ran upon Ilinka and dragged him to the 
dictionaries, despite his being visibly pale and frightened.

"Leave me alone! You are tearing my jacket!" cried the unhappy 
victim, but his exclamations of despair only encouraged us the 
more. We were dying with laughter, while the green jacket was 
bursting at every seam.

Woloda and the eldest Iwin took his head and placed it on the 
dictionaries, while Seriosha, and I seized his poor, thin legs 
(his struggles had stripped them upwards to the knees), and with 
boisterous, laughter held them uptight--the youngest Iwin 
superintending his general equilibrium.

Suddenly a moment of silence occurred amid our boisterous 
laughter--a moment during which nothing was to be heard in the 
room but the panting of the miserable Ilinka. It occurred to me 
at that moment that, after all, there was nothing so very comical 
and pleasant in all this.

"Now, THAT'S a boy!" cried Seriosha, giving Ilinka a smack with 
his hand. Ilinka said nothing, but made such desperate movements 
with his legs to free himself that his foot suddenly kicked 
Seriosha in the eye: with the result that, letting go of Ilinka's 
leg and covering the wounded member with one hand, Seriosha hit 
out at him with all his might with the other one. Of course 
Ilinka's legs slipped down as, sinking exhausted to the floor and 
half-suffocated with tears, he stammered out:

"Why should you bully me so?"

The poor fellow's miserable figure, with its streaming tears, 
ruffled hair, and crumpled trousers revealing dirty boots, 
touched us a little, and we stood silent and trying to smile,

Seriosha was the first to recover himself.

"What a girl! What a gaby!" he said, giving Ilinka a slight 
kick. "He can't take things in fun a bit. Well, get up, then."

"You are an utter beast! That's what YOU are!" said Ilinka, 
turning miserably away and sobbing.

"Oh, oh! Would it still kick and show temper, then?" cried 
Seriosha, seizing a dictionary and throwing it at the unfortunate 
boy's head. Apparently it never occurred to Ilinka to take refuge 
from the missile; he merely guarded his head with his hands.

"Well, that's enough now," added Seriosha, with a forced laugh. 
"You DESERVE to be hurt if you can't take things in fun. Now 
let's go downstairs."

I could not help looking with some compassion at the miserable 
creature on the floor as, his face buried in the dictionary, he 
lay there sobbing almost as though he were in a fit.

"Oh, Sergius!" I said. "Why have you done this?"

"Well, you did it too! Besides, I did not cry this afternoon 
when I knocked my leg and nearly broke it."

"True enough," I thought. "Ilinka is a poor whining sort of a 
chap, while Seriosha is a boy--a REAL boy."

It never occurred to my mind that possibly poor Ilinka was 
suffering far less from bodily pain than from the thought that 
five companions for whom he may have felt a genuine liking had, 
for no reason at all, combined to hurt and humiliate him.

I cannot explain my cruelty on this occasion. Why did I not step 
forward to comfort and protect him? Where was the pitifulness 
which often made me burst into tears at the sight of a young bird 
fallen from its nest, or of a puppy being thrown over a wall, or 
of a chicken being killed by the cook for soup? 

Can it be that the better instinct in me was overshadowed by my 
affection for Seriosha and the desire to shine before so brave a 
boy? If so, how contemptible were both the affection and the 
desire! They alone form dark spots on the pages of my youthful 
recollections.

XX

PREPARATIONS FOR THE PARTY

To judge from the extraordinary activity in the pantry, the 
shining cleanliness  which imparted such a new and festal guise 
to certain articles in the salon and drawing-room which I had 
long known as anything but resplendent, and the arrival of some 
musicians whom Prince Ivan would certainly not have sent for 
nothing, no small amount of company was to be expected that 
evening.

At the sound of every vehicle which chanced to pass the house I 
ran to the window, leaned my head upon my arms, and peered with 
impatient curiosity into the street.

At last a carriage stopped at our door, and, in the full belief 
that this must be the Iwins, who had promised to come early, I at 
once ran downstairs to meet them in the hall.

But, instead of the Iwins, I beheld from behind the figure of the 
footman who opened the door two female figures-one tall and 
wrapped in a blue cloak trimmed with marten, and the other one 
short and wrapped in a green shawl from beneath which a pair of 
little feet, stuck into fur boots, peeped forth.

Without paying any attention to my presence in the hall (although 
I thought it my duty, on the appearance of these persons to 
salute them), the shorter one moved towards the taller, and stood 
silently in front of her. Thereupon the tall lady untied the 
shawl which enveloped the head of the little one, and unbuttoned 
the cloak which hid her form; until, by the time that the footmen 
had taken charge of these articles and removed the fur boots, 
there stood forth from the amorphous chrysalis a charming girl of 
twelve, dressed in a short muslin frock, white pantaloons, and 
smart black satin shoes. Around her, white neck she wore a narrow 
black velvet ribbon, while her head was covered with flaxen curls 
which so perfectly suited her beautiful face in front and her 
bare neck and shoulders behind that I, would have believed 
nobody, not even Karl Ivanitch, if he, or she had told me that 
they only hung so nicely because, ever since the morning, they 
had been screwed up in fragments of a Moscow newspaper and then 
warmed with a hot iron. To me it seemed as though she must have 
been born with those curls.

The most prominent feature in her face was a pair of unusually 
large half-veiled eyes, which formed a strange, but pleasing, 
contrast to the small mouth. Her lips were closed, while her eyes 
looked so grave that the general expression of her face gave one 
the impression that a smile was never to be looked for from her: 
wherefore, when a smile did come, it was all the more pleasing.

Trying to escape notice, I slipped through the door of the salon, 
and then thought it necessary to be seen pacing to and fro, 
seemingly engaged in thought, as though unconscious of the 
arrival of guests.

BY the time, however, that the ladies had advanced to the middle 
of the salon I seemed suddenly to awake from my reverie and told 
them that Grandmamma was in the drawing room, Madame Valakhin, 
whose face pleased me extremely (especially since it bore a great 
resemblance to her daughter's), stroked my head kindly.

Grandmamma seemed delighted to see Sonetchka, She invited her to 
come to her, put back a curl which had fallen over her brow, and 
looking earnestly at her said, "What a charming child!"

Sonetchka blushed, smiled, and, indeed, looked so charming that I 
myself blushed as I looked at her.

"I hope you are going to enjoy yourself here, my love," said 
Grandmamma." Pray be as merry and dance as much as ever you can. 
See, we have two beaux for her already," she added, turning to 
Madame Valakhin, and stretching out her hand to me. 

This coupling of Sonetchka and myself pleased me so much that I 
blushed again.

Feeling, presently, that, my embarrassment was increasing, and 
hearing the sound of carriages approaching, I thought it wise to 
retire. In the hall I encountered the Princess Kornakoff, her 
son, and an incredible number of daughters. They had all of them 
the same face as their mother, and were very ugly. None of them 
arrested my attention. They talked in shrill tones as they took 
off their cloaks and boas, and laughed as they bustled about--
probably at the fact that there were so many of them!

Etienne was a boy of fifteen, tall and plump, with a sharp face, 
deep-set bluish eyes, and very large hands and feet for his age. 
Likewise he was awkward, and had a nervous, unpleasing voice. 
Nevertheless he seemed very pleased with himself, and was, in my 
opinion, a boy who could well bear being beaten with rods.

For a long time we confronted one another without speaking as we 
took stock of each other. When the flood of dresses had swept 
past I made shift to begin a conversation by asking him whether 
it had not been very close in the carriage.

"I don't know," he answered indifferently. "I never ride inside 
it, for it makes me feel sick directly, and Mamma knows that. 
Whenever we are driving anywhere at night-time I always sit on 
the box. I like that, for then one sees everything. Philip gives 
me the reins, and sometimes the whip too, and then the people 
inside get a regular--well, you know," he added with a significant 
gesture "It's splendid then."

"Master Etienne," said a footman, entering the hall, "Philip 
wishes me to ask you where you put the whip."

"Where I put it? Why, I gave it back to him." 

"But he says that you did not."

"Well, I laid it across the carriage-lamps!"

"No, sir, he says that you did not do that either. You had 
better confess that you took it and lashed it to shreds. I 
suppose poor Philip will have to make good your mischief out of 
his own pocket." The footman (who looked a grave and honest man) 
seemed much put out by the affair, and determined to sift it to 
the bottom on Philip's behalf.

Out of delicacy I pretended to notice nothing and turned aside, 
but the other footmen present gathered round and looked 
approvingly at the old servant.

"Hm--well, I DID tear it in pieces," at length confessed Etienne, 
shrinking from further explanations. "However, I will pay for 
it. Did you ever hear anything so absurd?" he added to me as he 
drew me towards the drawing-room. 

"But excuse me, sir; HOW are you going to pay for it? I know 
your ways of paying. You have owed Maria Valericana twenty 
copecks these eight months now, and you have owed me something 
for two years, and Peter for--"

"Hold your tongue, will you! " shouted the young fellow, pale 
with rage "I shall report you for this."

"Oh, you may do so," said the footman. "Yet it is not fair, 
your highness," he added, with a peculiar stress on the title, as 
he departed with the ladies' wraps to the cloak-room. We 
ourselves entered the salon.

"Quite right, footman," remarked someone approvingly from the 
ball behind us.

Grandmamma had a peculiar way of employing, now the second person 
singular, now the second person plural, in order to indicate her 
opinion of people. When the young Prince Etienne went up to her 
she addressed him as "YOU," and altogether looked at him with 
such an expression of contempt that, had I been in his place, I 
should have been utterly crestfallen. Etienne, however, was 
evidently not a boy of that sort, for he not only took no notice 
of her reception of him, but none of her person either. In fact, 
he bowed to the company at large in a way which, though not 
graceful, was at least free from embarrassment.

Sonetchka now claimed my whole attention. I remember that, as I 
stood in the salon with Etienne and Woloda, at a spot whence we 
could both see and be seen by Sonetchka, I took great pleasure in 
talking very loud (and all my utterances seemed to me both bold 
and comical) and glancing towards the door of the drawing-room, 
but that, as soon as ever we happened to move to another spot 
whence we could neither see nor be seen by her, I became dumb, and 
thought the conversation had ceased to be enjoyable. The rooms were 
now full of people--among them (as at all children's parties) a number 
of elder children who wished to dance and enjoy themselves very 
much, but who pretended to do everything merely in order to give 
pleasure to the mistress of the house.

When the Iwins arrived I found that, instead of being as 
delighted as usual to meet Seriosha, I felt a kind of vexation 
that he should see and be seen by Sonetchka.

XXI

BEFORE THE MAZURKA

"HULLO, Woloda! So we are going to dance to-night," said 
Seriosha, issuing from the drawing-room and taking out of his 
pocket a brand new pair of gloves. "I suppose it IS necessary to 
put on gloves? "

"Goodness! What shall I do? We have no gloves," I thought to 
myself. "I must go upstairs and search about." Yet though I 
rummaged in every drawer, I only found, in one of them, my green 
travelling mittens, and, in another, a single lilac-coloured 
glove, a thing which could be of no use to me, firstly, because 
it was very old and dirty, secondly, because it was much too 
large for me, and thirdly (and principally), because the middle 
finger was wanting--Karl having long ago cut it off to wear over a 
sore nail.

However, I put it on--not without some diffident contemplation of 
the blank left by the middle finger and of the ink-stained edges 
round the vacant space.

"If only Natalia Savishna had been here," I reflected, "we 
should certainly have found some gloves. I can't go downstairs in 
this condition. Yet, if they ask me why I am not dancing, what am 
I to say? However, I can't remain here either, or they will be 
sending upstairs to fetch me. What on earth am I to do?" and I 
wrung my hands.

"What are you up to here?" asked Woloda as he burst into the 
room. "Go and engage a partner. The dancing will be beginning 
directly." 

"Woloda," I said despairingly, as I showed him my hand with 
two fingers thrust into a single finger of the dirty glove, 
"Woloda, you, never thought of this."

"Of what? " he said impatiently. "Oh, of gloves," he added with 
a careless glance at my hand. "That's nothing. We can ask 
Grandmamma what she thinks about it," and without further ado he 
departed downstairs. I felt a trifle relieved by the coolness 
with which he had met a situation which seemed to me so grave, 
and hastened back to the drawing-room, completely forgetful of 
the unfortunate glove which still adorned my left hand.

Cautiously approaching Grandmamma's arm-chair, I asked her in a 
whisper:

"Grandmamma, what are we to do? We have no gloves."

"What, my love?"

"We have no gloves," I repeated, at the same time bending over 
towards her and laying both hands on the arm of her chair,

" But what is that? " she cried as she caught hold of my left 
hand. "Look, my dear! " she continued, turning to Madame 
Valakhin. "See how smart this young man has made himself to 
dance with your daughter!"

As Grandmamma persisted in retaining hold of my hand and gazing 
with a mock air of gravity and interrogation at all around her, 
curiosity was soon aroused, and a general roar of laughter 
ensued.

I should have been infuriated at the thought that Seriosha was 
present to see this, as I scowled with embarrassment and 
struggled hard to free my hand, had it not been that somehow 
Sonetchka's laughter (and she was laughing to such a degree that 
the tears were standing in her eyes and the curls dancing about 
her lovely face) took away my feeling of humiliation. I felt that 
her laughter was not satirical, but only natural and free; so 
that, as we laughed together and looked at one another, there 
seemed to begin a kind of sympathy between us. Instead of turning 
out badly, therefore, the episode of the glove served only to set 
me at my ease among the dreaded circle of guests, and to make me 
cease to feel oppressed with shyness. The sufferings of shy 
people proceed only from the doubts which they feel concerning 
the opinions of their fellows. No sooner are those opinions 
expressed (whether flattering or the reverse) than the agony 
disappears.

How lovely Sonetchka looked when she was dancing a quadrille as 
my vis-a-vis, with, as her partner, the loutish Prince Etienne! 
How charmingly she smiled when, en chaine, she accorded me her 
hand! How gracefully the curls, around her head nodded to the 
rhythm, and how naively she executed the jete assemble with her 
little feet!

In the fifth figure, when my partner had to leave me for the 
other side and I, counting the beats, was getting ready to dance 
my solo, she pursed her lips gravely and looked in another 
direction; but her fears for me were groundless. Boldly I 
performed the chasse en avant and chasse en arriere glissade, 
until, when it came to my turn to move towards her and I, with a 
comic gesture, showed her the poor glove with its crumpled 
fingers, she laughed heartily, and seemed to move her tiny feet 
more enchantingly than ever over the parquetted floor.

How well I remember how we formed the circle, and how, without 
withdrawing her hand from mine, she scratched her little nose 
with her glove! All this I can see before me still. Still can I 
hear the quadrille from "The Maids of the Danube" to which we 
danced that night.

The second quadrille, I danced with Sonetchka herself; yet when 
we went to sit down together during the interval, I felt overcome 
with shyness and as though I had nothing to say. At last, when my 
silence had lasted so long that I began to be afraid that she 
would think me a stupid boy, I decided at all hazards to 
counteract such a notion.

"Vous etes une habitante de Moscou?" I began, and, on receiving 
an affirmative answer, continued. "Et moi, je n'ai encore jamais 
frequente la capitale" (with a particular emphasis on the word 
"frequente"). Yet I felt that, brilliant though this 
introduction might be as evidence of my profound knowledge of the 
French language, I could not long keep up the conversation in 
that manner. Our turn for dancing had not yet arrived, and 
silence again ensued between us. I kept looking anxiously at her 
in the hope both of discerning what impression I had produced and 
of her coming to my aid.

"Where did you get that ridiculous glove of yours?" she asked 
me all of a sudden, and the question afforded me immense 
satisfaction and relief. I replied that the glove belonged to 
Karl Ivanitch, and then went on to speak ironically of his 
appearance, and to describe how comical he looked in his red cap, 
and how he and his green coat had once fallen plump off a horse 
into a pond.

The quadrille was soon over. Yet why had I spoken ironically of 
poor Karl Ivanitch? Should I, forsooth, have sunk in Sonetchka's 
esteem if, on the contrary, I had spoken of him with the love and 
respect which I undoubtedly bore him?

The quadrille ended, Sonetchka said, "Thank you," with as lovely 
an expression on her face as though I had really conferred, upon 
her a favour. I was delighted. In fact I hardly knew myself for 
joy and could not think whence I derived such case and confidence 
and even daring.

"Nothing in the world can abash me now," I thought as I wandered 
carelessly about the salon. "I am ready for anything."

Just then Seriosha came and requested me to be his vis-a-vis.

"Very well," I said. "I have no partner as yet, but I can soon 
find one."

Glancing round the salon with a confident eye, I saw that every 
lady was engaged save one--a tall girl standing near the drawing-
room door. Yet a grown-up young man was approaching her-probably 
for the same purpose as myself! He was but two steps from her, 
while I was at the further end of the salon. Doing a glissade 
over the polished floor, I covered the intervening space, and in 
a brave, firm voice asked the favour of her hand in the 
quadrille. Smiling with a protecting air, the young lady accorded 
me her hand, and the tall young man was left without a partner. I 
felt so conscious of my strength that I paid no attention to his 
irritation, though I learnt later that he had asked somebody who 
the awkward, untidy boy was who, had taken away his lady from 
him.

XXII

THE MAZURKA

AFTERWARDS the same young man formed one of the first couple in a 
mazurka. He sprang to his feet, took his partner's hand, and 
then, instead of executing the pas de Basques which Mimi had 
taught us, glided forward till he arrived at a corner of the 
room, stopped, divided his feet, turned on his heels, and, with 
a spring, glided back again. I, who had found no partner for this 
particular dance and was sitting on the arm of Grandmamma's 
chair, thought to myself:

"What on earth is he doing? That is not what Mimi taught us. And 
there are the Iwins and Etienne all dancing in the same way-
without the pas de Basques! Ah! and there is Woloda too! He too 
is adopting the new style, and not so badly either. And there is 
Sonetchka, the lovely one! Yes, there she comes!" I felt 
immensely happy at that moment.

The mazurka came to an end, and already some of the guests were 
saying good-bye to Grandmamma. She was evidently tired, yet she 
assured them that she felt vexed at their early departure. 
Servants were gliding about with plates and trays among the 
dancers, and the musicians were carelessly playing the same tune 
for about the thirteenth time in succession, when the young lady 
whom I had danced with before, and who was just about to join in 
another mazurka, caught sight of me, and, with a kindly smile, 
led me to Sonetchka And one of the innumerable Kornakoff 
princesses, at the same time asking me, "Rose or Hortie?"

"Ah, so it's YOU!" said Grandmamma as she turned round in her 
armchair. "Go and dance, then, my boy."

Although I would fain have taken refuge behind the armchair 
rather than leave its shelter, I could not refuse; so I got up, 
said, "Rose," and looked at Sonetchka. Before I had time to 
realise it, however, a hand in a white glove laid itself on mine, 
and the Kornakoff girl stepped forth with a pleased smile and 
evidently no suspicion that I was ignorant of the steps of the 
dance. I only knew that the pas de Basques (the only figure of it 
which I had been taught) would be out of place. However, the 
strains of the mazurka falling upon my ears, and imparting their 
usual impulse to my acoustic nerves (which, in their turn, 
imparted their usual impulse to my feet), I involuntarily, and to 
the amazement of the spectators, began executing on tiptoe the 
sole (and fatal) pas which I had been taught.

So long as we went straight ahead I kept fairly right, but when 
it came to turning I saw that I must make preparations to arrest 
my course. Accordingly, to avoid any appearance of awkwardness, I 
stopped short, with the intention of imitating the " wheel about" 
which I had seen the young man perform so neatly.

Unfortunately, just as I divided my feet and prepared to make a 
spring, the Princess Kornakoff looked sharply round at my legs 
with such an expression of stupefied amazement and curiosity that 
the glance undid me. Instead of continuing to dance, I remained 
moving my legs up and down on the same spot, in a sort of 
extraordinary fashion which bore no relation whatever either to 
form or rhythm. At last I stopped altogether. Every-one was 
looking at me--some with curiosity, some with
astonishment, some with disdain, and some with compassion, 
Grandmamma alone seemed unmoved.

"You should not dance if you don't know the step," said Papa's 
angry voice in my ear as, pushing me gently aside, he took my 
partner's hand, completed the figures with her to the admiration 
of every one, and finally led her back to, her place. The mazurka 
was at an end.

Ah me! What had I done to be punished so heavily?

*************************

"Every one despises me, and will always despise me," I thought to 
myself. "The way is closed for me to friendship, love, and fame! 
All, all is lost!"

Why had Woloda made signs to me which every one saw, yet which 
could in no way help me? Why had that disgusting princess looked 
at my legs? Why had Sonetchka--she was a darling, of course!--yet 
why, oh why, had she smiled at that moment?

Why had Papa turned red and taken my hand? Can it be that he was 
ashamed of me? 

Oh, it was dreadful! Alas, if only Mamma had been there she would 
never have blushed for her Nicolinka!

How on the instant that dear image led my imagination captive! I 
seemed to see once more the meadow before our house, the tall 
lime-trees in the garden, the clear pond where the ducks swain, 
the blue sky dappled with white clouds, the sweet-smelling ricks 
of hay. How those memories--aye, and many another quiet, beloved 
recollection--floated through my mind at that time!

XXIII

AFTER THE MAZURKA

At supper the young man whom I have mentioned seated himself 
beside me at the children's table, and treated me with an amount 
of attention which would have flattered my self-esteem had I been 
able, after the occurrence just related, to give a thought to 
anything beyond my failure in the mazurka. However, the young man 
seemed determined to cheer me up. He jested, called me "old 
boy," and finally (since none of the elder folks were looking at 
us) began to help me to wine, first from one bottle and then from 
another and to force me to drink it off quickly.

By the time (towards the end of supper) that a servant had poured 
me out a quarter of a glass of champagne, and the young man had 
straightway bid him fill it up and urged me to drink the beverage 
off at a draught, I had begun to feel a grateful warmth diffusing 
itself through my body. I also felt well-disposed towards my kind 
patron, and began to laugh heartily at everything. Suddenly the 
music of the Grosvater dance struck up, and every one rushed from 
the table. My friendship with the young man had now outlived its 
day; so, whereas he joined a group of the older folks, I 
approached Madame Valakhin hear what she and her daughter had to 
say to one another. 

"Just HALF-an-hour more? " Sonetchka was imploring her. 

"Impossible, my dearest."

"Yet, only to please me--just this ONCE? " Sonetchka went on 
persuasively.

"Well, what if I should be ill to-morrow through all this 
dissipation?" rejoined her mother, and was incautious enough to 
smile.

"There! You DO consent, and we CAN stay after all!" exclaimed 
Sonetchka, jumping for joy.

"What is to be done with such a girl?" said Madame. "Well, run 
away and dance. See," she added on perceiving myself, "here is a 
cavalier ready waiting for you."

Sonetchka gave me her hand, and we darted off to the salon, The 
wine, added to Sonetchka's presence and gaiety, had at once made 
me forget all about the unfortunate end of the mazurka. I kept 
executing the most splendid feats with my legs--now imitating a 
horse as he throws out his hoofs in the trot, now stamping like a 
sheep infuriated at a dog, and all the while laughing regardless 
of appearances.

Sonetchka also laughed unceasingly, whether we were whirling 
round in a circle or whether we stood still to watch an old lady 
whose painful movements with her feet showed the difficulty she 
had in walking. Finally Sonetchka nearly died of merriment when I 
jumped half-way to the ceiling in proof of my skill.

As I passed a mirror in Grandmamma's boudoir and glanced at 
myself I could see that my face was all in a perspiration and my 
hair dishevelled--the top-knot, in particular, being more erect 
than ever. Yet my general appearance looked so happy, healthy, 
and good-tempered that I felt wholly pleased with myself.

"If I were always as I am now," I thought, "I might yet be able 
to please people with my looks." Yet as soon as I glanced at my 
partner's face again, and saw there not only the expression of 
happiness, health, and good temper which had just pleased me in 
my own, but also a fresh and enchanting beauty besides, I felt 
dissatisfied with myself again. I understood how silly of me it 
was to hope to attract the attention of such a wonderful being as 
Sonetchka. I could not hope for reciprocity--could not even think 
of it, yet my heart was overflowing with happiness. I could not 
imagine that the feeling of love which was filling my soul so 
pleasantly could require any happiness still greater, or wish for 
more than that that happiness should never cease. I felt 
perfectly contented. My heart beat like that of a dove, with the 
blood constantly flowing back to it, and I almost wept for joy.

As we passed through the hall and peered into a little dark 
store-room beneath the staircase I thought: "What bliss it would 
be if I could pass the rest of my life with her in that dark 
corner, and never let anybody know that we were there!"

"It HAS been a delightful evening, hasn't it?" I asked her in a 
low, tremulous voice. Then I quickened my steps--as much out of 
fear of what I had said as out of fear of what I had meant to 
imply.

"Yes, VERY! " she answered, and turned her face to look at me 
with an expression so kind that I ceased to be afraid. I went on:

"Particularly since supper. Yet if you could only know how I 
regret" (I had nearly said "how miserable I am at") your 
going, and to think that we shall see each other no more!"

"But why SHOULDN'T we?" she asked, looking gravely at the 
corner of her pocket-handkerchief, and gliding her fingers over a 
latticed screen which we were passing. "Every Tuesday and Friday 
I go with Mamma to the Iverskoi Prospect. I suppose you go for 
walks too sometimes?"

"Well, certainly I shall ask to go for one next Tuesday, and. 
if they won't take me I shall go by myself--even without my hat, 
if necessary. I know the way all right. "

"Do you know what I have just thought of?" she went on. "You 
know, I call some of the boys who come to see us THOU. Shall you 
and I call each other THOU too? Wilt THOU?" she added, bending 
her head towards me and looking me straight in the eyes.

At this moment a more lively section of the Grosvater dance 
began.

"Give me your hand," I said, under the impression that the music 
and din would drown my exact words, but she smilingly replied, 
"THY hand, not YOUR hand." Yet the dance was over before I had 
succeeded in saying THOU, even though I kept conning over 
phrases in which the pronoun could be employed--and employed more 
than once. All that I wanted was the courage to say it.

"Wilt THOU?" and "THY hand" sounded continually in my ears, 
and caused in me a kind of intoxication I could hear and see 
nothing but Sonetchka. I watched her mother take her curls, lay 
them flat behind her ears (thus disclosing portions of her 
forehead and temples which I had not yet seen), and wrap her up 
so completely in the green shawl that nothing was left visible 
but the tip of her nose. Indeed, I could see that, if her little 
rosy fingers had not made a small, opening near her mouth, she 
would have been unable to breathe. Finally I saw her leave her 
mother's arm for an instant on the staircase, and turn and nod to 
us quickly before she disappeared through the doorway.

Woloda, the Iwins, the young Prince Etienne, and myself were all 
of us in love with Sonetchka and all of us standing on the 
staircase to follow her with our eyes. To whom in particular she 
had nodded I do not know, but at the moment I firmly believed it 
to be myself. In taking leave of the Iwins, I spoke quite 
unconcernedly, and even coldly, to Seriosha before I finally 
shook hands with him. Though he tried to appear absolutely 
indifferent, I think that he understood that from that day forth 
he had lost both my affection and his power over me, as well as 
that he regretted it.

XXIV

IN BED

"How could I have managed to be so long and so passionately 
devoted to Seriosha?" I asked myself as I lay in bed that night. 
"He never either understood, appreciated, or deserved my love. 
But Sonetchka! What a darling SHE is! 'Wilt THOU?'--'THY hand'!"

I crept closer to the pillows, imagined to myself her lovely 
face, covered my head over with the bedclothes, tucked the 
counterpane in on all sides, and, thus snugly covered, lay quiet 
and enjoying the warmth until I became wholly absorbed in 
pleasant fancies and reminiscences.

If I stared fixedly at the inside of the sheet above me I found 
that I could see her as clearly as I had done an hour ago could 
talk to her in my thoughts, and, though it was a conversation of 
irrational tenor, I derived the greatest delight from it, seeing 
that "THOU" and "THINE" and "for THEE" and "to THEE" 
occurred in it incessantly. These fancies were so vivid that I 
could not sleep for the sweetness of my emotion, and felt as 
though I must communicate my superabundant happiness to some one.

"The darling!" I said, half-aloud, as I turned over; then, 
"Woloda, are you asleep?"

"No," he replied in a sleepy voice. "What's the matter?"

"I am in love, Woloda--terribly in love with Sonetchka"

"Well? Anything else?" he replied, stretching himself.

"Oh, but you cannot imagine what I feel just now, as I lay 
covered over with the counterpane, I could see her and talk to 
her so clearly that it was marvellous! And, do you know, while I 
was lying thinking about her--I don't know why it was, but all at 
once I felt so sad that I could have cried."

Woloda made a movement of some sort.

"One thing only I wish for," I continued; "and that is that I 
could always be with her and always be seeing her. Just that. You 
are in love too, I believe. Confess that you are." 

It was strange, but somehow I wanted every one to be in love with 
Sonetchka, and every one to tell me that they were so.

"So that's how it is with you? " said Woloda, turning round to 
me. "Well, I can understand it."

"I can see that you cannot sleep," I remarked, observing by his 
bright eyes that he was anything but drowsy. "Well, cover 
yourself over SO" (and I pulled the bedclothes over him), "and 
then let us talk about her. Isn't she splendid? If she were to 
say to me, 'Nicolinka, jump out of the window,' or 'jump into the 
fire,' I should say, 'Yes, I will do it at once and rejoice in 
doing it.' Oh, how glorious she is!"

I went on picturing her again and again to my imagination, and, 
to enjoy the vision the better, turned over on my side and buried 
my head in the pillows, murmuring, "Oh, I want to cry, Woloda."

"What a fool you are!" he said with a slight laugh. Then, after 
a moment's silence he added: "I am not like you. I think I would 
rather sit and talk with her."

"Ah! Then you ARE in love with her!" I interrupted.

"And then," went on Woloda, smiling tenderly, "kiss her fingers 
and eyes and lips and nose and feet--kiss all of her."

"How absurd!" I exclaimed from beneath the pillows.

"Ah, you don't understand things," said Woloda with contempt.

"I DO understand. It's you who don't understand things, and you 
talk rubbish, too," I replied, half-crying.

"Well, there is nothing to cry about," he concluded. "She is 
only a girl."

XXV

THE LETTER

ON the 16th of April, nearly six months after the day just 
described, Papa entered our schoolroom and told us that that 
night we must start with him for our country house. I felt a pang 
at my heart when I heard the news, and my thoughts at once turned 
to Mamma, The cause of our unexpected departure was the following 
letter:

"PETROVSKOE, 12th April.

"Only this moment (i.e. at ten o'clock in the evening) have I 
received your dear letter of the 3rd of April, but as usual, I 
answer it at once. Fedor brought it yesterday from town, but, as 
it was late, he did not give it to Mimi till this morning, and 
Mimi (since I was unwell) kept it from me all day. I have been a 
little feverish. In fact, to tell the truth, this is the fourth 
day that I have been in bed.

"Yet do not be uneasy. I feel almost myself again now, and if 
Ivan Vassilitch should allow me, I think of getting up to-morrow.

"On Friday last I took the girls for a drive, and, close to the 
little bridge by the turning on to the high road (the place which 
always makes me nervous), the horses and carriage stuck fast in 
the mud. Well, the day being fine, I thought that we would walk a 
little up the road until the carriage should be extricated, but 
no sooner had we reached the chapel than I felt obliged to sit 
down, I was so tired, and in this way half-an-hour passed while 
help was being sent for to get the carriage dug out. I felt cold, 
for I had only thin boots on, and they had been wet through. 
After luncheon too, I had alternate cold and hot fits, yet still 
continued to follow our ordinary routine

"When tea was over I sat down to the piano to play a duct with 
Lubotshka. (you would be astonished to hear what progress she has 
made!), but imagine my surprise when I found that I could not 
count the beats! Several times I began to do so, yet always felt 
confused in my head, and kept hearing strange noises in my ears. 
I would begin 'One-two-three--' and then suddenly go on '-eight-
fifteen,' and so on, as though I were talking nonsense and could 
not help it. At last Mimi came to my assistance and forced me to 
retire to bed. That was how my illness began, and it was all 
through my own fault. The next day I had a good deal of fever, 
and our good Ivan Vassilitch came. He has not left us since, but 
promises soon to restore me to the world."

"What a wonderful old man he is! While I was feverish and 
delirious he sat the whole night by my bedside without once 
closing his eyes; and at this moment (since he knows I am busy 
writing) he is with the girls in the divannaia, and I can hear 
him telling them German stories, and them laughing as they listen 
to him.

"'La Belle Flamande,' as you call her, is now spending her second 
week here as my guest (her mother having gone to pay a visit 
somewhere), and she is most attentive and attached to me, She 
even tells me her secret affairs. Under different circumstances 
her beautiful face, good temper, and youth might have made a most 
excellent girl of her, but in the society in which according to 
her own account, she moves she will be wasted. The idea has more 
than once occurred to me that, had I not had so many children of 
my own, it would have been a deed of mercy to have adopted her.

"Lubotshka had meant to write to you herself, but she has torn 
up three sheets of paper, saying: 'I know what a quizzer Papa 
always is. If he were to find a single fault in my letter he 
would show it to everybody.' Katenka is as charming as usual, and 
Mimi, too, is good, but tiresome.

"Now let me speak of more serious matters. You write to me that 
your affairs are not going well this winter, and that you wish 
to break into the revenues of Chabarovska. It seems to me strange 
that you should think it necessary to ask my consent. Surely what 
belongs to me belongs no less to you? You are so kind-hearted, 
dear, that, for fear of worrying me, you conceal the real state 
of things, but I can guess that you have lost a great deal at 
cards, as also that you are afraid of my being angry at that. 
Yet, so long as you can tide over this crisis, I shall not think 
much of it, and you need not be uneasy, I have grown accustomed 
to no longer relying, so far as the children are concerned, upon 
your gains at play, nor yet--excuse me for saying so--upon your 
income. Therefore your losses cause me as little anxiety as your 
gains give me pleasure. What I really grieve over is your unhappy 
passion itself for gambling--a passion which bereaves me of part 
of your tender affection and obliges me to tell you such bitter 
truths as (God knows with what pain) I am now telling you. I 
never cease. to beseech Him that He may preserve us, not from 
poverty (for what is poverty?), but from the terrible juncture 
which would arise should the interests of the children, which I 
am called upon to protect, ever come into collision with our own. 
Hitherto God has listened to my prayers. You have never yet 
overstepped the limit beyond which we should be obliged either to 
sacrifice property which would no longer belong to us, but to the 
children, or-- It is terrible to think of, but the dreadful 
misfortune at which I hint is forever hanging over our heads. 
Yes, it is the heavy cross which God has given us both to carry.

"Also, you write about the children, and come back to our old 
point of difference by asking my consent to your placing them at 
a boarding-school. You know my objection to that kind of 
education. I do not know, dear, whether you will accede to my 
request, but I nevertheless beseech you, by your love for me, to 
give me your promise that never so long as I am alive, nor yet 
after my death (if God should see fit to separate us), shall such 
a thing be done.

"Also you write that our affairs render it indispensable for you 
to visit St. Petersburg. The Lord go with you! Go and return as, 
soon as possible. Without you we shall all of us be lonely.

"Spring is coming in beautifully. We keep the door on to the 
terrace always open now, while the path to the orangery is dry 
and the peach-trees are in full blossom. Only here and there is 
there a little snow remaining, The swallows are arriving, and to-
day Lubotshka brought me the first flowers. The doctor says that 
in about three days' time I shall be well again and able to take 
the open air and to enjoy the April sun. Now, au revoir, my 
dearest one. Do not he alarmed, I beg of you, either on account 
of my illness or on account of your losses at play. End the 
crisis as soon as possible, and then return here with the 
children for the summer. I am making wonderful plans for our 
passing of it, and I only need your presence to realise them."

The rest of the letter was written in French, as well as in a 
strange, uncertain hand, on another piece of paper. I transcribe 
it word for word:

"Do not believe what I have just written to you about my 
illness. It is more serious than any one knows. I alone know that 
I shall never leave my bed again. Do not, therefore, delay a 
minute in coming here with the children. Perhaps it may yet be 
permitted me to embrace and bless them. It is my last wish that 
it should be so. I know what a terrible blow this will be to you, 
but you would have had to hear it sooner or later--if not from me, 
at least from others. Let us try to, bear the Calamity with 
fortitude, and place our trust in the mercy of God. Let us submit 
ourselves to His will. Do not think that what I am writing is 
some delusion of my sick imagination. On the contrary, I am 
perfectly clear at this moment, and absolutely calm. Nor must you 
comfort yourself with the false hope that these are the unreal, 
confused feelings of a despondent spirit, for I feel indeed, I 
know, since God has deigned to reveal it to me--that I have now 
but a very short time to live. Will my love for you and the 
children cease with my life? I know that that can never be. At 
this moment I am too full of that love to be capable of believing 
that such a feeling (which constitutes a part of my very 
existence) can ever, perish. My soul can never lack its love for 
you; and I know that that love will exist for ever, since such a 
feeling could never have been awakened if it were not to be 
eternal. I shall no longer be with you, yet I firmly believe that 
my love will cleave to you always, and from that thought I glean 
such comfort that I await the approach of death calmly and 
without fear. Yes, I am calm, and God knows that I have ever 
looked, and do look now, upon death as no mere than the passage 
to a better life. Yet why do tears blind my eyes? Why should the 
children lose a mother's love? Why must you, my husband, 
experience such a heavy and unlooked-for blow? Why must I die 
when your love was making life so inexpressibly happy for me?

"But His holy will be done!

"The tears prevent my writing more. It may be that I shall never 
see you again. I thank you, my darling beyond all price, for all 
the felicity with which you have surrounded me in this life. Soon 
I shall appear before God Himself to pray that He may reward you. 
Farewell, my dearest! Remember that, if I am no longer here, my 
love will none the less NEVER AND NOWHERE fail you. Farewell, 
Woloda--farewell, my pet! Farewell, my Benjamin, my little 
Nicolinka! Surely they will never forget me?"

With this letter had come also a French note from Mimi, in which 
the latter said:

"The sad circumstances of which she has written to you are but 
too surely confirmed by the words of the doctor. Yesterday 
evening she ordered the letter to be posted at once, but, 
thinking at she did so in delirium, I waited until this morning, 
with the intention of sealing and sending it then. Hardly had I 
done so when Natalia Nicolaevna asked me what I had done with the 
letter and told me to burn it if not yet despatched. She is 
forever speaking of it, and saying that it will kill you. Do not 
delay your departure for an instant if you wish to see the angel 
before she leaves us. Pray excuse this scribble, but I have not 
slept now for three nights. You know how much I love her."

Later I heard from Natalia Savishna (who passed the whole of the 
night of the 11th April at Mamma's bedside) that, after writing 
the first part of the letter, Mamma laid it down upon the table 
beside her and went to sleep for a while,

"I confess," said Natalia Savishna, "that I too fell asleep in 
the arm-chair, and let my knitting slip from my hands. Suddenly, 
towards one o'clock in the morning, I heard her saying something; 
whereupon I opened my eyes and looked at her. My darling was 
sitting up in bed, with her hands clasped together and streams of 
tears gushing from her eyes.

"'It is all over now,' she said, and hid her face in her hands.

"I sprang to my feet, and asked what the matter was.

"'Ah, Natalia Savishna, if you could only know what I have just 
seen!' she said; yet, for all my asking, she would say no more, 
beyond commanding me to hand her the letter. To that letter she 
added something, and then said that it must be sent off directly. 
From that moment she grew, rapidly worse."

XXVI

WHAT AWAITED US AT THE COUNTRY-HOUSE

On the 18th of April we descended from the carriage at the front 
door of the house at Petrovskoe. All the way from Moscow Papa had 
been preoccupied, and when Woloda had asked him "whether Mamma 
was ill" he had looked at him sadly and nodded an affirmative. 
Nevertheless he had grown more composed during the journey, and 
it was only when we were actually approaching the house that his 
face again began to grow anxious, until, as he leaped from the 
carriage and asked Foka (who had run breathlessly to meet us), 
"How is Natalia Nicolaevna now?" his voice, was trembling, and 
his eyes had filled with tears. The good, old Foka looked at 
us, and then lowered his gaze again. Finally he said as he 
opened the hall-door and turned his head aside: "It is the 
sixth day since she has not left her bed."

Milka (who, as we afterwards learned, had never ceased to whine 
from the day when Mamma was taken ill) came leaping, joyfully to 
meet Papa, and barking a welcome as she licked his hands, but 
Papa put her aside, and went first to the drawing-room, and then 
into the divannaia, from which a door led into the bedroom. The 
nearer he approached the latter, the more, did his movements 
express the agitation that he felt. Entering the divannaia he 
crossed it on tiptoe, seeming to hold his breath. Even then he 
had to stop and make the sign of the cross before he could summon 
up courage to turn the handle. At the same moment Mimi, with 
dishevelled hair and eyes red with weeping came hastily out of 
the corridor.

"Ah, Peter Alexandritch!" she said in a whisper and with a 
marked expression of despair. Then, observing that Papa was 
trying to open the door, she whispered again:

"Not here. This door is locked. Go round to the door on the 
other side."

Oh, how terribly all this wrought upon my imagination, racked as 
it was by grief and terrible forebodings! 

So we went round to the other side. In the corridor we met the 
gardener, Akim, who had been wont to amuse us with his grimaces, 
but at this moment I could see nothing comical in him. Indeed, 
the sight of his thoughtless, indifferent face struck me more 
painfully than anything else. In the maidservants' hall, through 
which we had to pass, two maids were sitting at their work, but 
rose to salute us with an expression so mournful that I felt 
completely overwhelmed.

Passing also through Mimi's room, Papa opened the door of the 
bedroom, and we entered. The two windows on the right were 
curtained over, and close to them was seated, Natalia Savishna, 
spectacles on nose and engaged in darning stockings. She did not 
approach us to kiss me as she had been used to do, but just rose 
and looked at us, her tears beginning to flow afresh. Somehow it 
frightened me to see every one, on beholding us, begin to cry, 
although they had been calm enough before.

On the left stood the bed behind a screen, while in the great 
arm-chair the doctor lay asleep. Beside the bed a young, fair-
haired and remarkably beautiful girl in a white morning wrapper 
was applying ice to Mamma's head, but Mamma herself I could not 
see. This girl was "La Belle Flamande" of whom Mamma had 
written, and who afterwards played so important a part in our 
family life. As we entered she disengaged one of her hands, 
straightened the pleats of her dress on her bosom,  and 
whispered, " She is insensible," Though I was in an agony of 
grief, I observed at that moment every little detail.

It was almost dark in the room, and very hot, while the air was 
heavy with the mingled, scent of mint, eau-de-cologne, camomile, 
and Hoffman's pastilles. The latter ingredient caught my 
attention so strongly that even now I can never hear of it, or 
even think of it, without my memory carrying me back to that 
dark, close room, and all the details of that dreadful time.

Mamma's eyes were wide open, but they could not see us. Never 
shall I forget the terrible expression in them--the expression of 
agonies of suffering!

Then we were taken away.

When, later, I was able to ask Natalia Savishna about Mamma's 
last moments she told me the following:

"After you were taken out of the room, my beloved one struggled 
for a long time, as though some one were trying to strangle her.  
Then at last she laid her head back upon the pillow, and slept 
softly, peacefully, like an angel from Heaven.  I went away for a 
moment to see about her medicine, and just as I entered the room 
again my darling was throwing the bedclothes from off her and 
calling for your Papa. He stooped over her, but strength failed 
her to say what she wanted to. All she could do was to open her 
lips and gasp, 'My God, my God! The children, the children!' I 
would have run to fetch you, but Ivan Vassilitch stopped me, 
saying that it would only excite her--it were best not to do so. 
Then suddenly she stretched her arms out and dropped them again. 
What she meant by that gesture the good God alone knows, but I 
think that in it she was blessing you--you the children whom she 
could not see. God did not grant her to see her little ones 
before her death. Then she raised herself up--did my love, my  
darling--yes, just so with her hands, and exclaimed in a voice 
which I cannot bear to remember, 'Mother of God, never forsake 
them!'" 

"Then the pain mounted to her heart, and from her eyes it as, 
plain that she suffered terribly, my poor one! She sank back upon 
the pillows, tore the bedclothes with her teeth, and wept--wept--"

"Yes and what then?" I asked but Natalia Savishna could say no 
more. She turned away and cried bitterly.

Mamma had expired in terrible agonies.

XXVII

GRIEF

LATE the following evening I thought I would like to look at her 
once more; so, conquering an involuntary sense of fear, I gently 
opened the door of the salon and entered on tiptoe.

In the middle of the room, on a table, lay the coffin, with wax 
candles burning all round it on tall silver candelabra. In the 
further corner sat the chanter, reading the Psalms in a low, 
monotonous voice. I stopped at the door and tried to look, but my 
eyes were so weak with crying, and my nerves so terribly on edge, 
that I could distinguish nothing. Every object seemed to mingle 
together in a strange blur--the candles, the brocade, the velvet, 
the great candelabra, the pink satin cushion trimmed with lace, 
the chaplet of flowers, the ribboned cap, and something of a 
transparent, wax-like colour. I mounted a chair to see her face, 
yet where it should have been I could see only that wax-like, 
transparent something. I could not believe it to be her face. 
Yet, as I stood grazing at it, I at last recognised the well-
known, beloved features. I shuddered with horror to realise that 
it WAS she. Why were those eyes so sunken? What had laid that 
dreadful paleness upon her cheeks, and stamped the black spot 
beneath the transparent skin on one of them? Why was the 
expression of the whole face so cold and severe? Why were the 
lips so white, and their outline so beautiful, so majestic, so 
expressive of an unnatural calm that, as I looked at them, a 
chill shudder ran through my hair and down my back?

Somehow, as I gazed, an irrepressible, incomprehensible power 
seemed to compel me to keep my eyes fixed upon that lifeless 
face. I could not turn away, and my imagination began to picture 
before me scenes of her active life and happiness. I forgot that 
the corpse lying before me now--the THING at which I was gazing 
unconsciously as at an object which had nothing in common with my 
dreams--was SHE. I fancied I could see her--now here, now there, 
alive, happy, and smiling. Then some well-known feature in the 
face at which I was gazing would suddenly arrest my attention, 
and in a flash I would recall the terrible reality and shudder-
though still unable to turn my eyes away.

Then again the dreams would replace reality--then again the 
reality put to flight the dreams. At last the consciousness of 
both left me, and for a while I became insensible.

How long I remained in that condition I do not know, nor yet how 
it occurred. I only know that for a time I lost all sense of 
existence, and experienced a kind of vague blissfulness which 
though grand and sweet, was also sad. It may be that, as it 
ascended to a better world, her beautiful soul had looked down 
with longing at the world in which she had left us--that it had 
seen my sorrow, and, pitying me, had returned to earth on the 
wings of love to console and bless me with a heavenly smile of 
compassion.

The door creaked as the chanter entered who was to relieve his 
predecessor. The noise awakened me, and my first thought was 
that, seeing me standing on the chair in a posture which had 
nothing touching in its aspect, he might take me for an unfeeling 
boy who had climbed on to the chair out of mere curiosity: 
wherefore I hastened to make the sign of the cross, to bend down 
my head, and to burst out crying. As I recall now my impressions 
of that episode I find that it was only during my moments of 
self-forgetfulness that my grief was wholehearted. True, both 
before and after the funeral I never ceased to cry and to look 
miserable, yet I feel conscience-stricken when I recall that 
grief of mine, seeing that always present in it there was an 
element of conceit--of a desire to show that I was more grieved 
than any one else, of an interest which I took in observing the 
effect, produced upon others by my tears, and of an idle 
curiosity leading me to remark Mimi's bonnet and the faces of all 
present. The mere circumstance that I despised myself for not 
feeling grief to the exclusion of everything else, and that I 
endeavoured to conceal the fact, shows that my sadness was 
insincere and unnatural. I took a delight in feeling that I was 
unhappy, and in trying to feel more so. Consequently this 
egotistic consciousness completely annulled any element of 
sincerity in my woe.

That night I slept calmly and soundly (as is usual after any 
great emotion), and awoke with my tears dried and my nerves 
restored. At ten o'clock we were summoned to attend the pre-
funeral requiem.

The room was full of weeping servants and peasants who had come 
to bid farewell to their late mistress. During the service I 
myself wept a great deal, made frequent signs of the cross, and 
performed many genuflections, but I did not pray with, my soul, 
and felt, if anything, almost indifferent, My thoughts were 
chiefly centred upon the new coat which I was wearing (a garment 
which was tight and uncomfortable) and upon how to avoid soiling 
my trousers at the knees. Also I took the most minute notice of 
all present.

Papa stood at the head of the coffin. He was as white as snow, 
and only with difficulty restrained his tears. His tall figure in 
its black frockcoat, his pale, expressive face, the graceful, 
assured manner in which, as usual, he made the sign of the cross 
or bowed until he touched the floor with his hand [A custom of 
the Greek funeral rite.] or took the candle from the priest or 
went to the coffin--all were exceedingly effective; yet for some 
reason or another I felt a grudge against him for that very 
ability to appear effective at such a moment.  Mimi stood leaning 
against the wall as though scarcely able to support herself. Her 
dress was all awry and covered with feathers, and her cap cocked 
to one side, while her eyes were red with weeping, her legs 
trembling under her, and she sobbed incessantly in a heartrending 
manner as ever and again she buried her face in her handkerchief 
or her hands. I imagine that she did this to check her continual 
sobbing without being seen by the spectators. I remember, too, 
her telling Papa, the evening before, that Mamma's death had come 
upon her as a blow from which she could never hope to recover; 
that with Mamma she had lost everything; but that "the angel," 
as she called my mother, had not forgotten her when at the point 
of death, since she had declared her wish to render her (Mimi's) 
and Katenka's fortunes secure for ever. Mimi had shed bitter 
tears while relating this, and very likely her sorrow, if not 
wholly pure and disinterested, was in the main sincere. 
Lubotshka, in black garments and suffused with tears, stood with 
her head bowed upon her breast. She rarely looked at the coffin, 
yet whenever she did so her face expressed a sort of childish 
fear. Katenka stood near her mother, and, despite her lengthened 
face, looked as lovely as ever. Woloda's frank nature was frank 
also in grief. He stood looking grave and as though he were 
staring at some object with fixed eyes. Then suddenly his lips 
would begin to quiver, and he would hastily make the sign of the 
cross, and bend his head again.

Such of those present as were strangers I found intolerable. In 
fact, the phrases of condolence with which they addressed Papa 
(such, for instance, as that "she is better off now" "she was 
too good for this world," and so on) awakened in me something 
like fury. What right had they to weep over or to talk about her? 
Some of them, in referring to ourselves, called us "orphans"--
just as though it were not a matter of common knowledge that 
children who have lost their mother are known as orphans! 
Probably (I thought) they liked to be the first to give us that 
name, just as some people find pleasure in being the first to 
address a newly-married girl as "Madame."

In a far corner of the room, and almost hidden by the open door, 
of the dining-room, stood a grey old woman with bent knees. With 
hands clasped together and eyes lifted to heaven, she prayed 
only--not wept. Her soul was in the presence of
God, and she was asking Him soon to reunite her to her whom she 
had loved beyond all beings on this earth, and whom she 
steadfastly believed that she would very soon meet again.

"There stands one who SINCERELY loved her," I thought to myself, 
and felt ashamed.

The requiem was over. They uncovered the face of the deceased, 
and all present except ourselves went to the coffin to give her 
the kiss of farewell.

One of the last to take leave of her departed mistress was a 
peasant woman who was holding by the hand a pretty little girl of 
five whom she had brought with her, God knows for what reason.  
Just at a moment when I chanced to drop my wet handkerchief and 
was stooping to pick it up again, a loud, piercing scream 
startled me, and filled me with such terror that, were I to live 
a hundred years more, I should never forget it.  Even now the 
recollection always sends a cold shudder through my frame. I 
raised my head. Standing on the chair near the coffin was the 
peasant woman, while struggling and fighting in her arms was the 
little girl, and it was this same poor child who had screamed 
with such dreadful, desperate frenzy as, straining her terrified 
face away, she still, continued to gaze with dilated eyes at the 
face of the corpse. I too screamed in a voice perhaps more 
dreadful still, and ran headlong from the room.

Only now did I understand the source of the strong, oppressive 
smell which, mingling with the scent of the incense, filled the 
chamber, while the thought that the face which, but a few days 
ago, had been full of freshness and beauty--the face which I loved 
more than anything else in all the world--was now capable of 
inspiring horror at length revealed to me, as though for the 
first time, the terrible truth, and filled my soul with despair.

XXVIII

SAD RECOLLECTIONS

Mamma was no longer with us, but our life went on as usual. We 
went to bed and got up at the same times and in the same rooms; 
breakfast, luncheon, and supper continued to be at their usual 
hours; everything remained standing in its accustomed place; 
nothing in the house or in our mode of life was altered: only, 
she was not there.

Yet it seemed to me as though such a, misfortune ought to have 
changed everything. Our old mode of life appeared like an insult 
to her memory. It recalled too vividly her presence.

The day before the funeral I felt as though I should like to rest 
a little after luncheon, and accordingly went to Natalia 
Savishna's room with the intention of installing myself 
comfortably under the warm, soft down of the quilt on her bed. 
When I entered I found Natalia herself lying on the bed and 
apparently asleep, but, on hearing my footsteps, she raised 
herself up, removed the handkerchief which had been protecting 
her face from the flies, and, adjusting her cap, sat forward on 
the edge of the bed. Since it frequently happened that I came to 
lie down in her room, she guessed my errand at once, and said:

"So you have come to rest here a little, have you? Lie down, 
then, my dearest."

"Oh, but what is the matter with you, Natalia Savishna?" I 
exclaimed as I forced her back again. "I did not come for that. 
No, you are tired yourself, so you LIE down."

"I am quite rested now, darling," she said (though I knew that 
it was many a night since she had closed her eyes). "Yes, I am 
indeed, and have no wish to sleep again," she added with a deep 
sigh.

I felt as though I wanted to speak to her of our misfortune, 
since I knew her sincerity and love, and thought that it would be 
a consolation to me to weep with her.

"Natalia Savishna," I said after a pause, as I seated myself 
upon the bed, "who would ever have thought of this? "

The old woman looked at me with astonishment, for she did not 
quite understand my question.

"Yes, who would ever have thought of it?" I repeated.

"Ah, my darling," she said with a glance of tender compassion, 
"it is not only 'Who would ever have thought of it?' but 'Who, 
even now, would ever believe it?' I am old, and my bones should 
long ago have gone to rest rather than that I should have lived 
to see the old master, your Grandpapa, of blessed memory, and 
Prince Nicola Michaelovitch, and his two brothers, and your 
sister Amenka all buried before me, though all younger than 
myself--and now my darling, to my never-ending sorrow, gone home 
before me! Yet it has been God's will. He took her away because 
she was worthy to be taken, and because He has need of the good 
ones."

This simple thought seemed to me a consolation, and I pressed 
closer to Natalia, She laid her hands upon my head as she looked 
upward with eyes expressive of a deep, but resigned, sorrow. In 
her soul was a sure and certain hope that God would not long 
separate her from the one upon whom the whole strength of her 
love had for many years been concentrated.

"Yes, my dear," she went on, "it is a long time now since I 
used to nurse and fondle her, and she used to call me Natasha. 
She used to come jumping upon me, and caressing and kissing me, 
and say, 'MY Nashik, MY darling, MY ducky,' and I used to answer 
jokingly, 'Well, my love, I don't believe that you DO love me. 
You will be a grown-up young lady soon, and going away to be 
married, and will leave your Nashik forgotten.' Then she would 
grow thoughtful and say, 'I think I had better not marry if my 
Nashik cannot go with me, for I mean never to leave her.' Yet, 
alas! She has left me now! Who was there in the world she did not 
love? Yes, my dearest, it must never be POSSIBLE for you to 
forget your Mamma. She was not a being of earth--she was an angel 
from Heaven. When her soul has entered the heavenly kingdom she 
will continue to love you and to be proud of you even there."

"But why do you say 'when her soul has entered the heavenly 
kingdom'?" I asked. "I believe it is there now."

"No, my dearest," replied Natalia as she lowered her voice and 
pressed herself yet closer to me, "her soul is still here," and 
she pointed upwards. She spoke in a whisper, but with such an 
intensity of conviction that I too involuntarily raised my eyes 
and looked at the ceiling, as though expecting to see something 
there. 'Before the souls of the just enter Paradise they have to 
undergo forty trials for forty days, and during that time they 
hover around their earthly home." [A Russian popular legend.]

She went on speaking for some time in this strain--speaking with 
the same simplicity and conviction as though she were relating 
common things which she herself had witnessed, and to doubt which 
could never enter into any one's head. I listened almost 
breathlessly, and though I did not understand all she said, I 
never for a moment doubted her word.

"Yes, my darling, she is here now, and perhaps looking at us and 
listening to what we are saying," concluded Natalia. Raising her 
head, she remained silent for a while. At length she wiped away 
the tears which were streaming from her eyes, looked me straight 
in the face, and said in a voice trembling with emotion:

"Ah, it is through many trials that God is leading me to Him. 
Why, indeed, am I still here? Whom have I to live for? Whom have 
I to love?"

"Do you not love US, then?" I asked sadly, and half-choking 
with my tears.

"Yes, God knows that I love you, my darling; but to love any one 
as I loved HER--that I cannot do."

She could say no more, but turned her head aside and wept 
bitterly. As for me, I no longer thought of going to sleep, but 
sat silently with her and mingled my tears with hers.

Presently Foka entered the room, but, on seeing our emotion and 
not wishing to disturb us, stopped short at the door.

"Do you want anything, my good Foka?" asked Natalia as she 
wiped away her tears.

"If you please, half-a-pound of currants, four pounds of sugar, 
and three pounds of rice for the kutia." [Cakes partaken of by 
the mourners at a Russian funeral.] 

"Yes, in one moment," said Natalia as she took a pinch of snuff 
and hastened to her drawers. All traces of the grief, aroused by 
our conversation disappeared on, the instant that she had duties 
to fulfil, for she looked upon those duties as of paramount 
importance.

"But why FOUR pounds?" she objected as she weighed the sugar on 
a steelyard. "Three and a half would be sufficient," and she 
withdrew a few lumps. "How is it, too, that, though I weighed 
out eight pounds of rice yesterday, more is wanted now? No 
offence to you, Foka, but I am not going to waste rice like that. 
I suppose Vanka is glad that there is confusion in the house just 
now, for he thinks that nothing will be looked after, but I am 
not going to have any careless extravagance with my master's 
goods. Did one ever hear of such a thing? Eight pounds!" 
 
"Well, I have nothing to do with it. He says it is all gone, 
that's all."

"Hm, hm! Well, there it is. Let him take it."

I was struck by the sudden transition from the touching 
sensibility with which she had just been speaking to me to this 
petty reckoning and captiousness. Yet, thinking it over 
afterwards, I recognised that it was merely because, in spite of 
what was lying on her heart, she retained the habit of duty, and 
that it was the strength of that habit which enabled her to 
pursue her functions as of old. Her grief was too strong and too 
true to require any pretence of being unable to fulfil trivial 
tasks, nor would she have understood that any one could so 
pretend. Vanity is a sentiment so entirely at variance with 
genuine grief, yet a sentiment so inherent in human nature, that 
even the most poignant sorrow does not always drive it wholly 
forth. Vanity mingled with grief shows itself in a desire to be 
recognised as unhappy or resigned; and this ignoble desire--an 
aspiration which, for all that we may not acknowledge it is 
rarely absent, even in cases of the utmost affliction--takes off 
greatly from the force, the dignity, and the sincerity of grief. 
Natalia Savishna had been so sorely smitten by her misfortune 
that not a single wish of her own remained in her soul--she went 
on living purely by habit.

Having handed over the provisions to Foka, and reminded him of 
the refreshments which must be ready for the priests, she took up 
her knitting and seated herself by my side again. The 
conversation reverted to the old topic, and we once more mourned 
and shed tears together. These talks with Natalia I repeated 
every day, for her quiet tears and words of devotion brought me 
relief and comfort. Soon, however, a parting came. Three days 
after the funeral we returned to Moscow, and I never saw her 
again.

Grandmamma received the sad tidings only on our return to her 
house, and her grief was extraordinary. At first we were not 
allowed to see her, since for a whole week she was out of her 
mind, and the doctors were afraid for her life. Not only did she 
decline all medicine whatsoever, but she refused to speak to 
anybody or to take nourishment, and never closed her eyes m 
sleep. Sometimes, as she sat alone in the arm-chair in her room, 
she would begin laughing and crying at the same time, with a sort 
of tearless grief, or else relapse into convulsions, and scream 
out dreadful, incoherent words in a horrible voice. It was the 
first dire sorrow which she had known in her life, and it reduced 
her almost to distraction. She would begin accusing first one 
person, and then another, of bringing this misfortune upon her, 
and rail at and blame them with the most extraordinary virulence, 
Finally she would rise from her arm-chair, pace the room for a 
while, and end by falling senseless to the floor.

Once, when I went to her room, she appeared to be sitting quietly 
in her chair, yet with an air which struck me as curious. Though 
her eyes were wide open, their glance was vacant and meaningless, 
and she seemed to gaze in my direction without seeing me. 
Suddenly her lips parted slowly in a smile, and she said in a 
touchingly, tender voice: "Come here, then, my dearest one; come 
here, my angel." Thinking that it was myself she was addressing, 
I moved towards her, but it was not I whom she was beholding at 
that moment. "Oh, my love," she went on. "if only you could 
know how distracted I have been, and how delighted I am to see 
you once more!" I understood then that she believed herself to 
be looking upon Mamma, and halted where I was. "They told me you 
were gone," she concluded with a frown; "but what nonsense! As 
if you could die before ME!" and she laughed a terrible, 
hysterical laugh.

Only those who can love strongly can experience an overwhelming 
grief. Yet their very need of loving sometimes serves to throw 
off their grief from them and to save them. The moral nature of 
man is more tenacious of life than the physical, and grief never 
kills.

After a time Grandmamma's power of weeping came back to her, and 
she began to recover. Her first thought when her reason returned 
was for us children, and her love for us was greater than ever. 
We never left her arm-chair, and she would talk of Mamma, and 
weep softly, and caress us.

Nobody who saw her grief could say that it was consciously 
exaggerated, for its expression was too strong and touching; yet 
for some reason or another my sympathy went out more to Natalia 
Savishna, and to this day I am convinced that nobody loved and 
regretted Mamma so purely and sincerely as did that simple-
hearted, affectionate being.

With Mamma's death the happy time of my childhood came to an end, 
and a new epoch--the epoch of my boyhood--began; but since my 
memories of Natalia Savishna (who exercised such a strong and 
beneficial influence upon the bent of my mind and the development 
of my sensibility) belong rather to the first period, I will add 
a few words about her and her death before closing this portion 
of my life.

I heard later from people in the village that, after our return 
to Moscow, she found time hang very heavy on her hands. Although 
the drawers and shelves were still under her charge, and she 
never ceased to arrange and rearrange them--to take things out and 
to dispose of them afresh--she sadly missed the din and bustle of 
the seignorial mansion to which she had been accustomed from her 
childhood up. Consequently grief, the alteration in her mode of 
life, and her lack of activity soon combined to develop in her a 
malady to which she had always been more or less subject.

Scarcely more than a year after Mamma's death dropsy showed 
itself, and she took to her bed. I can imagine how sad it must 
have been for her to go on living--still more, to die--alone in 
that great empty house at Petrovskoe, with no relations or any 
one near her. Every one there esteemed and loved her, but she had 
formed no intimate friendships in the place, and was rather proud 
of the fact. That was because, enjoying her master's confidence 
as she did, and having so much property under her care, she 
considered that intimacies would lead to culpable indulgence and 
condescension, Consequently (and perhaps, also, because she had 
nothing really in common with the other servants) she kept them 
all at a distance, and used to say that she "recognised neither 
kinsman nor godfather in the house, and would permit of no 
exceptions with regard to her master's property."

Instead, she sought and found consolation in fervent prayers to 
God. Yet sometimes, in those moments of weakness to which all of 
us are subject, and when man's best solace is the tears and 
compassion of his fellow-creatures, she would take her old dog 
Moska on to her bed, and talk to it, and weep softly over it as 
it answered her caresses by licking her hands, with its yellow 
eyes fixed upon her. When Moska began to whine she would say as 
she quieted it: "Enough, enough! I know without thy telling me 
that my time is near." A month before her death she took out of 
her chest of drawers some fine white calico, white cambric, and 
pink ribbon, and, with the help of the maidservants, fashioned 
the garments in which she wished to be buried. Next she put 
everything on her shelves in order and handed the bailiff an 
inventory which she had made out with scrupulous accuracy. All 
that she kept back was a couple of silk gowns, an old shawl, and 
Grandpapa's military uniform--things which had been presented to 
her absolutely, and which, thanks to her care and orderliness, 
were in an excellent state of preservation--particularly the 
handsome gold embroidery on the uniform.

Just before her death, again, she expressed a wish that one of 
the gowns (a pink one) should be made into a robe de chambre for 
Woloda; that the other one (a many-coloured gown) should be made 
into a similar garment for myself; and that the shawl should go 
to Lubotshka. As for the uniform, it was to devolve either to 
Woloda or to myself, according as the one or the other of us 
should first become an officer. All the rest of her property 
(save only forty roubles, which she set aside for her 
commemorative rites and to defray the costs of her burial) was to 
pass to her brother, a person with whom, since he lived a 
dissipated life in a distant province, she had had no intercourse 
during her lifetime. When, eventually, he arrived to claim the 
inheritance, and found that its sum-total only amounted to 
twenty-five roubles in notes, he refused to believe it, and 
declared that it was impossible that his sister-a woman who for 
sixty years had had sole charge in a wealthy house, as well as 
all her life had been penurious and averse to giving away even 
the smallest thing should have left no more: yet it was a fact.

Though Natalia's last illness lasted for two months, she bore her 
sufferings with truly Christian fortitude. Never did she fret or 
complain, but, as usual, appealed continually to God. An hour 
before the end came she made her final confession, received the 
Sacrament with quiet joy, and was accorded extreme unction. Then 
she begged forgiveness of every one in the house for any wrong 
she might have done them, and requested the priest to send us 
word of the number of times she had blessed us for our love of 
her, as well as of how in her last moments she had implored our 
forgiveness if, in her ignorance, she had ever at any time given 
us offence. "Yet a thief have I never been. Never have I used so 
much as a piece of thread that was not my own." Such was the one 
quality which she valued in herself.

Dressed in the cap and gown prepared so long beforehand, and with 
her head resting, upon the cushion made for the purpose, she 
conversed with the priest up to the very last moment, until, 
suddenly, recollecting that she had left him nothing for the 
poor, she took out ten roubles, and asked him to distribute them 
in the parish. Lastly she made the sign of the cross, lay down, 
and expired--pronouncing with a smile of joy the name of the 
Almighty.

She quitted life without a pang, and, so far from fearing death, 
welcomed it as a blessing. How often do we hear that said, and 
how seldom is it a reality! Natalia Savishna had no reason to 
fear death for the simple reason that she died in a sure and 
certain faith and in strict obedience to the commands of the 
Gospel. Her whole life had been one of pure, disinterested love, 
of utter self-negation. Had her convictions been of a more 
enlightened order, her life directed to a higher aim, would that 
pure soul have been the more worthy of love and reverence? She 
accomplished the highest and best achievement in this world: she 
died without fear and without repining.

They buried her where she had wished to lie--near the little 
mausoleum which still covers Mamma's tomb. The little mound 
beneath which she sleeps is overgrown with nettles and burdock, 
and surrounded by a black railing, but I never forget, when 
leaving the mausoleum, to approach that railing, and to salute 
the, plot of earth within by bowing reverently to the ground.

Sometimes, too, I stand thoughtfully between the railing and the 
mausoleum, and sad memories pass through my mind. Once the idea 
came to me as I stood there: "Did Providence unite me to those 
two beings solely in order to make me regret them my life long?"





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Childhood, by Leo Tolstoy/Tolstoi