Childhood. Boyhood. Youth

Tuesday, August 14th, 2012

Childhood. Boyhood. Youth

Childhood. Boyhood. Youth

By Leo Tolstoy

Translated by C.J. 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, "Ich 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,

rare 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 not 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. Hearing 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 ear 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 be 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 to 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 be 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 more 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