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Childhood
By
Leo Tolstoy
Contents
VI
-- PREPARATIONS FOR THE CHASE
X --
THE SORT OF MAN MY FATHER WAS
XI
-- IN THE DRAWING-ROOM AND THE STUDY.
XVII
-- THE PRINCESS KORNAKOFF
XVIII
-- PRINCE IVAN IVANOVITCH
XX
-- PREPARATIONS FOR THE PARTY
XXVI
-- WHAT AWAITED US AT THE COUNTRY-HOUSE.
I -- THE TUTOR, KARL IVAN=
ITCH
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 su=
gar
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 ima=
ge
with my hand, flicked the dead fly on to the floor, and gazed at Karl Ivani=
tch
with sleepy, wrathful eyes. He, in a parti-coloured wadded dressing-gown fa=
stened
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,&qu=
ot;
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; Wolod=
a 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 w=
ith
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 d=
own
at my feet, and took his snuff-box out of his pocket. I pretended to be asl=
eep.
Karl Ivanitch sneezed, wiped his nose, flicked his fingers, and began amusi=
ng
himself by teasing me and tickling my toes as he said with a smile, "W=
ell,
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 ev=
ery
nerve to keep from laughing.
"How kind he=
is,
and how fond of us!" I thought to myself. "Yet to think that I co=
uld
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 al=
one,
Karl!" I exclaimed at length, with tears in my eyes, as I raised my he=
ad
from beneath the bed-clothes.
Karl Ivanitch was
taken aback, He left off tickling my feet, and asked me kindly what the mat=
ter
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 disgust=
ing.
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 nigh=
t,
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 lit=
tle
feet. The tears had quite dried now, yet the mournful thought of the invent=
ed
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 fr=
iend
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 presen=
ce I
felt ashamed to cry, and, moreover, the morning sun was shining so gaily th=
rough
the window, and Woloda, standing at the washstand as he mimicked Maria Ivan=
ovna
(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 ba=
sin
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 nea=
rly
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 tou=
ched
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 my=
self
hurriedly, and, a brush still in my hand as I smoothed my wet hair, answere=
d 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 wer=
e two
shelves--one of them the children's (that is to say, ours), and the other o=
ne
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 decorous=
ly
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 a=
nd
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 le=
ast
more varied. Three of them in particular I remember, namely, a German pamph=
let
(minus a cover) on Manuring Cabbages in Kitchen-Gardens, a History of the S=
even
Years' War (bound in parchment and burnt at one corner), and a Course of Hy=
drostatics.
Though Karl passed so much of his time in reading that he had injured his s=
ight
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 bef=
ore
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 t= ired 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-clo= sed 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 t= he dial. He would not see me, and I would stand at the door and think: "P= oor, 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 vis= ibly delighted whenever I spoke to him like this, and would look much brighter.<= o:p>
On the second wal=
l of
the schoolroom hung some maps--mostly torn, but glued together again by Kar=
l'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, a=
nd
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 w=
hich
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 a=
ll
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 the=
re
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 wi=
th
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 v=
iew
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 fenc=
e,
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 mead=
ow,
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 murm=
ur
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 t=
hese
horrid dialogues in my hand?" Then my anger would change to sadness, a=
nd I
would fall into such a reverie that I never heard Karl when he scolded me f=
or
my mistakes.
At last, on the
morning of which I am speaking, Karl Ivanitch took off his dressing-gown, p=
ut
on his blue frockcoat with its creased and crumpled shoulders, adjusted his=
tie
before the looking-glass, and took us down to greet Mamma.
Mamma was sitting=
in
the drawing-room and making tea. In one hand she was holding the tea-pot, w=
hile
with the other one she was drawing water from the urn and letting it drip i=
nto
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 bel= oved being shows them to one's vision as through a mist of tears--dim and blurre= d. 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 kindne= ss, 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.<= o:p>
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 re=
cent
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 Ivano=
vna,
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 ent=
ered
the room. Looking angrily at him without answering his bow, she went on bea=
ting
time with her foot and counting, "One, two, three--one, two, three,&qu=
ot;
more loudly and commandingly than ever.
Karl Ivanitch pai=
d no
attention to this rudeness, but went, as usual, with German politeness to k=
iss
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 excu=
se
me, will you not, Natalia Nicolaevna?"
The reason for th=
is
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 m=
ore
than ever.
"Stop a mome=
nt,
Mimi." said Mamma (now smiling also) to Maria Ivanovna. "It is
impossible to hear anything."
How beautiful Mam=
ma'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 momen=
ts
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 fac=
e,
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 abo=
ut 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, M=
amma
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, t=
he
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.
He was standing n=
ear
his writing-table, and pointing angrily to some envelopes, papers, and litt=
le
piles of coin upon it as he addressed some observations to the bailiff, Jak=
off
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 rapi=
dly
did those fingers twirl, and when Papa ceased speaking they came to rest al=
so. 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, a=
nd
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--w=
ait
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 w=
ith
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 understan=
d?
From the mill you ought to receive 1000 roubles. Is not that so? And from t=
he
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 =3D 40 lbs.]at 45 copecks a piece there should come in 3000, Consequen=
tly
the sum-total that you ought to have in hand soon is--how much?--12,000
roubles. Is that right?"
"Precisely,&=
quot;
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 th=
is
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 cl=
ose
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 oug=
ht
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 t=
hey
are to remain in my office, and not to be taken thence without my express
instructions."
For a minute or t=
wo
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 al=
low
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?&quo=
t;
"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?&quo=
t;
"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 un=
derstood
you to estimate a return of 3000 roubles?" (Here Jakoff jotted down
"3000" on his tablets, and then looked for a moment from the figu=
res
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 ma=
ke
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 s=
erf,
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 s=
ome
queer notions of his own. He was forever endeavouring to increase his maste=
r'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 do=
ing
lessons in earnest,
"I suppose y=
ou
know that I am starting for Moscow to-night?" he went on, "and th=
at 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 consolat=
ion
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 unusu=
al
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 the=
re
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 thin=
k 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, Aft=
er 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 lat=
er.
On my way upstair=
s 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,&q=
uot;
I cried as I caressed her and kissed her nose, "we are going away toda=
y.
Good-bye. Perhaps we shall never see each other again." I was crying a=
nd
laughing at the same time.
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 work=
ing
diligently, but I was too distracted to do anything at all. For a long whil=
e 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 i=
nto
tears and, for sobbing, could not pronounce, "Haben Sie die Zeitung ni=
cht
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 departe=
d to
Nicola's pantry, and slammed the door behind him. Nevertheless their
conversation there carried to the schoolroom.
"Have you he=
ard
that the children are going to Moscow, Nicola?" said Karl.
"Yes. How co=
uld
I help hearing it?"
At this point Nic=
ola
seemed to get up for Karl said, "Sit down, Nicola," and then lock=
ed
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 l=
oved
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 d=
ays
and nights, I never closed my eyes as I sat beside his bed? Yes, at that ti=
me 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 t=
hey
did," replied Nicola, laying his awl down and straightening a piece of
thread with his hands.
"No, I am wa=
nted
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 t=
ruth
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--we=
ll,
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 ab=
le
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 apprecia=
ted
at a certain general's where he had formerly lived (I regretted to hear tha=
t).
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 lo=
ved
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-l=
en
Lei-den-shaf-ten die grau-samste ist. Have you written that?" He pause=
d,
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&quo=
t; (stop),
he concluded, with a faintly perceptible smile, as he signed to us to hand =
him
our copy-books.
Several times, an=
d 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 w=
as 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, t=
he
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 (t=
he 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 resou=
nded
on the staircase, but they were not Foka's. Foka's I had learnt to study, a=
nd
knew the creaking of his boots well. The door opened, and a figure unknown =
to
me made its appearance.
The man who now entered the room was about fifty years old, with a pale, attenuated face pi= tted with smallpox, long grey hair, and a scanty beard of a reddish hue. Likewis= e 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 l= ost 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.<= o:p>
"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, wen=
t to
the table, and, with a perfectly serious expression on his face, began to b=
low
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 connec=
tion
(for he used no conjunctions). Yet the tone of that voice was so heartrendi=
ng,
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 hi=
m to
choose the strange life which he led, no one ever knew. All that I myself k=
new
was that from his fifteenth year upwards he had been known as an imbecile w=
ho
went barefooted both in winter and summer, visited convents, gave little im=
ages
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 punct=
ual
and wished-for Foka arrived, and we went downstairs. Grisha followed us sob=
bing
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 ti=
ght
angles to the sofa, and giving some sort of a lesson to the two girls sitti=
ng 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 Mi=
mi'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 ent=
er
into conversation with the girls.
What an intolerab=
le
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 wo=
uld
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 t=
he
sleeve just when the elders of the family were making a move towards the
dining-room.
"Very well. I
will try."
Grisha likewise t=
ook
a seat in the dining-room, but at a little table apart from the rest. He ne=
ver
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 act=
ions
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 wi=
ll
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 child=
ren
some day."
No sooner did Gri=
sha
hear himself mentioned that he turned towards our table and showed us his t=
orn
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 d=
ogs
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 be=
gs
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 s=
ay
so," interrupted Mamma, as if frightened by some thought. "How can
you know what he is?"
"I think I h=
ave
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 abo=
ut
it.
"Please hand= me the cakes," she said to him, "Are they good to-day or not?"<= o:p>
"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 f=
ork.
"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 ner=
ves
of certain people who are already not over-strong in that respect," an=
d 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 we=
ars
chains of two pounds' weight, and never accepts the offers made to him to l=
ive
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 HA=
VE
you gone and done?" said Papa, laughing and putting his hand to his ch=
eek
(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 Ja=
koff
had been sent for, and orders given him to have ready the carriage, the hou=
nds,
and the saddle-horses--every detail being minutely specified, and every hor=
se
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 so=
me
kind of an animal which would at once run away and bring about Woloda's dea=
th.
Consequently, in spite of all Papa's and Woloda's assurances (the latter gl=
ibly
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 sha=
me
it was that Lubotshka, could not run as fast as Katenka, and what fun it wo=
uld
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-scal=
es.
In the east, over Maslovska, a single lurid mass was louring, but Karl Ivan=
itch
(who always seemed to know the ways of the heavens) said that the weather w=
ould
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 plan=
ted
his legs firmly apart and took up his station between the lowest step and t=
he
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 lad=
ies,
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 themselv=
es
in the vehicle, opened their parasols, and started. As the carriage was, dr=
iving
away, Mamma pointed to the hunter and asked nervously "Is that the hor=
se
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 stee=
d (I
was just tall enough to see between its ears), I proceeded to perform
evolutions in the courtyard.
"Mind you do=
n'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 reto=
rted
with dignity.
Although Woloda h=
ad
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 see=
med
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, t=
he
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. Fina=
lly,
as soon as Papa had mounted we rode away.
AT the head of the
cavalcade rode Turka, on a hog-backed roan. On his head he wore a shaggy ca=
p,
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 i=
ts
leash-fellow also to be induced to halt, but at once one of the huntsmen wo=
uld
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, thi=
ck 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 she=
aves
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 he=
ad
and swished its tail to and fro to drive away the gadflies and countless ot=
her
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 hea=
d to
await the whipper-in. The chatter of the peasants; the rumbling of horses a=
nd
waggons; the joyous cries of quails; the hum of insects as they hung suspen=
ded
in the motionless air; the smell of the soil and grain and steam from our h=
orses;
the thousand different lights and shadows which the burning sun cast upon t=
he
yellowish-white cornland; the purple forest in the distance; the white goss=
amer
threads which were floating in the air or resting on the soil-all these thi=
ngs
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 arrive=
d 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 instructi=
ons,
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 d=
ispersed
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?&quo=
t; I
asked, with the air of a connoisseur.
"Yes. Then r=
un
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 tie=
d 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, "Hur=
ry
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 ho=
und
came nearer and nearer, and then another, and then a third, and then a four=
th,
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 tho= ugh 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 nev= er 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 e= dge 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 Giza= na did the same--pulling at his leash at first and whining. Then he lay down a= gain by my side, rested his muzzle on my knees, and resigned himself to disappoi= ntment. 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 bl= ades of grass. In serried files they kept pressing forward on the level track th= ey 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 li= ght of the obstacle. Some got past it by creeping underneath, and some by climb= ing 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 w= ings 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 i= ts 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.<= o:p>
Suddenly Gizana
sprang up and gave me such a violent jerk that I nearly rolled over. I look=
ed
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, a=
nd 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 v=
iew.
How confused I fe=
lt
when at that moment Turka stepped from the undergrowth (he had been followi=
ng
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 contempt=
uous
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 st=
and
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 t=
he
wood as they pursued the hare, while Turka rallied them with blasts on his
gorgeous horn: yet I did not stir.
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 baske=
t a
quantity of plums and peaches wrapped in leaves.
Through the green
branches of the young birch-trees the sun glittered and threw little glanci=
ng
balls of light upon the pattern of my napkin, my legs, and the bald moist h=
ead
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 ab=
out
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 somethin=
g,
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-headedne=
ss
and too little imagination fully to enjoy the game of Robinson. It was a ga=
me
which consisted of performing various scenes from The Swiss Family Robinson=
, a
book which we had recently been reading.
"Well, but b=
e 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 pull=
ing
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 Lubotshk=
a,
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 a=
ll
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 suppos=
ed
it was all the same whether he went or not. Such behaviour and speeches coo=
led
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 t=
hat
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 reasoni=
ng
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 a=
nd
make a carriage of it--one of us being the coachman, another one the footma=
n,
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 u=
sed
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 LO=
VE
PRETENDING to gat=
her
some "American fruit" from a tree, Lubotshka suddenly plucked a l=
eaf
upon which was a huge caterpillar, and throwing the insect with horror to t=
he
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 ano=
ther
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 bree=
ze
lifted the fichu on her white neck. Her shoulder was close to my lips, I lo=
oked
at it and kissed it, She did not turn round, but Woloda remarked without ra=
ising
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 entreat=
ies,
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 long=
er
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 p=
ast
the carriage on the side on which Katenka was seated. My only doubt was whe=
ther
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 forwar=
d on
to its neck and cut a very sorry figure!
X -- THE SORT OF MAN MY
FATHER WAS
Papa was a gentle=
man
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 loo=
ked
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 impos=
ing
figure, he walked with a curiously quick, mincing gait, as well as had a ha=
bit
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 da=
ys
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 circle=
s 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. Likew=
ise
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-offic=
ers,
he refused to dress himself in the prevailing fashion, though he attired hi=
mself
both originally and artistically--his invariable wear being light,
loose-fitting suits, very fine shirts, and large collars and cuffs. Everyth=
ing
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 the=
mes
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 tha=
t ditty.
His nature was essentially one of those which follow public opinion concern=
ing
what is good, and consider only that good which the public declares to be s=
o.
[It may be noted that the author has said earlier in the chapter that his
father possessed "much originality."] God only knows whether he h=
ad
any moral convictions. His life was so full of amusement that probably he n=
ever
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 expedie=
ncy,
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 n=
ow, 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 viv=
id
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 t=
he
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 rep=
lied,
"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 b=
ush.
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 oft=
en
played those two pieces, and therefore I well recollect the feelings they
awakened in me. Those feelings were a reminiscence--of what? Somehow I seem=
ed
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 affa=
irs
transacted in that study to be the most important ones on earth. This opini=
on
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 m=
e.
Next, as I dozed, I suddenly heard a creaking of boots that I knew, and, su=
re
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 noth=
ing
is going to happen," I mused. "Karl Ivanitch is offended, and mig=
ht
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 carria=
ge.
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 sp=
eak
of him so disrespectfully.
"I am
delighted," said Mamma, "and as much for the children's sake as h=
is
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 wh=
ich
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?&quo=
t;
he concluded.
The contents of t=
he
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 singu=
lar,
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 sev=
eral
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. Consequent=
ly
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 t=
he
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 he=
ad,
for the purpose of declaiming eloquently to Papa on the subject of the wron=
gs
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, aft=
er 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 h=
ad
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-serva=
nts'
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 sho=
uld
first enter the store-room gave us some little trouble. Then we cowered down
and waited.
WE all felt a lit=
tle
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 ha=
nd
his staff and in the other a tallow candle set in a brass candlestick. We
scarcely ventured to breathe.
"Our Lord Je=
sus
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 g=
reat
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 w=
ere
deliberate and intelligent.
Next, he lay down
quietly in his shirt on the bed, made the sign of the cross towards every s=
ide
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 dow=
n,
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 repea=
ted
some well-known prayers, and only accented a word here and there. Next, he
repeated thee same prayers, but louder and with increased accentuation. Las=
tly
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 benefac=
tors
(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 ti=
me
that he said, "Pardon me, Lord, and teach me to do what Thou wouldst h=
ave
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, fo=
lded
his arms upon his breast, and remained silent. I ventured to put my head ro=
und
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 wi=
ll
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 bec=
ome
blurred in indistinct visions, and poor Grisha himself has long since reach=
ed
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 tru=
ly
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 pra=
ises
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, "W=
hose
hand is this?" Despite the darkness, I knew by the touch and the low v=
oice
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 s=
ign
of the cross towards each of the four corners of the room.
XIII -- NATALIA SAVISHNA<=
/span>
In days gone by t=
here
used to run about the seignorial courtyard of the country-house at Chabarov=
ska
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 fathe=
r,
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 tem=
per
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 y=
oung
and active footman Foka (who had frequent opportunities of courting her, si=
nce
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 no=
body
could be found to replace her, she was recalled to her former duties. Retur=
ned,
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 fo=
rth
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, extrava=
gance,
or waste she endeavoured to remedy to the best of her power. When Mamma mar=
ried
and wished in some way to reward Natalia Savishna for her twenty years of c=
are
and labour, she sent for her and, voicing in the tenderest terms her attach=
ment
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 silenc=
e 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, Mam=
ma
followed her presently to her room, and found her sitting with streaming ey=
es
on her trunk, crushing her pocket-handkerchief between her fingers, and loo=
king
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 someh=
ow,
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 Mam=
ma
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 tenderne=
ss;
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 thi=
nk,
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 mad=
e by
Woloda, and take from it a fumigation pastille, which she would light and s=
hake
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 obje=
ct
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 te=
mper
with her. This was how it happened.
One day after
luncheon I poured myself out a glass of kvass, and then dropped the decante=
r,
and so stained the tablecloth.
"Go and call
Natalia, that she may come and see what her darling has done," said Ma=
mma.
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 skippi=
ng
away, in the sprightliest mood possible, when Natalia darted out upon me fr=
om
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 t=
hink
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 t=
he
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 pard=
on
me, my darling, will you not? There, there, that's a dear," and she to=
ok
from her handkerchief a cornet of pink paper containing two little cakes an=
d a
grape, and offered it me with a trembling hand. I could not look the kind o=
ld
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.
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 bo=
ots
and an old overcoat belted tightly about him with a girdle, got into the ca=
rt
and arranged cloaks and cushions on the seats. When he thought that they we=
re
piled high enough he sat down on them, but finding them still unsatisfactor=
y,
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 hu=
rled
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 perspi=
ration
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 cl=
oak,
took hold of the pole of the carriage and tried it carefully, while the oth=
er
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 a=
nd
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 grea=
se.
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, a=
nd
dozing, some leaning wearily against their neighbours, and others cropping =
the
leaves and stalks of dark-green fern which grew near the entrance-steps. So=
me
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 wai=
ting
impatiently for these various preparations to come to an end.
As we sat togethe=
r 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 sha=
ll I
give the list of the children's linen?" asked Natalia Savishna of Mamm=
a 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 o=
ld
woman seemed about to say something more, but suddenly stopped short, cover=
ed
her face with her handkerchief, and left the room. Something seemed to pric=
k at
my heart when I saw that gesture of hers, but impatience to be off soon dro=
wned
all other feeling, and I continued to listen indifferently to Papa and Mamm=
a as
they talked together. They were discussing subjects which evidently interes=
ted 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 s=
aid,
"The carriages are ready." I saw Mamma tremble and turn pale at t=
he
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, an=
d,
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 b=
ent,
kind figure in a cap from beneath which a few grey hairs were straggling. T=
he
pair settled themselves together on the chair, but neither of them looked c=
omfortable.
I continued
preoccupied and impatient. In fact, the ten minutes during which we sat the=
re
with closed doors seemed to me an hour. At last every one rose, made the si=
gn
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 glad=
ly
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 he=
r,
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 noth=
ing
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 recollectio=
n of
these servants' faces, and be able to draw them with the most minute accura=
cy
in my mind, while Mamma's face and attitude escape me entirely. It may be t=
hat
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 loo=
k 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 mo=
ment
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 hast=
ily
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 op=
en
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 cryi=
ng,
but the thought that my tears were a proof of my affection helped to soothe=
and
comfort me.
After a little wh=
ile
I began to recover, and to look with interest at objects which we passed an=
d 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 se=
em
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 stret=
ches
of ripe corn, at the dark ploughed fields where ploughs and peasants and ho=
rses
with foals were working, at their footprints, and at the box of the carriag=
e 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, perh=
aps,
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 sorr=
y to
be parted from them, and from Natalia Savishna, and from the birch-tree ave=
nue,
and from Foka. Yes, even the horrid Mimi I longed for. I longed for everyth=
ing
at home. And poor Mamma!--The tears rushed to my eyes again. Yet even this =
mood
passed away before long.
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 h=
ave
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 somebo=
dy,
and that the sound of her voice is so melodious and kind? How much its echo=
es
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 ca=
st
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 bette=
r 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 kno=
w it
by the touch, and, though still dreaming, I seize hold of it and press it t=
o 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 do=
wn
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 s=
ees
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, the=
n,
my angel."
She passes her ot=
her
arm round my neck, and her fingers tickle me as they move across it. The ro=
om
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 sa=
d,
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? Th= ey 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 fa= ll 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--stuc= k 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 oth= er side, and thoughts and dreams would become jumbled and entangled together u= ntil at last I slept soundly and peacefully, though with a face wet with tears.<= o:p>
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 gaie=
ty
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 whi=
ch 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?
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 drawi=
ng
master, who was giving a few finishing touches to the head of a turbaned Tu=
rk,
executed in black pencil. Woloda, with out-stretched neck, was standing beh=
ind
the drawing master and looking over his shoulder. The head was Woloda's fir=
st 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 n=
ot
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 anyth=
ing
more to it. As for you, Nicolinka," he added, rising and glancing aske=
w at
the Turk, "won't you tell us your great secret at last? What are you g=
oing
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 rou=
nd
and that we must each of us have a present ready for her, I had taken it in=
to
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 ini=
tial
heat of enthusiasm, even my most strenuous efforts refused to produce anoth=
er
one. I began to read different poems in our books, but neither Dimitrieff n=
or
Derzhavin could help me. On the contrary, they only confirmed my sense of
incompetence. Knowing, however, that Karl Ivanitch was fond of writing vers=
es,
I stole softly upstairs to burrow among his papers, and found, among a numb=
er
of German verses, some in the Russian language which seemed to have come fr=
om
his own pen.
To L
Remember near Remember fa=
r, 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 (whi=
ch
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 th=
em
out on vellum.
Two sheets were s=
oon
spoiled--not because I found it necessary to alter anything (the verses see=
med
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 a=
lso
came out crooked, but I determined to make it do. In my verses I congratula=
ted
Grandmamma, wished her many happy returns, and concluded thus:
"Endeavouri=
ng you
to please and cheer, We lo=
ve you
like our Mother dear."
This seemed to me=
not
bad, yet it offended my ear somehow.
"Lo-ve you l=
i-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 add=
ed
the last verse to the rest. Then I went into our bedroom and recited the wh=
ole
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 h=
ave
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 st=
ood
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 skipp=
ing
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 t=
ook
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 praye=
rs.
During the ceremo=
ny
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 w=
hole
effect of a surprise, upon which we had been counting, was entirely lost. W=
hen
at last every one had made the sign of the cross I became intolerably oppre=
ssed
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 Ivanitc=
h,
who solemnly congratulated Grandmamma and, transferring his box from his ri=
ght
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 exp=
ress
her gratitude. Yet it was evident that, she did not know where to set the b=
ox
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 itsel=
f,
and then at the artist who could make such wonderful things. Then Woloda
presented his Turk, and received a similarly flattering ovation on all side=
s.
It was my turn no=
w,
and Grandmamma turned to me with her kindest smile. Those who have experien=
ced
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, a=
nd
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 th=
eir
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 fa=
ce,
and drops of perspiration beginning to stand out on my brow and nose. My ea=
rs
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 bo=
x or
a drawing?"
There was nothing
else to be done. With a trembling hand held out the folded, fatal paper, bu=
t my
voiced failed me completely and I stood before Grandmamma in silence. I cou=
ld
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 o=
ne,
and that the words "our Mother dear" would clearly prove that I h=
ad
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 on=
e of
ridicule)?--when she did not pronounce it as I had meant it to be pronounce=
d?--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 t=
hat
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 h=
er
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 a=
nd
eyelashes looked even lighter and redder that they would other wise have do=
ne. Yet,
for all that, her animated movements, small hands, and peculiarly dry featu=
res
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 the=
m,
even though no one else may be saying a word. First she would raise her voi=
ce,
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 Prin=
cess
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 Pr=
ince
Michael had been prevented from calling, and congratulating Grandmamma &quo=
t;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 wo=
rds.
"I am much
obliged to you for your kindness," she said. "As for Prince Micha=
el'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 Princes=
s's
children, had turned to us, taken my verses out from beneath the presentati=
on
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 go=
od
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 child=
ren
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 i=
t 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 unwort=
hy
of the honour of listening to such a production). "Very well, my
dear," she repeated "But please tell me how, in return, you can l=
ook
for any delicate sensibility from your children?"
Evidently Grandma=
mma
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 indulgenc=
e 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 t=
o 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 ide=
as
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 poin=
t.
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 w=
ent to
pay her my respects, she said as she patted my cheek; "You know, Nicol=
inka,
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 wo=
rds
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 c=
ould
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 Prince=
ss
took her leave. After that, so many other callers came to congratulate
Grandmamma that the courtyard was crowded all day long with carriages.
"Good mornin=
g,
my dear cousin," was the greeting of one guest in particular as he ent=
ered
the room and kissed Grandmamma's hand, He was a man of seventy, with a stat=
ely
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 qu=
iet
and open expression, as well as the simplicity and ease of his manners, gre=
atly
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 you=
th
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 car=
es,
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 t=
he
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 affor=
d 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 thr=
ough
his influence. Yet even then his coldness was mitigated by the polite conde=
scension
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 centu=
ry.
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 f=
or
mathematics, natural philosophy, or contemporary literature he cared nothing
whatever. However, he knew how to be silent in conversation, as well as whe=
n 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 &=
quot;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 offe=
ring
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 t=
he
same standing as himself, who had had the same sort of education, and who s=
aw
things from the same point of view: wherefore he greatly valued his intimat=
e,
long-standing friendship with her, and always showed her the highest respec=
t.
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 t=
he
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 w=
hich
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 thoug=
ht
that it must be meant for a caress.
Gradually the oth=
er
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 sile=
nce.
"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 bring=
ing
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 we=
re
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 w=
as
more than time that they should be sent to Moscow to study, as well as to l=
earn
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 ho=
w to
enter a room."
"Nevertheles=
s"
said the Prince, "I cannot understand these complaints of ruined fortu=
nes.
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 tell=
ing
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 atten=
ding
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 express=
ion
of contempt. Then, after a moment of silence, during which she took her han=
dkerchief
out of her pocket to wipe away a few tears which had stolen down her cheeks,
she went, on:
"Yes, my fri=
end,
I often think that he cannot value and understand her properly, and that, f=
or
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 f=
ace
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, ha=
ving
been an involuntary auditor of a conversation not meant for my ears, I stol=
e on
tiptoe out of the room, in a state of great distress.
"Woloda, Wol=
oda!
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 pavem=
ent
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 pleasur=
e,
and at one time my whole mental faculties used to be concentrated in the wi=
sh
that I might do so. If three or four days passed without my seeing him I fe=
lt 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 di=
d 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 f=
ixed
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 satisf=
ied,
and wished and asked for nothing better than to be ready at any time to mak=
e 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 maki=
ng
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-ra=
ted
the beautiful in others, or, lastly (and most probably), because it is a co=
mmon
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 happine=
ss
that I turned pale, then red, and could not utter a word. He had an ugly ha=
bit of
blinking when considering anything seriously, as well as of twitching his n=
ose
and eyebrows. Consequently every one thought that this habit marred his fac=
e.
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 as=
ked
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 intercours=
e. 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 see=
med
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 wh=
ich
came to an end without having ever found self-expression or return. It is s=
trange
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 m=
e!
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 bit=
ter
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 arri=
val
with an expression as happy as though she were certain to be equally deligh=
ted.
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 w=
hen 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 lit=
tle
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 ci=
gar,
and assumed the air of a man well-pleased with himself. He was a German, bu=
t of
a very different sort to our good Karl Ivanitch. In the first place, he spo=
ke both
Russian and French correctly, though with a hard accent Indeed, he
enjoyed--especially among the ladies--the reputation of being a very accomp=
lished
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 beyo=
nd
compare, especially as regards the favour of the ladies. Consequently, whet=
her
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 desir=
e is
to be thought perfectly gallant and gentlemanly.
In the little gar=
den
merriment reigned. In fact, the game of "robbers" never went bett=
er.
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 l=
eg
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 prope=
rly?
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 ga=
me!
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 so=
n 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 a=
ll
except to laugh at him. He was a boy of thirteen, tall and thin, with a pal=
e,
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 attenti=
on
or pity.
Upstairs we set
ourselves to astonish each other with gymnastic tours de force. Ilinka watc=
hed
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 surpris=
ed
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 t=
rick
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 almo=
st
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 al=
one!
You are tearing my jacket!" cried the unhappy victim, but his exclamat=
ions
of despair only encouraged us the more. We were dying with laughter, while =
the
green jacket was bursting at every seam.
Woloda and the el=
dest
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 th=
at
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 slipp=
ed
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 trou=
sers
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! Wou=
ld
it still kick and show temper, then?" cried Seriosha, seizing a dictio=
nary
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 wer=
e in
a fit.
"Oh,
Sergius!" I said. "Why have you done this?"
"Well, you d=
id
it too! Besides, I did not cry this afternoon when I knocked my leg and nea=
rly
broke it."
"True
enough," I thought. "Ilinka is a poor whining sort of a chap, whi=
le
Seriosha is a boy--a REAL boy."
It never occurred=
to
my mind that possibly poor Ilinka was suffering far less from bodily pain t=
han
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-ro=
om
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 sm=
all
amount of company was to be expected that evening.
At the sound of e=
very
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, w=
ho
had promised to come early, I at once ran downstairs to meet them in the ha=
ll.
But, instead of t=
he
Iwins, I beheld from behind the figure of the footman who opened the door t=
wo
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 amorph=
ous
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 perfec=
tly
suited her beautiful face in front and her bare neck and shoulders behind t=
hat
I, would have believed nobody, not even Karl Ivanitch, if he, or she had to=
ld
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 ir=
on.
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 f=
ace
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 necess=
ary
to be seen pacing to and fro, seemingly engaged in thought, as though
unconscious of the arrival of guests.
BY the time, howe=
ver,
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, "Wh=
at 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, presentl=
y,
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 th=
at
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 nervou=
s,
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 s=
ees
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 signific=
ant
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 lai=
d 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 s=
hall
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 be=
en
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 cla=
imed
my whole attention. I remember that, as I stood in the salon with Etienne a=
nd
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 so=
on
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 e=
njoyable.
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 Serios=
ha,
I felt a kind of vexation that he should see and be seen by Sonetchka.
"HULLO, Wolo=
da!
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! W=
hat
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 o=
nly
found, in one of them, my green travelling mittens, and, in another, a sing=
le
lilac-coloured glove, a thing which could be of no use to me, firstly, beca=
use
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 havi=
ng
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 Nat=
alia
Savishna had been here," I reflected, "we should certainly have f=
ound
some gloves. I can't go downstairs in this condition. Yet, if they ask me w=
hy I
am not dancing, what am I to say? However, I can't remain here either, or t=
hey
will be sending upstairs to fetch me. What on earth am I to do?" and I
wrung my hands.
"What are yo=
u up
to here?" asked Woloda as he burst into the room. "Go and engage a
partner. The dancing will be beginning directly."
"Woloda,&quo=
t; 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?&qu=
ot;
he said impatiently. "Oh, of gloves," he added with a careless gl=
ance
at my hand. "That's nothing. We can ask Grandmamma what she thinks abo=
ut
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 lay=
ing
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 gene=
ral
roar of laughter ensued.
I should have been
infuriated at the thought that Seriosha was present to see this, as I scowl=
ed
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 on=
ly 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 Sonetc=
hka
looked when she was dancing a quadrille as my vis-a-vis, with, as her partn=
er,
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 t=
he
rhythm, and how naively she executed the jete assemble with her little feet=
!
In the fifth figu=
re,
when my partner had to leave me for the other side and I, counting the beat=
s,
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 t=
urn
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 rememb=
er
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 stil=
l.
Still can I hear the quadrille from "The Maids of the Danube" to
which we danced that night.
The second quadri=
lle,
I danced with Sonetchka herself; yet when we went to sit down together duri=
ng
the interval, I felt overcome with shyness and as though I had nothing to s=
ay.
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 u=
ne
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 en=
sued
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 y=
ou
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 gl=
ove
belonged to Karl Ivanitch, and then went on to speak ironically of his appe=
arance,
and to describe how comical he looked in his red cap, and how he and his gr=
een
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 end=
ed,
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 fa=
ct I
hardly knew myself for joy and could not think whence I derived such case a=
nd
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 t=
all
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 ste=
ps
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 v=
oice
asked the favour of her hand in the quadrille. Smiling with a protecting ai=
r,
the young lady accorded me her hand, and the tall young man was left withou=
t 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.
AFTERWARDS the sa=
me
young man formed one of the first couple in a mazurka. He sprang to his fee=
t,
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 ear=
th
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 the=
re
is Woloda too! He too is adopting the new style, and not so badly either. A=
nd
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 danc=
ers,
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?&quo=
t;
"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 itse=
lf
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 th=
eir
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, ju=
st
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 amazem=
ent
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 rhy=
thm.
At last I stopped altogether. Every-one was looking at me--some with curios=
ity,
some with astonishment, some with disdain, and some with compassion, Grandm=
amma
alone seemed unmoved.
"You should =
not
dance if you don't know the step," said Papa's angry voice in my ear a=
s,
pushing me gently aside, he took my partner's hand, completed the figures w=
ith
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. "T=
he
way is closed for me to friendship, love, and fame! All, all is lost!"=
Why had Woloda ma=
de
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 turn=
ed
red and taken my hand? Can it be that he was ashamed of me?
Oh, it was dreadf=
ul!
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 quie=
t,
beloved recollection--floated through my mind at that time!
At supper the you=
ng
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 (towa=
rds
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 m=
e 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 friendsh=
ip
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 daug=
hter
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 w=
aiting
for you."
Sonetchka gave me= her hand, and we darted off to the salon, The wine, added to Sonetchka's presen= ce 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 imitati= ng 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.<= o:p>
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 show=
ed
the difficulty she had in walking. Finally Sonetchka nearly died of merrime=
nt
when I jumped half-way to the ceiling in proof of my skill.
As I passed a mir=
ror
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, bei=
ng
more erect than ever. Yet my general appearance looked so happy, healthy, a=
nd
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 pe=
ople
with my looks." Yet as soon as I glanced at my partner's face again, a=
nd
saw there not only the expression of happiness, health, and good temper whi=
ch
had just pleased me in my own, but also a fresh and enchanting beauty besid=
es,
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 cou=
ld
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 wh=
ich
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 flo=
wing
back to it, and I almost wept for joy.
As we passed thro=
ugh
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 w=
ith
her in that dark corner, and never let anybody know that we were there!&quo=
t;
"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 express=
ion
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 s=
aid)
"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, certa=
inly
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.&quo=
t;
"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 stra=
ight
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 emplo=
yed
more than once. All that I wanted was the courage to say it.
"Wilt
THOU?" and "THY hand" sounded continually in my ears, and ca=
used
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 disc=
losing
portions of her forehead and temples which I had not yet seen), and wrap he=
r 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. Final=
ly 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 believe=
d 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 t=
ried
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.
"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! 'Wi=
lt
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 covere=
d,
lay quiet and enjoying the warmth until I became wholly absorbed in pleasant
fancies and reminiscences.
If I stared fixed=
ly
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, ar=
e you
asleep?"
"No," he
replied in a sleepy voice. "What's the matter?"
"I am in lov=
e,
Woloda--terribly in love with Sonetchka"
"Well? Anyth=
ing
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 marvell=
ous!
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 o=
nly
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, b=
ut
somehow I wanted every one to be in love with Sonetchka, and every one to t=
ell
me that they were so.
"So that's h=
ow
it is with you? " said Woloda, turning round to me. "Well, I can
understand it."
"I can see t=
hat
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 splen=
did?
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 picturi=
ng
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,&q=
uot;
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."
ON the 16th of Ap=
ril,
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 fel=
t a
pang at my heart when I heard the news, and my thoughts at once turned to M=
amma,
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 lette=
r of
the 3rd of April, but as usual, I answer it at once. Fedor brought it yeste=
rday
from town, but, as it was late, he did not give it to Mimi till this mornin=
g,
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 be=
en
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 l=
ast
I took the girls for a drive, and, close to the little bridge by the turnin=
g 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, bu=
t 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 h=
ad
been wet through. After luncheon too, I had alternate cold and hot fits, ye=
t 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 wh=
en 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 c=
ame
to my assistance and forced me to retire to bed. That was how my illness be=
gan,
and it was all through my own fault. The next day I had a good deal of feve=
r,
and our good Ivan Vassilitch came. He has not left us since, but promises s=
oon
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 (sinc=
e he
knows I am busy writing) he is with the girls in the divannaia, and I can h=
ear
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 dee=
d of
mercy to have adopted her.
"Lubotshka h=
ad
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 go=
ing
well this winter, and that you wish to break into the revenues of Chabarovs=
ka.
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 gr=
own 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 lo=
sses
cause me as little anxiety as your gains give me pleasure. What I really gr=
ieve
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 tru=
ths
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 f=
rom the
terrible juncture which would arise should the interests of the children, w=
hich
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 be=
yond
which we should be obliged either to sacrifice property which would no long=
er
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 w=
rite
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 yo=
ur
promise that never so long as I am alive, nor yet after my death (if God sh=
ould
see fit to separate us), shall such a thing be done.
"Also you wr=
ite
that our affairs render it indispensable for you to visit St. Petersburg. T=
he
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 bloss=
om.
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 o=
pen
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 wi=
th
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 beli=
eve
what I have just written to you about my illness. It is more serious than a=
ny
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 shoul=
d 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 t=
o,
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 t=
his
moment, and absolutely calm. Nor must you comfort yourself with the false h=
ope
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 b=
ut 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 l=
ove
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 h=
ere,
my love will none the less NEVER AND NOWHERE fail you. Farewell,
Woloda--farewell, my pet! Farewell, my Benjamin, my little Nicolinka! Surel=
y 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 pos=
ted
at once, but, thinking at she did so in delirium, I waited until this morni=
ng,
with the intention of sealing and sending it then. Hardly had I done so when
Natalia Nicolaevna asked me what I had done with the letter and told me to =
burn
it if not yet despatched. She is forever speaking of it, and saying that it
will kill you. Do not delay your departure for an instant if you wish to see
the angel before she leaves us. Pray excuse this scribble, but I have not s=
lept
now for three nights. You know how much I love her."
Later I heard from
Natalia Savishna (who passed the whole of the night of the 11th April at
Mamma's bedside) that, after writing the first part of the letter, Mamma la=
id
it down upon the table beside her and went to sleep for a while.
"I
confess," said Natalia Savishna, "that I too fell asleep in the a=
rm-chair,
and let my knitting slip from my hands. Suddenly, towards one o'clock in the
morning, I heard her saying something; whereupon I opened my eyes and looke=
d at
her. My darling was sitting up in bed, with her hands clasped together and
streams of tears gushing from her eyes.
"'It is all =
over
now,' she said, and hid her face in her hands.
"I sprang to=
my
feet, and asked what the matter was.
"'Ah, Natalia
Savishna, if you could only know what I have just seen!' she said; yet, for=
all
my asking, she would say no more, beyond commanding me to hand her the lett=
er.
To that letter she added something, and then said that it must be sent off
directly. From that moment she grew, rapidly worse."
XXVI -- WHAT AWAITED US AT
THE COUNTRY-HOUSE
On the 18th of Ap=
ril
we descended from the carriage at the front door of the house at Petrovskoe.
All the way from Moscow Papa had been preoccupied, and when Woloda had asked
him "whether Mamma was ill" he had looked at him sadly and nodded=
an
affirmative. Nevertheless he had grown more composed during the journey, an=
d it
was only when we were actually approaching the house that his face again be=
gan
to grow anxious, until, as he leaped from the carriage and asked Foka (who =
had
run breathlessly to meet us), "How is Natalia Nicolaevna now?" hi=
s voice,
was trembling, and his eyes had filled with tears. The good, old Foka looke=
d at
us, and then lowered his gaze again. Finally he said as he opened the hall-=
door
and turned his head aside: "It is the sixth day since she has not left=
her
bed."
Milka (who, as we
afterwards learned, had never ceased to whine from the day when Mamma was t=
aken
ill) came leaping, joyfully to meet Papa, and barking a welcome as she lick=
ed
his hands, but Papa put her aside, and went first to the drawing-room, and =
then
into the divannaia, from which a door led into the bedroom. The nearer he
approached the latter, the more, did his movements express the agitation th=
at
he felt. Entering the divannaia he crossed it on tiptoe, seeming to hold his
breath. Even then he had to stop and make the sign of the cross before he c=
ould
summon up courage to turn the handle. At the same moment Mimi, with disheve=
lled
hair and eyes red with weeping came hastily out of the corridor.
"Ah, Peter
Alexandritch!" she said in a whisper and with a marked expression of
despair. Then, observing that Papa was trying to open the door, she whisper=
ed
again:
"Not here. T=
his
door is locked. Go round to the door on the other side."
Oh, how terribly =
all
this wrought upon my imagination, racked as it was by grief and terrible
forebodings!
So we went round =
to
the other side. In the corridor we met the gardener, Akim, who had been won=
t to
amuse us with his grimaces, but at this moment I could see nothing comical =
in
him. Indeed, the sight of his thoughtless, indifferent face struck me more
painfully than anything else. In the maidservants' hall, through which we h=
ad
to pass, two maids were sitting at their work, but rose to salute us with an
expression so mournful that I felt completely overwhelmed.
Passing also thro=
ugh
Mimi's room, Papa opened the door of the bedroom, and we entered. The two
windows on the right were curtained over, and close to them was seated, Nat=
alia
Savishna, spectacles on nose and engaged in darning stockings. She did not
approach us to kiss me as she had been used to do, but just rose and looked=
at
us, her tears beginning to flow afresh. Somehow it frightened me to see eve=
ry
one, on beholding us, begin to cry, although they had been calm enough befo=
re.
On the left stood=
the
bed behind a screen, while in the great arm-chair the doctor lay asleep. Be=
side
the bed a young, fair-haired and remarkably beautiful girl in a white morni=
ng
wrapper was applying ice to Mamma's head, but Mamma herself I could not see.
This girl was "La Belle Flamande" of whom Mamma had written, and =
who
afterwards played so important a part in our family life. As we entered she
disengaged one of her hands, straightened the pleats of her dress on her bo=
som,
and whispered, "She is insensible." Though I was in an agony of
grief, I observed at that moment every little detail.
It was almost dar=
k in
the room, and very hot, while the air was heavy with the mingled, scent of
mint, eau-de-cologne, camomile, and Hoffman's pastilles. The latter ingredi=
ent
caught my attention so strongly that even now I can never hear of it, or ev=
en
think of it, without my memory carrying me back to that dark, close room, a=
nd
all the details of that dreadful time.
Mamma's eyes were
wide open, but they could not see us. Never shall I forget the terrible
expression in them--the expression of agonies of suffering!
Then we were taken
away.
When, later, I was
able to ask Natalia Savishna about Mamma's last moments she told me the
following:
"After you w=
ere
taken out of the room, my beloved one struggled for a long time, as though =
some
one were trying to strangle her. Then at last she laid her head back upon t=
he
pillow, and slept softly, peacefully, like an angel from Heaven. I went away
for a moment to see about her medicine, and just as I entered the room agai=
n my
darling was throwing the bedclothes from off her and calling for your Papa.=
He
stooped over her, but strength failed her to say what she wanted to. All she
could do was to open her lips and gasp, 'My God, my God! The children, the =
children!'
I would have run to fetch you, but Ivan Vassilitch stopped me, saying that =
it
would only excite her--it were best not to do so. Then suddenly she stretch=
ed
her arms out and dropped them again. What she meant by that gesture the good
God alone knows, but I think that in it she was blessing you--you the child=
ren
whom she could not see. God did not grant her to see her little ones before=
her
death. Then she raised herself up--did my love, my darling--yes, just so wi=
th
her hands, and exclaimed in a voice which I cannot bear to remember, 'Mothe=
r of
God, never forsake them!'"
"Then the pa=
in
mounted to her heart, and from her eyes it as, plain that she suffered
terribly, my poor one! She sank back upon the pillows, tore the bedclothes =
with
her teeth, and wept--wept--"
"Yes and what
then?" I asked but Natalia Savishna could say no more. She turned away=
and
cried bitterly.
Mamma had expired=
in
terrible agonies.
LATE the following
evening I thought I would like to look at her once more; so, conquering an
involuntary sense of fear, I gently opened the door of the salon and entere=
d on
tiptoe.
In the middle of =
the
room, on a table, lay the coffin, with wax candles burning all round it on =
tall
silver candelabra. In the further corner sat the chanter, reading the Psalm=
s in
a low, monotonous voice. I stopped at the door and tried to look, but my ey=
es
were so weak with crying, and my nerves so terribly on edge, that I could
distinguish nothing. Every object seemed to mingle together in a strange
blur--the candles, the brocade, the velvet, the great candelabra, the pink
satin cushion trimmed with lace, the chaplet of flowers, the ribboned cap, =
and something
of a transparent, wax-like colour. I mounted a chair to see her face, yet w=
here
it should have been I could see only that wax-like, transparent something. I
could not believe it to be her face. Yet, as I stood grazing at it, I at la=
st
recognised the well-known, beloved features. I shuddered with horror to rea=
lise
that it WAS she. Why were those eyes so sunken? What had laid that dreadful
paleness upon her cheeks, and stamped the black spot beneath the transparent
skin on one of them? Why was the expression of the whole face so cold and
severe? Why were the lips so white, and their outline so beautiful, so
majestic, so expressive of an unnatural calm that, as I looked at them, a c=
hill
shudder ran through my hair and down my back?
Somehow, as I gaz=
ed,
an irrepressible, incomprehensible power seemed to compel me to keep my eyes
fixed upon that lifeless face. I could not turn away, and my imagination be=
gan
to picture before me scenes of her active life and happiness. I forgot that=
the
corpse lying before me now--the THING at which I was gazing unconsciously a=
s at
an object which had nothing in common with my dreams--was SHE. I fancied I
could see her--now here, now there, alive, happy, and smiling. Then some we=
ll-known
feature in the face at which I was gazing would suddenly arrest my attentio=
n,
and in a flash I would recall the terrible reality and shudder-though still
unable to turn my eyes away.
Then again the dr=
eams
would replace reality--then again the reality put to flight the dreams. At =
last
the consciousness of both left me, and for a while I became insensible.
How long I remain=
ed
in that condition I do not know, nor yet how it occurred. I only know that =
for
a time I lost all sense of existence, and experienced a kind of vague
blissfulness which though grand and sweet, was also sad. It may be that, as=
it
ascended to a better world, her beautiful soul had looked down with longing=
at
the world in which she had left us--that it had seen my sorrow, and, pitying
me, had returned to earth on the wings of love to console and bless me with=
a
heavenly smile of compassion.
The door creaked =
as
the chanter entered who was to relieve his predecessor. The noise awakened =
me,
and my first thought was that, seeing me standing on the chair in a posture
which had nothing touching in its aspect, he might take me for an unfeeling=
boy
who had climbed on to the chair out of mere curiosity: wherefore I hastened=
to
make the sign of the cross, to bend down my head, and to burst out crying. =
As I
recall now my impressions of that episode I find that it was only during my
moments of self-forgetfulness that my grief was wholehearted. True, both be=
fore
and after the funeral I never ceased to cry and to look miserable, yet I fe=
el
conscience-stricken when I recall that grief of mine, seeing that always
present in it there was an element of conceit--of a desire to show that I w=
as
more grieved than any one else, of an interest which I took in observing the
effect, produced upon others by my tears, and of an idle curiosity leading =
me
to remark Mimi's bonnet and the faces of all present. The mere circumstance
that I despised myself for not feeling grief to the exclusion of everything=
else,
and that I endeavoured to conceal the fact, shows that my sadness was insin=
cere
and unnatural. I took a delight in feeling that I was unhappy, and in tryin=
g to
feel more so. Consequently this egotistic consciousness completely annulled=
any
element of sincerity in my woe.
That night I slept
calmly and soundly (as is usual after any great emotion), and awoke with my
tears dried and my nerves restored. At ten o'clock we were summoned to atte=
nd
the pre-funeral requiem.
The room was full=
of
weeping servants and peasants who had come to bid farewell to their late
mistress. During the service I myself wept a great deal, made frequent sign=
s of
the cross, and performed many genuflections, but I did not pray with, my so=
ul,
and felt, if anything, almost indifferent, My thoughts were chiefly centred
upon the new coat which I was wearing (a garment which was tight and
uncomfortable) and upon how to avoid soiling my trousers at the knees. Also=
I
took the most minute notice of all present.
Papa stood at the
head of the coffin. He was as white as snow, and only with difficulty
restrained his tears. His tall figure in its black frockcoat, his pale,
expressive face, the graceful, assured manner in which, as usual, he made t=
he
sign of the cross or bowed until he touched the floor with his hand [A cust=
om
of the Greek funeral rite.] or took the candle from the priest or went to t=
he
coffin--all were exceedingly effective; yet for some reason or another I fe=
lt a
grudge against him for that very ability to appear effective at such a mome=
nt.
Mimi stood leaning against the wall as though scarcely able to support hers=
elf.
Her dress was all awry and covered with feathers, and her cap cocked to one=
side,
while her eyes were red with weeping, her legs trembling under her, and she
sobbed incessantly in a heartrending manner as ever and again she buried her
face in her handkerchief or her hands. I imagine that she did this to check=
her
continual sobbing without being seen by the spectators. I remember, too, her
telling Papa, the evening before, that Mamma's death had come upon her as a
blow from which she could never hope to recover; that with Mamma she had lo=
st
everything; but that "the angel," as she called my mother, had not
forgotten her when at the point of death, since she had declared her wish to
render her (Mimi's) and Katenka's fortunes secure for ever. Mimi had shed
bitter tears while relating this, and very likely her sorrow, if not wholly
pure and disinterested, was in the main sincere. Lubotshka, in black garmen=
ts and
suffused with tears, stood with her head bowed upon her breast. She rarely
looked at the coffin, yet whenever she did so her face expressed a sort of
childish fear. Katenka stood near her mother, and, despite her lengthened f=
ace,
looked as lovely as ever. Woloda's frank nature was frank also in grief. He
stood looking grave and as though he were staring at some object with fixed=
eyes.
Then suddenly his lips would begin to quiver, and he would hastily make the
sign of the cross, and bend his head again.
Such of those pre=
sent
as were strangers I found intolerable. In fact, the phrases of condolence w=
ith
which they addressed Papa (such, for instance, as that "she is better =
off
now" "she was too good for this world," and so on) awakened =
in
me something like fury. What right had they to weep over or to talk about h=
er?
Some of them, in referring to ourselves, called us "orphans"--jus=
t as
though it were not a matter of common knowledge that children who have lost
their mother are known as orphans! Probably (I thought) they liked to be the
first to give us that name, just as some people find pleasure in being the
first to address a newly-married girl as "Madame."
In a far corner of
the room, and almost hidden by the open door, of the dining-room, stood a g=
rey
old woman with bent knees. With hands clasped together and eyes lifted to
heaven, she prayed only--not wept. Her soul was in the presence of God, and=
she
was asking Him soon to reunite her to her whom she had loved beyond all bei=
ngs
on this earth, and whom she steadfastly believed that she would very soon m=
eet
again.
"There stands
one who SINCERELY loved her," I thought to myself, and felt ashamed.
The requiem was o=
ver.
They uncovered the face of the deceased, and all present except ourselves w=
ent
to the coffin to give her the kiss of farewell.
One of the last to
take leave of her departed mistress was a peasant woman who was holding by =
the
hand a pretty little girl of five whom she had brought with her, God knows =
for
what reason. Just at a moment when I chanced to drop my wet handkerchief and
was stooping to pick it up again, a loud, piercing scream startled me, and
filled me with such terror that, were I to live a hundred years more, I sho=
uld
never forget it. Even now the recollection always sends a cold shudder thro=
ugh
my frame. I raised my head. Standing on the chair near the coffin was the p=
easant
woman, while struggling and fighting in her arms was the little girl, and it
was this same poor child who had screamed with such dreadful, desperate fre=
nzy
as, straining her terrified face away, she still, continued to gaze with
dilated eyes at the face of the corpse. I too screamed in a voice perhaps m=
ore
dreadful still, and ran headlong from the room.
Only now did I
understand the source of the strong, oppressive smell which, mingling with =
the
scent of the incense, filled the chamber, while the thought that the face
which, but a few days ago, had been full of freshness and beauty--the face
which I loved more than anything else in all the world--was now capable of
inspiring horror at length revealed to me, as though for the first time, the
terrible truth, and filled my soul with despair.
XXVIII -- SAD RECOLLECTIO=
NS
Mamma was no long=
er
with us, but our life went on as usual. We went to bed and got up at the sa=
me
times and in the same rooms; breakfast, luncheon, and supper continued to b=
e at
their usual hours; everything remained standing in its accustomed place;
nothing in the house or in our mode of life was altered: only, she was not
there.
Yet it seemed to =
me
as though such a misfortune ought to have changed everything. Our old mode =
of
life appeared like an insult to her memory. It recalled too vividly her
presence.
The day before the
funeral I felt as though I should like to rest a little after luncheon, and
accordingly went to Natalia Savishna's room with the intention of installing
myself comfortably under the warm, soft down of the quilt on her bed. When I
entered I found Natalia herself lying on the bed and apparently asleep, but=
, on
hearing my footsteps, she raised herself up, removed the handkerchief which=
had
been protecting her face from the flies, and, adjusting her cap, sat forwar=
d on
the edge of the bed. Since it frequently happened that I came to lie down in
her room, she guessed my errand at once, and said:
"So you have
come to rest here a little, have you? Lie down, then, my dearest."
"Oh, but wha=
t is
the matter with you, Natalia Savishna?" I exclaimed as I forced her ba=
ck
again. "I did not come for that. No, you are tired yourself, so you LIE
down."
"I am quite
rested now, darling," she said (though I knew that it was many a night
since she had closed her eyes). "Yes, I am indeed, and have no wish to
sleep again," she added with a deep sigh.
I felt as though I
wanted to speak to her of our misfortune, since I knew her sincerity and lo=
ve,
and thought that it would be a consolation to me to weep with her.
"Natalia Sav=
ishna,"
I said after a pause, as I seated myself upon the bed, "who would ever
have thought of this?"
The old woman loo=
ked
at me with astonishment, for she did not quite understand my question.
"Yes, who wo=
uld
ever have thought of it?" I repeated.
"Ah, my darl=
ing,"
she said with a glance of tender compassion, "it is not only 'Who would
ever have thought of it?' but 'Who, even now, would ever believe it?' I am =
old,
and my bones should long ago have gone to rest rather than that I should ha=
ve
lived to see the old master, your Grandpapa, of blessed memory, and Prince
Nicola Michaelovitch, and his two brothers, and your sister Amenka all buri=
ed
before me, though all younger than myself--and now my darling, to my
never-ending sorrow, gone home before me! Yet it has been God's will. He to=
ok
her away because she was worthy to be taken, and because He has need of the
good ones."
This simple thoug=
ht
seemed to me a consolation, and I pressed closer to Natalia, She laid her h=
ands
upon my head as she looked upward with eyes expressive of a deep, but resig=
ned,
sorrow. In her soul was a sure and certain hope that God would not long
separate her from the one upon whom the whole strength of her love had for =
many
years been concentrated.
"Yes, my
dear," she went on, "it is a long time now since I used to nurse =
and
fondle her, and she used to call me Natasha. She used to come jumping upon =
me,
and caressing and kissing me, and say, 'MY Nashik, MY darling, MY ducky,' a=
nd I
used to answer jokingly, 'Well, my love, I don't believe that you DO love m=
e.
You will be a grown-up young lady soon, and going away to be married, and w=
ill
leave your Nashik forgotten.' Then she would grow thoughtful and say, 'I th=
ink
I had better not marry if my Nashik cannot go with me, for I mean never to =
leave
her.' Yet, alas! She has left me now! Who was there in the world she did not
love? Yes, my dearest, it must never be POSSIBLE for you to forget your Mam=
ma.
She was not a being of earth--she was an angel from Heaven. When her soul h=
as
entered the heavenly kingdom she will continue to love you and to be proud =
of
you even there."
"But why do =
you
say 'when her soul has entered the heavenly kingdom'?" I asked. "I
believe it is there now."
"No, my
dearest," replied Natalia as she lowered her voice and pressed herself=
yet
closer to me, "her soul is still here," and she pointed upwards. =
She
spoke in a whisper, but with such an intensity of conviction that I too
involuntarily raised my eyes and looked at the ceiling, as though expecting=
to
see something there. "Before the souls of the just enter Paradise they
have to undergo forty trials for forty days, and during that time they hover
around their earthly home." [A Russian popular legend.]
She went on speak=
ing
for some time in this strain--speaking with the same simplicity and convict=
ion
as though she were relating common things which she herself had witnessed, =
and
to doubt which could never enter into any one's head. I listened almost
breathlessly, and though I did not understand all she said, I never for a m=
oment
doubted her word.
"Yes, my
darling, she is here now, and perhaps looking at us and listening to what we
are saying," concluded Natalia. Raising her head, she remained silent =
for
a while. At length she wiped away the tears which were streaming from her e=
yes,
looked me straight in the face, and said in a voice trembling with emotion:=
"Ah, it is
through many trials that God is leading me to Him. Why, indeed, am I still
here? Whom have I to live for? Whom have I to love?"
"Do you not =
love
US, then?" I asked sadly, and half-choking with my tears.
"Yes, God kn=
ows
that I love you, my darling; but to love any one as I loved HER--that I can=
not
do."
She could say no
more, but turned her head aside and wept bitterly. As for me, I no longer
thought of going to sleep, but sat silently with her and mingled my tears w=
ith
hers.
Presently Foka
entered the room, but, on seeing our emotion and not wishing to disturb us,
stopped short at the door.
"Do you want
anything, my good Foka?" asked Natalia as she wiped away her tears.
"If you plea= se, half-a-pound of currants, four pounds of sugar, and three pounds of rice for the kutia." [Cakes partaken of by the mourners at a Russian funeral.]<= o:p>
"Yes, in one
moment," said Natalia as she took a pinch of snuff and hastened to her
drawers. All traces of the grief, aroused by our conversation disappeared o=
n,
the instant that she had duties to fulfil, for she looked upon those duties=
as
of paramount importance.
"But why FOUR
pounds?" she objected as she weighed the sugar on a steelyard. "T=
hree
and a half would be sufficient," and she withdrew a few lumps. "H=
ow
is it, too, that, though I weighed out eight pounds of rice yesterday, more=
is
wanted now? No offence to you, Foka, but I am not going to waste rice like
that. I suppose Vanka is glad that there is confusion in the house just now,
for he thinks that nothing will be looked after, but I am not going to have=
any
careless extravagance with my master's goods. Did one ever hear of such a
thing? Eight pounds!"
"Well, I have
nothing to do with it. He says it is all gone, that's all."
"Hm, hm! Wel=
l,
there it is. Let him take it."
I was struck by t=
he
sudden transition from the touching sensibility with which she had just been
speaking to me to this petty reckoning and captiousness. Yet, thinking it o=
ver
afterwards, I recognised that it was merely because, in spite of what was l=
ying
on her heart, she retained the habit of duty, and that it was the strength =
of
that habit which enabled her to pursue her functions as of old. Her grief w=
as too
strong and too true to require any pretence of being unable to fulfil trivi=
al tasks,
nor would she have understood that any one could so pretend. Vanity is a
sentiment so entirely at variance with genuine grief, yet a sentiment so
inherent in human nature, that even the most poignant sorrow does not always
drive it wholly forth. Vanity mingled with grief shows itself in a desire t=
o be
recognised as unhappy or resigned; and this ignoble desire--an aspiration
which, for all that we may not acknowledge it is rarely absent, even in cas=
es
of the utmost affliction--takes off greatly from the force, the dignity, and
the sincerity of grief. Natalia Savishna had been so sorely smitten by her =
misfortune
that not a single wish of her own remained in her soul--she went on living
purely by habit.
Having handed over
the provisions to Foka, and reminded him of the refreshments which must be
ready for the priests, she took up her knitting and seated herself by my si=
de
again. The conversation reverted to the old topic, and we once more mourned=
and
shed tears together. These talks with Natalia I repeated every day, for her
quiet tears and words of devotion brought me relief and comfort. Soon, howe=
ver,
a parting came. Three days after the funeral we returned to Moscow, and I n=
ever
saw her again.
Grandmamma receiv=
ed
the sad tidings only on our return to her house, and her grief was
extraordinary. At first we were not allowed to see her, since for a whole w=
eek
she was out of her mind, and the doctors were afraid for her life. Not only=
did
she decline all medicine whatsoever, but she refused to speak to anybody or=
to
take nourishment, and never closed her eyes in sleep. Sometimes, as she sat
alone in the arm-chair in her room, she would begin laughing and crying at =
the
same time, with a sort of tearless grief, or else relapse into convulsions,=
and
scream out dreadful, incoherent words in a horrible voice. It was the first
dire sorrow which she had known in her life, and it reduced her almost to
distraction. She would begin accusing first one person, and then another, of
bringing this misfortune upon her, and rail at and blame them with the most
extraordinary virulence, Finally she would rise from her arm-chair, pace the
room for a while, and end by falling senseless to the floor.
Once, when I went=
to
her room, she appeared to be sitting quietly in her chair, yet with an air
which struck me as curious. Though her eyes were wide open, their glance was
vacant and meaningless, and she seemed to gaze in my direction without seei=
ng
me. Suddenly her lips parted slowly in a smile, and she said in a touchingl=
y,
tender voice: "Come here, then, my dearest one; come here, my angel.&q=
uot;
Thinking that it was myself she was addressing, I moved towards her, but it=
was
not I whom she was beholding at that moment. "Oh, my love," she w=
ent
on, "if only you could know how distracted I have been, and how deligh=
ted
I am to see you once more!" I understood then that she believed hersel=
f to
be looking upon Mamma, and halted where I was. "They told me you were
gone," she concluded with a frown; "but what nonsense! As if you
could die before ME!" and she laughed a terrible, hysterical laugh.
Only those who can
love strongly can experience an overwhelming grief. Yet their very need of
loving sometimes serves to throw off their grief from them and to save them.
The moral nature of man is more tenacious of life than the physical, and gr=
ief
never kills.
After a time
Grandmamma's power of weeping came back to her, and she began to recover. H=
er
first thought when her reason returned was for us children, and her love fo=
r us
was greater than ever. We never left her arm-chair, and she would talk of
Mamma, and weep softly, and caress us.
Nobody who saw her
grief could say that it was consciously exaggerated, for its expression was=
too
strong and touching; yet for some reason or another my sympathy went out mo=
re
to Natalia Savishna, and to this day I am convinced that nobody loved and
regretted Mamma so purely and sincerely as did that simple-hearted,
affectionate being.
With Mamma's death
the happy time of my childhood came to an end, and a new epoch--the epoch o=
f my
boyhood--began; but since my memories of Natalia Savishna (who exercised su=
ch a
strong and beneficial influence upon the bent of my mind and the developmen=
t of
my sensibility) belong rather to the first period, I will add a few words a=
bout
her and her death before closing this portion of my life.
I heard later from
people in the village that, after our return to Moscow, she found time hang
very heavy on her hands. Although the drawers and shelves were still under =
her
charge, and she never ceased to arrange and rearrange them--to take things =
out
and to dispose of them afresh--she sadly missed the din and bustle of the
seignorial mansion to which she had been accustomed from her childhood up.
Consequently grief, the alteration in her mode of life, and her lack of
activity soon combined to develop in her a malady to which she had always b=
een
more or less subject.
Scarcely more tha=
n a
year after Mamma's death dropsy showed itself, and she took to her bed. I c=
an
imagine how sad it must have been for her to go on living--still more, to
die--alone in that great empty house at Petrovskoe, with no relations or any
one near her. Every one there esteemed and loved her, but she had formed no
intimate friendships in the place, and was rather proud of the fact. That w=
as
because, enjoying her master's confidence as she did, and having so much
property under her care, she considered that intimacies would lead to culpa=
ble indulgence
and condescension, Consequently (and perhaps, also, because she had nothing
really in common with the other servants) she kept them all at a distance, =
and
used to say that she "recognised neither kinsman nor godfather in the
house, and would permit of no exceptions with regard to her master's
property."
Instead, she soug=
ht
and found consolation in fervent prayers to God. Yet sometimes, in those
moments of weakness to which all of us are subject, and when man's best sol=
ace
is the tears and compassion of his fellow-creatures, she would take her old=
dog
Moska on to her bed, and talk to it, and weep softly over it as it answered=
her
caresses by licking her hands, with its yellow eyes fixed upon her. When Mo=
ska began
to whine she would say as she quieted it: "Enough, enough! I know with=
out
thy telling me that my time is near." A month before her death she took
out of her chest of drawers some fine white calico, white cambric, and pink
ribbon, and, with the help of the maidservants, fashioned the garments in w=
hich
she wished to be buried. Next she put everything on her shelves in order and
handed the bailiff an inventory which she had made out with scrupulous
accuracy. All that she kept back was a couple of silk gowns, an old shawl, =
and
Grandpapa's military uniform--things which had been presented to her
absolutely, and which, thanks to her care and orderliness, were in an excel=
lent
state of preservation--particularly the handsome gold embroidery on the
uniform.
Just before her
death, again, she expressed a wish that one of the gowns (a pink one) shoul=
d be
made into a robe de chambre for Woloda; that the other one (a many-coloured
gown) should be made into a similar garment for myself; and that the shawl
should go to Lubotshka. As for the uniform, it was to devolve either to Wol=
oda
or to myself, according as the one or the other of us should first become an
officer. All the rest of her property (save only forty roubles, which she s=
et
aside for her commemorative rites and to defray the costs of her burial) wa=
s to
pass to her brother, a person with whom, since he lived a dissipated life i=
n a
distant province, she had had no intercourse during her lifetime. When,
eventually, he arrived to claim the inheritance, and found that its sum-tot=
al
only amounted to twenty-five roubles in notes, he refused to believe it, and
declared that it was impossible that his sister-a woman who for sixty years=
had
had sole charge in a wealthy house, as well as all her life had been penuri=
ous
and averse to giving away even the smallest thing should have left no more:=
yet
it was a fact.
Though Natalia's =
last
illness lasted for two months, she bore her sufferings with truly Christian
fortitude. Never did she fret or complain, but, as usual, appealed continua=
lly
to God. An hour before the end came she made her final confession, received=
the
Sacrament with quiet joy, and was accorded extreme unction. Then she begged
forgiveness of every one in the house for any wrong she might have done the=
m,
and requested the priest to send us word of the number of times she had ble=
ssed
us for our love of her, as well as of how in her last moments she had implo=
red
our forgiveness if, in her ignorance, she had ever at any time given us
offence. "Yet a thief have I never been. Never have I used so much as a
piece of thread that was not my own." Such was the one quality which s=
he
valued in herself.
Dressed in the cap
and gown prepared so long beforehand, and with her head resting, upon the
cushion made for the purpose, she conversed with the priest up to the very =
last
moment, until, suddenly, recollecting that she had left him nothing for the
poor, she took out ten roubles, and asked him to distribute them in the par=
ish.
Lastly she made the sign of the cross, lay down, and expired--pronouncing w=
ith
a smile of joy the name of the Almighty.
She quitted life
without a pang, and, so far from fearing death, welcomed it as a blessing. =
How
often do we hear that said, and how seldom is it a reality! Natalia Savishna
had no reason to fear death for the simple reason that she died in a sure a=
nd
certain faith and in strict obedience to the commands of the Gospel. Her wh=
ole
life had been one of pure, disinterested love, of utter self-negation. Had =
her convictions
been of a more enlightened order, her life directed to a higher aim, would =
that
pure soul have been the more worthy of love and reverence? She accomplished=
the
highest and best achievement in this world: she died without fear and witho=
ut
repining.
They buried her w=
here
she had wished to lie--near the little mausoleum which still covers Mamma's
tomb. The little mound beneath which she sleeps is overgrown with nettles a=
nd
burdock, and surrounded by a black railing, but I never forget, when leaving
the mausoleum, to approach that railing, and to salute the plot of earth wi=
thin
by bowing reverently to the ground.
Sometimes, too, I
stand thoughtfully between the railing and the mausoleum, and sad memories =
pass
through my mind. Once the idea came to me as I stood there: "Did
Providence unite me to those two beings solely in order to make me regret t=
hem
my life long?"