m ..I'l'l.'i'', ■:[ ^f^V?>- \m^\:m yy'\lt ■ t UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES tjMVK^SlTY of CALIFOKMlA CHILDHOOD, BOYHOOD, TOUTH. BY COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI. TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY ISABEL F. HAPGOGD. NEW YORK : THGMAS Y. CRGWELL & CG., Copyright, 18S6, Вт THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 10 8 5 00 PEEFAOE. Count Ltof Nikolaevitch Tolstoi ^is unquestionably one of the most interesting personalities of the period. Any thing, therefore, which can add to our knowledge of him as a man, cannot fail to be welcome to those who have already made his acquaintance through his writings on religion, and through those characters in his novels which reflect himself. These Memoirs, which in the Russian bear no common title, are of particular interest, since they show that many of the author's ideas yf thirty years ago were precisely similar to those which he is putting in practice to-day in his own per- son. There are also points which every one will recognize as having been true of himself at the ages herein dealt with. It is to be regretted that the original plan has not been car- ried out. This comprised a great novel, founded on the rem- iniscences and traditions of his family. The first instalment, " Childhood," wa'^ written while he was in the Caucasus, and publislied in 1852 in the '' Contemporar}' '' (Sovr'emennfk). The last, "Youth," was written after the conclusion of the Crimean war, in 1855 ; " Boyhood " having preceded it. "Childhood" was one of the first things he wi'ote ; his "Cossacks," which Turgeneff admired extremely, having been written about the same time, though it was not printed until long afterwards. The most important of his other writings are already before the public. That the Memoirs reflect the man, and his mental and moral youth, there can be no doubt ; but they do not strictly PREFACE. confoiTn to facts in other respects, and therefore merit the titles which he gave them, novels. The facts, for comparison, are as follows : — • Count Tolstoi was born Ang. 28, 1828, in the village of Yusnaya Polyaua, his mother's estate, in the government of Tula. His father. Count Nikolai Hitch Tolstoi, was a retired colonel, who had taken part in the campaigns of 1812 and 1813. He was descended, in a direct line, from Count Fiotr Andreevitch, a companion of Peter the Great. His mother was Princess Marya Nikolaevna Volkonskaya, only daughter of Prince Nikolai Sergieevitch Volkonsky. His mother died in 1830, before he was two 3'ears old. His edu- cation, as well as that of his three elder brothers, Nikolai, Sergiei, and Dmitri, and of his younger sister Marya, was undertaken, after the death of his mother, by a distant relative of the young Count's, Tatyana Alexaudrovna Yer- golskaya, a maiden lady, of whom a very warm memory is cherished in the Tolstoi family. She had been brought up, being an orphan, in the house of their grandfather, Count ИЗ'а Andreevitch Tolstoi. In 1837 the Tolstoi family, which had lived without inter- mission in the country, went to Moscow, as the eldest son was about to enter the university. The children's tutors at that time wer^a German named Fedor Ivanovitch Rossel, and, after their removal to Moscow, a Frenchman named Prosper Saint-Thomas. They seem to be the persons de- scribed in these Memoirs. Count Lyof Tolstoi received his first lessons in French and Russian from Tatyana Alexaudrovna Yergolskaya and his paternal aunt. Countess Alexandra Ilinitchna Osten-Saken, who lived in her brother's house. In Moscow tutors came to the house, in addition to those above mentioned. In 1837 the father died suddenly, and his affairs turned out to be in great disorder. The Countess of Osteu-Saken was appointed the guardian of the childi'eu. For the sake PREFACE. Т of economy it was decided to 1еал^е the two elder children in Moscow, and to take the other three, together with Tatyana Yergolskaya, to the country. Their education did not pro- ceed very smoothly, Sometimes they were taught by (ier- man tutors, sometimes by Russian seminarists, none of wliom remained long in the house. In 18-iO the guardian of the Tolstois, the Countess of Osten-Saken, died ; and the guardianship devoh'ed upon an- other aunt (also a sister of their father) , Pelagic Ilinitchna Yuschkova, who resided in Kazan with her husband. All the young Tolstois were taken to Kazan in 1841 ; and even the eldest brother, at his guardian's request, was transferred from the University of Moscow to that of Kazan. The younger brothers pursued their preparation for the university at Kazan. Count I,4;QX_Nikolaevitch entered the university in 1843, in the division of Oriental languages, but remained only a year, and then passed to the department of 1алу. Here he remained two years, and Avas preparing to enter the third class when his brothers passed their final examinations. But when the}^ had finished, and prepared to set out for the coun- try. Count Lyof suddenly made up his mind to quit the uni- versity before the completion of his course. The rector and several of the professors endeavored in vain to dissuade him : his resolution was taken, and at eighteen h^went with his brothers to Yasnaya Polj'ana, which had fallen to him in the division of his father's estate. Here he lived, almost with- out intermission, until 1851, taking only an occasional peep at Peterburg and Moscow. It is not known whether he wrote any thing during this period, or what fate his efforts met with, nor when the desire to лvrite first came to him. In 1851 his beloved brother Nikolai, who was serving in the Caucasus, came home on leave, and spent some time in the country. The desire to be with his beloved brother, and to see a new country celebrated by Russian poets, induced Count Lyof to quit his estate for the Caucasus. He was so VI PREFACE. much fascinated by the originality of the half-savage life there, and the magnificence of nature, that he entered the service in 1851, in the Junkers corps, in the same battery where his brother served. Here, for the first time, he began to write (as far as is known) in the form of a novel ; and these Memoirs were the first work which he planned. Be- sides these and the "Cossacks," he also wrote at this time "The Incursion" {Nabyeg) and "The Felling of the For- est ' ' (Rubka Lyesa) . It is probably to the period of this sojourn in the Caucasus that the following biographical details, related by the Count to a friend now dead, refer ; and they show us some sides of the young Count's character in a strong light. Having lost money at cards, Count Lyof gave his property over to his brother-in-law, with directions to pay his debts from the income, and to allow him onh- five hundred rubles a year to subsist on. At the same time the Count gave his луоп! not to play cards any more. But in the Caucasus he could not resist temptation ; he began to play again, lost all he had with him, and ran in debt to the extent of five hundred rubles silver, for which he gave a note to a certain K. The note fell due, but the Count had no money to pay it : he dared not write to his brother-in-law, and he was in despair. He was living*ta Tiflis at the time, where he had passed his examination as a Junker. He could not sleep at night, and tormented himself with thinking what he should do. He began to pray from the very depths of his soul, regarding his prayer as a test of the power of faith. He prayed as young people pray, and went to bed in a state of composure. As soon as he was awake in the morning he was handed a packet from his brother. The first thing he saw in the packet was his note, torn in two. His brother wrote, from Tchetchen : " Sado (my friend, a 3'oung Tchetchenetz, and a gambler) won your note from Kn , and brought it to me, and won't take any money from my brother on any terms." PREFACE. Vii Count Tolstoi took part in all tlie expeditions in the Cau- casus, enduring all hardships on the same footing as a com- mon soldier, and remaining there until 1853. It was here that he began to sketch types of the Russian soldier with such wonderful power and truth, in his '• Military Tales " ( Voen- nnie R((zskazui). The Crimean war had barely begun when the Count was transferred, at his own request, to the army of the Danube, where he took part in the campaign of 1854, on the staff of Prince Gortchakoff. He afterwards went to Sevastopol, and in Ma^', 1855, was appointed commander of a division. After the storming of Sevastopol he was sent to Peterburg as a courier ; and it was during this period, be- tween 1853 and 1855, that he wrote " Sevastopol in May," and " Sevastopol in December." At the close of the campaign, in 1855, Count Tolstoi went on the retired list, and lived in Moscow or Peterburg in win- ter, and at Yasnaya Poh'ana in summer. This was his most fertile literary period. " Youth," " Sevastopol in August," "Two Hussars," "Three Deaths," " Family Happiness," and ' Polikuschka " were written, and published in maga- zines at this time. He was recognized as the equal of Turgeneff, Gontcharoff, Ostrovsky, and Pisemsky. The agitation in connection with the serfs deeply inter- ested him, for he had stood very near the people all his life ; and he began to occupy himself seriously, both in theory and practice, with the question of schools for the peasants, which did not then exist. He made two trips abroad, between 1855 and 1861, probably to study this subject. After Feb. 19, 1861 (the date of the emancipation of the serfs), Count Tolstoi, and a л-егу few other landed proprietors, settled definitely upon their estates, and lived there for a long time uninterruptedly. The Count was pro- foundly conscious of his duty towards his people ; he was for some time a justice of the peace ; took an ardent interest in common schools ; and even began the publication of a viii PREFACE. highly original pedagogical journal, called " Ynsnaj'a Poly- ana." In it he presented his views on the needs of popular education, which he had acquired directl}' from life, and on matters connected with the schools. He also dared to express very serious doulits as to what we have be'come accustomed to extol under the pompous titles of culture, civilization, progress, and so forth. Count Tolstoi attacked these questions boldly, set them forth in sharp outlines, and showed himself at times rather paradoxical, but at the same time produced a mass of facts and examples m the highest degree convincing and important, which were drawn directly from the life of the people, and from actual observation of peasant cliildren. Progress, according to his ideas, was fitted only for a small section, and that the least occupied section, of society ; and he opposed it as a distinct evil for the majorit}-, for the people as a whole. Against the blessings of culture he set the blessings of nature, of forest, of wild creatures, and of rivers ; ph^^sical development, purity of morals, and so forth. This is the report made by a journalist who visited him in 1802; and he adds, "It seems as though this man lives the life of the people, shares their views ; that he is devoted to the good of tlie people with all the powers of his soul, though his understanding of them differs from that of others. The proof of this is his school, and the children, of whom he spoke with evident affection, praising their talents, their quickness of comprehensiou, their artistic feeling, their moral soundness, iri which respects they are far in advance of the children in other classes of society." Shortly after this. Count Tolstoi married (1862) Sophia Andi'eevna Bers, daughter of Andrei Evstafievitch Bers, a doctor, a MoscoA'ian by birth, and a graduate of the University of Moscow. Her mother belonged to the Isleneff family, who had long been friends of the Tolstoi family, find whose large village, Krasnoe, was situated not far from Yasnaya PREFACE. ix Polyana. The Isleneff children were among the first friends and visitors of the Tolstoi household in the country. After his marriage, Count Tolstoi devoted himself wholly to family life, which had constantly been his ideal, and gave himself up more fully than ever to his village \<\y\. For many years he published nothing ; and it was only towards the end of the '' sixties " that he began " War and Peace " in the "Russian Messenger " (Russky Viestnik) , which placed him next to Pushkin, and higher than any other Russian literary man. Between this and the publication in the same magazine of "Anna Karenina," which was begun in 1875, he gave nothing to the world but some primers and reading- books for common schools, and an article on the Samara famine. Since the appearance of "Anna Karenina," he has devoted himself to the consideration of purely religious ques- tions, and their application to life. These details are derived from Polevoi's "History of Rus- sian Literature," from which the accompanying portrait of Count Tolstoi in his peasant's smock is also taken. It is to be hoped that he will return to literature, as Turgeneif be- sought him upon his death-bed to do, and that he will at some future day complete these Memoirs. THE TRANSLATOR. Boston, May 27, 1886. CHILDHOOD. CHAPTER I. THE TUTOR KARL IVANITCH. On the 12th of August, 18 — , the third day after my birthday when I had attained the age_jDf ten, and had re- ceived such wonderful presents, Karl Ivaniteh woke me at seven o'clock in the morning by striking at a fly directly al^ve my head, with a flapper made of sugar-paper and fas- tened to a stick. He did it so awkwardly that he entan- gled the image of my angel, which hung upon the oaken hea(ll)oard of the bed ; and the dead fly fell straight upon my head. I thrust my nose out from under the coverlet, stopped the image, which was still rocking, with my hand, flung the dead fly on the floor, and regarded Karl Ivaniteh with angr3' although sleepy eyes. But attired in his motley wadded dressing-gown, girded with a belt of the same material, a red knitted skull-cap with a tassel, and soft goatskiu shoes, he pursued his course along the Avails, catch- ing on things and flapping away. " Suppose I am little," I thought, " why should he worry me? AVhy doesn't he kill the flies round Yolody a's bed? There ai'e quantities of them there. No : Volodj^a is older than I ; I am the 3'oungest of all ; and tliat is whj' he tor- ^^ents me. He thinks of nothing else in life," I whispered,. except how he may do unpleasant things to me. He -lows well enough that he has waked me up and friglit- led me ; but he pretends not to see it, — the hateful man .' nd his dressing-gown, and his cap, and his tassel — how iiigusting ! " 3 4 CHILDHOOD. As I was thus mentally exi)ressiiig my \'exation with Karl Ivauitch, he approached his own bed, glanced at the watch which hung above it in a slipper embroidered with glass beads, hung his flapper on a nail, and turned towards us, evidently in the most agreeable frame of mind. " Get up, children, get up. It's time ! Your mother is already in the drawing-room!"^ he cried in his kindly German voice ; then he came over to me, sat down at my feet, and pulled his snuff-box from his pocket. I pretended to be asleep. First Karl Ivauitch took a pinch of snuff, wiped his nose, cracked his fingers, and then turned his attention to me. He began to tickle my heels, laughing the while. " Come, come, lazybones," he said. Much as I dreaded tickling, 1 neither spi'ang out of bed nor made an}- repl}', but buried my head deeper under the pillow, kicked with all my might, and used every effort to keep from laughing. "■ How good he is, and how he loves us, and 3'et I could think so badly of him ! " I was vexed at myself and at Karl Ivauitch ; I wanted to laugh and to cry : my nerves were upset. '^ Oh, let me alone, Karl Ivauitch ! " I cried with tears in my eyes, thrusting my head out from beneath the pillow. Karl Ivauitch was surprised ; he left my soles in peace, and began quietly to inquire what was the matter with me : had I had a bad dream? His kind German face, the sympathy with which he strove to divine the cause of my tears, caused them to flow more aJjundantly. I was ashamed ; and I could not understand how, a moment beforeV I had been unable to love Karl Ivauitch, and had thought his dressing-gown, cap, and tassel disgusting : now, on the contrary, the}' all seemed to me extremely pleasing, and even the tassel ap- peared a plain proof of his goodness. I told him that I was crying because I had had a bad dream, — I thought mamma was dead, and they were carrying her away to bui'v her. 1 invented all this, for I really did not know what I had been dreaming that night ; but when Karl Ivauitch, touched by my tale, began to comfort and soothe me, it seemed to me that I actually had seen that dreadful vision, and my tears flowed from another cause. When Karl Ivanitch left me, and, sitting up in bed. I began to draw ni}- stockings upon my little legs, my tears 1 IsjxxX Ivanitch gcuenilly speaks iu German. CHILDHOOD. 5 ceased in some measure ; but gloomy thoughts of the ficti- tious dream did not leave me. Dyadka ^ Nikolai came in, -^ — a small, neat little man. who was always serious, precise, and respectful, and a great friend of Karl lA'anitch. He brought our clothes and shoes; Volodya had boots, but I still had those intolerable slippers with ribbons. I was^ ashamed to cxy_before him ; besides, the morning sun was shining cheer- fully in at the window, and Volodya was imitating Marya^ Ivanovna (my sisters' governess), and laughing so loudly ancTmerrily as he stood over the wash-basin, that oven grave Nikolai, with towel on shoulder, the soap in one hand, and a hand-basin in the other, smiled and said : '^ Enough, Vladimir Petrovitch, please wash 3'ourself.'" I became quite cheerful. "Are you nearly ready?" called Karl Ivanitch's voice from the schoolroom. His A'oice was stern, and had no longer that kindly accent no'^ ^^^^ moved me to tears. In the schooli'oom Karl -nitch was another man : he was the tutor. I dressed ckly, washed, and with brush in hand, still smoothing my t hair, I appeared at his call. Karl Ivauitch, with spectacles on nose, and a book in his ^land, was sitting in his usual place, between the door and /the window. To the loft of the door were two shelves of books: one was ours — the children's; the other was Karl Ivaniich's particular property. On ours were all sorts of books, — school-buoks and others : some stood upright, others were lying down. Only two big volumes of "• Histoire des Voj'ages," in red bindings, leaned in a statel}' way against the wall ; then came long, thick, big, and little books, — covers without books, and books without сол -ers. All were piled up and pushed in when we were ordered to put the library, as Karl Ivauitch called this shelf, щ order before our pla^'-hour. If the collection of books on his private shelf was not as large as ours, it was even more miscellaneous. I remember three of them, — a German pamphlet on the manuring of cal)bage-gardens, without a- cover ; one volume of the history of the " Seven Years War," in parchment^ burned on one corner ; and a complete course of hydrostatics. Karl Ivauitch passed the greater part of his time in reading, and even injured his eyesight thereby ; but he never read any thing except these bi^oks and "Tiie Northern Bee." 1 ChilUieirt» valeL. 6 CHILDHOOD. Among the articles which Uiy ou Karl Ivanitch's shelf, was one which recalls him to me more than all the rest. It was a circle of cardboard fixed on a wooden foot, npon which it revolved by means of pegs. Upon this circle were pasted pictures representing caricatures of some gentleman and a wig-maker. Karl Ivanitch pasted very well, and had himself invented and manufactured this circle in order to protect his weak eyes from the bright light. I seem now to see before me his long figure, in its wadded dressing-gown, and the red cap beneath which his thin gray hair is visible. He sits beside a little table, upon which stands the circle with the wig-maker, casting its shadow upon his face ; in one hand he holds a book, the other rests ou the arm of the chair ; beside him lies his watch, with the huntsman painted on the face, his checked handkerchief, his round black snuff- box, his green spectacle-case, and the snuffers on the dish. All this lies with so much dignity and precision, each in its proper place, that one might conclude from this orderiisesi-' alone that Karl Ivanitch has a pure conscience and a restful spirit. If you stole up-stairs on tiptoe to the schoolroom, after running al)ont down-stairs in the hall as much as you pleased, behold — Karl Ivanitch , was sitting alone in his arm-chair, reading some one of his beloved books, with a proud, calm expression of countenance. Sometimes I found him at such times when he was not reading : his spectacles had dropped down on his big aquiline nose ; his blue, half- shut -e^'es 'had a certain peculiar expression ; and his lips smiled sadly. All was quiet in the room : his even breath- ing, and the ticking of the hunter-adorned watch, alone were audible. He did not peijceive me ; and I used to stand in the door, and think: Pooi'wpoor old man! There are many of us ; i we play, we are merry: but he — he is all alone, and no one' treats iiim kindly. He tells the truth, when he says he is anj orphan. And the history of his life is terrible ! Iremembert that he related it to Nikolai : it is dreadful to be in his situa- tion ! .And it made one so sorry, that one wanted to go toll him, take his hand, and say, '' Dear Karl Ivanitch! " Hel liked to have me say that : he always petted me, and it was! plaiq that he was touched. On the otiier wall hung maps, nearly all of them torn,' but skilfully repaired by the hand of Karl Ivanitch. Ou thei CniLDUOOD. 7 third wall, in the midclle of which Avas the door leading down stairs, hung two rulers : one was all hacked up — that луаз ours ; the other — the new one — was his own private inler, and employed more for encouraging us than for ruling proper. On the other side of the door 'was a blackboard, npou which our grand misdeeds were designated by circles, and our small ones by crosses. To the left of tlae board was the corner where we were put on our knees. How well I remember that corner ! I remember the sto\-e- door, and the slide in it, and the noise this made when it was turned. You would kneel and kneel in that corner until your knees and back "ached, and you would think, "Karl Ivauitch has forgotten me ;■ he must be sitting quietly in his soft arm-chair, and reading his hydrostatics : and how is it with me?" And then you would begin to hint of your existence, to softly open and shut the damper, or pick the plaster from the wall ; but if too big a piece suddenly fell noisily to the floor, the fright alone was worse than the whole punishment. You would peep round at Karl Ivauitch ; and there he sat, book in hand, as though he had not noticed any thing. In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a ragged black oil-cloth, beneath which the edge, hacked in places with penknives, was visible in many places. Around the table stood several nnpainted stools, polished with long use. The last wall was occupied by three little windows. This was the view which was had from them : . Directly in front of the windows ran the road, every hollow, pebble, and rut of which had long been familiar and dear to me ; beyond the road was a close-trimmed linden alley, behind which the wattled fence was visible here and there. A field could be seen through the alley ; on one Jide of this was a threshing-floor, on the other a wood ; the^uard's little cot- tage was visible in the distance. To the right, a part of the terrace could be seen, upon which the grown-up people gen- erally sat before dinner. If you looked in that direction while Karl Ivauitch was correcting your page of dictation, 5^u could see mamma's black head, and some one's back, and hear faint sounds of conversation and laughter ; and you would grow vexed that you could not be there, and think, 4wben I grow up, shall I stop learning lessons, and sit, not over conversations forever, but always with those I love?" Vexation increases to sorrow; and God 8 CIIILDIIOOD. knows why and what з^оп dream, until 3'ou hear Karl Ivauitch raging over your mistakes. Karl Ivauitch took oft' his dressing-gown, put on his lilue swallow-tailed coat with humps and folds upon the shoulders, arranged his necktie before the glass, and led us down-stairs to say good-morning to mamma. CHILDHOOD. CHAPTER II. Mamjia was sitting in the parlor, and pouring out the tea : in one hand she held the teapot, in the other the faucet of the samovar, from which the water flowed over the top of tlie teapot upon the tray beneath. But though she was gazing steadily at it, she did not perceive it, nor that we had entered. So many memories of the past present themselves when one tries to revive in fancy the features of a beloved being, that one A'iews them dimly through these memories, as through tears. These are the tears of imagination. When I tr}' to recall my mother as she was at that time, nothing appears to me but her brown ез -es, which always expressed love and goodness ; the mole on her neck a little lower down than the spot where the short hairs grow ; her white embroid- ered collar; her cool, soft hand, which petted me so often, and which I so often kissed : but her image as a whole escapes me. To the left of the di^-an stood the old English grand piano ; and before the piano sat my dark-complexioned sister Liu- botchka, playing dementi's studies with evident effort, and with rosy fingers which had just been washed in cold water. She was eleven. She wore a short linen dress with white lace-trimmed pantalettes, and could only manage an octave as an arpeggio. Beside her, half turned awa}-, sat Marj'a Ivanovna, in a cap with rose-colored ribbons, a blue jacket, and a red aud angry face, which assumed a still more for- bidding expression when Karl b^anitch entered. She looked threateningl}- at him ; and. without responding to his salute, she continued to count, and beat time with heV foot, oue, ttvo, three, more loudly and commandingly than before. Karl Ivanitch, paying no attention whatever to this, ac- cording to his custom, went straight to kiss my mother's 10 CHILnnOOD. hand with a German gre(>ting. She recovered herself, shook her little head as thouiih desirous of driving away painful tlic^ughts with the gebtui'e, gave her hand to Karl Ivanitch, and kissed him on his wrinkled temple, \vhile he kissed her hand. '' Thank you, my dear Karl Ivanitch." And continuing to speak in (Jerman, she inquired : '' Did the children sleep well? " Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and now heard nothing at all on account of the noise from the piano. He bent over the divan, rested one hand on the table as he stood on one foot ; and with a smile which seemed to me then the height of refinement, he raised his cap above his head, and said : " Will you excuse me, Natah^a Nikolaevna? " Karl Ivanitch, for the sake of not catching cold in his bald head, never took off his red cap ; but each time he entered the drawing-room he begged permission to keep it on. " Put on 3'our cap, Karl Ivanitch. ... I ask you if the children slept well?" said mamma, moving nearer to him, and speaking louiler. But again he heard nothing, covered his bald spot with his red cap, and smiled more amiabl}' than ever. " Stop a minute, Mimi," said mamma to Marya Iva- novna with a smile : " we can hear nothing." licautiful as Avas mamma's face, it became incomparably more lovely лгЬеп she smiled, and seemed to enliven every thing al)Out her. If in life's trying moments I could catch but a glimpse of that smile, I should not know what grief is. It seems to me that Avhat is called beauty of face consists in the smile alone : if it does not alter the countenance, then the latter is ordinary ; if it spoils it, then it is bad. AYhen greeting me, mamma took m}' head in both her hands, and bent it back, looked intently at me, and said : " You have been crying this morning? " I made no reply. She kissed me on the e^'es, and asked in German : " AVhat were you cr^'ing about? " When she spoke pleasantly to us, she alwa3S addressed us in that tongue, which she knew to perfection. " I cried in ni}- sleep, mamma," I said, recalling my ficti- tious dream with all the details, and I involuntarily shuddered at the thought. CniLDnOOD. 11 Karl Ivanitch confirmed my statement, but held his peace about the dream. After discussing the weather, in Avhich conversation Mimi also took part, mamma laid six pieces of sugar on the tray for some of the favored servants, and went to her embroidery-frame which stood in the window. '•Now go to your father, children, and tell him tliat he must come to me without fail before he goes to threshing-floor." The music, counting, and black looks began again, and we went to papa. Passing through the room which had borne the title of the butler's pantry since grandfather's time, we entered the study. 12 CIIILDnOOD. CHAPTER III. PAPA. He was standing bj' his writing-table, and pointing to some envelopes, y)apers, and l)undles of bank-notes. He was an- giy, and was discnssing something shaqjly with the OA'erseer, YajkovMikliailef, who, standing in his usnal place, between the door and the barometer, with his hands behind him, \vas moving his fingers with great vivacity in varions direc- tions. The angrier papa grew, the more swiftly did the fingers move, and on the contrary, when papa ceased speaking, the fingers also stopped ; bnt when Yakov began to talk himself, liis fingers nnderwent the greatest disturbance, and jumped wildly about on all sides. It seemed to me that Yakov's secret thoughts might be guessed from their movements : but his face was always quiet ; it expressed a sense of his own dignity and at the same time of subordination, that is to say, '' I am right, but nevertheless have 3'our own way ! " When papa saw us, he merely said : '' Wait, I'll be with you presently." And he nodded his head towards the door, to indicate tliat one of us was to shut it. ''Ah, merciful God! what's to be done with з'оп now, Yakov?" he went on, speaking to the overseer, shrugging his shoulders (which was a habit with him). "•This envelope Avith an enclosure of eight hundred rubles ..." lakov moved his abacus, counted off eight hundred rubles, fixed his gaze on some indefinite point, and waited for what Avas coming next. " Is for the expenses of the farming during my absence. Do 3'ou understand? From the mill j'on are to receive one thousand rubles : is that so, or not? You are to receive back eight thousand worth of loans from the treasur}- ; for the h ;y, of which, according to 3'our own calculation, з^ои can CHILDHOOD. lo sell seven thousand poods, ^ — at forty-five kopeks, I Avill say, • — you will get thiee thousand: couseciueiitl}^ how much money will 3'ou have in all? Twelve thousand: is that so, or not? " " Elxactly, sir," said Yakov. But I perceived from tlie briskness with which his fingers moved, that he wanted to answer back : papa interrupted him. •• Now, out of this money, л'ои will send ten thousand ru- bles to the council at Petrovskoe. Now, the money which is in the office " continued papa (Yakov mixed up tiiis twelve thousand, and told off twenty-one thousand), '' you will bring to me, and charge to expenses on this present date." (Yakov shook up his abacus again, and turned it, indicating thereby, it is probable, that the twentj'-one thousand Avould disapj)ear also). ''And this envelope containing money you will for- ward from me to its address." I was standing near the table, and I glanced at the inscrip- tion. It read : " Karl Ivanitch Planer." Papa must have pei'ceived that I had read what it was not necessary that I should know ; for he laid his hand on my shoulder, and witli a slight movement indicated tliat I was to go away from his table. I did not understand whetlier it was a caress or a hint ; but, whatever it meant, I kissed the large, sinewy hand Avhich rested on my shoulder. " Yes, sir," said Yakov. " And what are your orders with regard to the Khabarovka money? " Khabarovka was mamma's A'illage. " Leave it in the office, and on no account make use of it without my orders." Jakov remained silent for a few seconds, then his fingers twisted about with increased raj^iditv, and altering the ex- pression of servile stupidity Avith which he had listened to his master's orders, to the expression of bold cunning which Avas natural to him, he drew the abacus towards him, and began to speak. " Permit me to report, Piotr Alexandritch, that it shall be as 3'ou please, but it is impossible to pay the council on time. You said," he continued, his speecli broken with pauses, " that we must receive money from the loans, from the mill, and from the hay." As he mentioned these statistics, he calculated them on the abacus. " I am afraid that we may » A pood ie about forty pouude. 14 CniLDHOOD. be making some mistake in our reckoning," he added after a i)ause, alaneing sharply at papa. -HowV" '' Please to consider: with regard to the mill, since the miller has been to me twice to ask for delay, and has sworn by Christ the Lord that he has no money . . . and he is here now. Will you not please to talk with him yourself? " " What does he say?" asked papa, signifying by a motion of his head that he did not wish to speak with the miller. "The same old story. He says that there was no grind- ing ; that what little money he got, he put into the dam. If we take him awaj^, sir, will it be of any advantage to us? AVith regard to the loans, as j'ou were pleased to mention tliem, 1 think I have already reported that our money is sunk th.M'e, and we shall not be able to get at it very soon. I sent a load of flour into the city a few days ago, to 1л'ап Afanasitch, with a note about the matter ; he replied that he would be glad to exert himself in Piotr Alexandrovitch's behalf, but the affair is not in my hands, and you will hardly receive your quittance under two months. You were pleased to speak of the hay : suppose it does sell for three thousand." He marked oft' three thousand on his abacus, and remaiued silent for a moment, glancing first at his calculating frame and then at papa's eyes, as much as to say : " You see 3'ourself how little it is. Yes, and we will chaf- fer about the hay again if it is to be sold now, 3'ou \vill please to understand." It was plain that he had a great store of arguments ; it must have been for that reason that papa interrupted him. " I shall make no change in my arrangements," he said ; "but if any delay should actuall3' occur in receiving this money, then there is nothing to be done ; 3'ou will take what is necessary from the Khabarovka funds." " Yes, sir." It was evident from the expression of Jakov's face and fingers, that this last order aft'orded him the greatest satis- faction. Yakov was a serf, and a very zealous and devoted man. Like all good overseers, he was extremely parsimonious on his master's account, and entertained the strangest possible ideas as to what Avas for his master's interest. He was eter- nalh' fretting ол'ег the increase of his master's propert}^ at the expense of that of his mistress, and tried to demonstrate CHILDHOOD. 15 that it was indispensable to employ all the revenue from her estate upon Petrovskoe (the village in which we lived) . He was triumphant at the present moment, because he had suc- ceeded on this point. Papa greeted us, and said that it was time to put a stop to our idleness : we were no longer small children, and it was time for us to study seriously. "J think you already know that I am going to Moscow to-night, and I shall take you with me," he said. " You will live with your grandmother, and mamma will remain here with the girls. And \o\\ know that she will have but one consolation, — to hear that you are studying well, and that they are pleased with you." Although we had been expecting something unusual, from the preparations which had been making for several days, tlrfs news surprised us terribly. Volodya turned red, and repeated mamma's message in a trembling voice. '^ So that is what my dream foretold, " I thought. "God grant there may be nothing worse ! " I was very, xevy sorry for mamma ; and, at the same time, the thought that we were grown up afforded me pleasure. '• If we are going away to-night, we surely shall Ьал'е no lessons. That's famous," I thought. " But I'm sorry for Karl Ivanovitch. He is ccrtainW going to be discharged, otherwise that envelope would not have been prepared for him. It would be better to go on studying forever, and not go away, and not part from mamma, and not hurt poor Karl Ivanitch's feelings. He is so very unhappy ! " These thoughts flashed through my mind. I did not stir from the spot, and gazed intently at the black ribbons in my slippers. After speaking a few words to Karl Ivanitch about the fall of the barometer, and giving orders to Jakoy not to feed the dogs, in order that he might go out after dinner and , make a farewell trial of the 3'oung hounds, papa, contrary ' to m}^ expectations, sent us to our studies, comforting us, however, with a promise to take us on the hunt. On the way up-stairs, I ran out on the terrace. Papa's favorite greyhound, Milka, lay blinking in the sunshine at tlie door. " Milotchka," I said, petting her and kissing her nose, " we are going away to-day ;'good-by ! AVe shall never see each other again." My feelings overpower.e^^^e, and I burst into tears. 16 CHILDHOOD. сыагтр:к IV. LESSOXS. Karl Ivanitch was л^егу much out of sorts. This was evident from his frowuing brows, and from the way he flung his coat into the commode, his angry manner of tying his girdle, and the deep mark which he made with his nail in the conversation-book to indicate the point which we must attam. Volodya studied properly ; but my mind was so upset thftt I positively could do nothing. I gazed long and stupidly at the conversation-book, but I could not read for the tears which gathered in my eyes at the thought of the parting before us. When the time for recitation came, Karl Ivanitch listened with his eyes half shut (which was a bad sign) ; and just at the place where one says, " Where do you come from?" and the other answers, "I come from the coffee- house," I could no longer restrain my tears; and soljs [)ге- vented my uttering, ''Have you not read the paper?" \Vhen it came to writing, I made such blots with my tears falling on the paper, that I might have been writing with water on wrapping-pai)er. Karl Ivanitch became angry ; he put me on his knees, declared that it was obstinacy, a puppet comedy (this was a fa\'orite expression of his), threatened me Avith the ruler, and demanded that I should beg his pardon, although I could not utter a word for my tears. He must have recognized his injustice at length, for he went into Nikolai's room and slammed the door. The conversation in dyadka's room was audible in the schoolroom. "You have heard, Nikolai, that the children are going to Moscow? " said Karl Iл'anitch as he entered. " Certainly, I have heard that." Nikolai must ha\'e made a motion to rise, for Karl Ivanitch said, "Sit still, Nikolai!" and then he shut the door. I emerged from the corner, and went to listen at the door. CHILDHOOD. 17 " However much good you do to people, however much you are attached to them, gratitude is not to be expected, apparent!}', ЛЧкоЫ," said Karl Ivanitch with feeling. ISikohii, who was sitting at the window at his shoemaking, nodded his head affirmatively. '•'• 1 have lived in this house twelve j'ears, and I can say before God, Nikolai," continued Kai'l Ivanitch, raising his eyes and his snuff-box to the ceiling, "that 1 have loved them, and taken more interest in them than if they had been my own children. You remember, Nikolai, when Volodenka had the fever, hoлv I sat by his bedside, and never closed m}' eyes for nine days. Yes ; then I was good, dear Karl Ivanitch ; then I was necessary. But now," he added with an ironical smile, " now the children are grown up ; they must study in earnest. Just as if fhey were not learning any thing here, Nikolai! " ''So they are to study more, it seems?" said Nikolai, laying down his awl, and drawing out his thread Avith both hands. '' Yes : I am no longer needed, I must be driven off. But where are their promises ? Where is their gratitude ? I re- vere and love Natalya Nikolaevua, Nikolai," said he, laying his hand on his breast. '" But what is she? Her will is of no more consequence in this house than that ; " hereupon he flung a scrap of leather on the floor with an expressive ges- ture. " 1 know whose doing this is, and why I am no longer needed ; because I don't lie, and pretend not to see things, like some people. I have alwaj's been accustomed to speak the truth to every one," said he proudly. " God be with them ! They won't accumulate wealth by getting rid of me ; and God is merciful. — I shall find a bit of bread for m^-self , . . . shall I not, Nikolai?" Nikolai I'aised his head and looked at Karl Ivanitch, ar though desirous of assuring himself whether he reall}' wouby be able to find a l)it of bread ; but he said nothing. Г} Karl Ivanitch talked much and long in this strain. II^j said they had l)een moi'e cnpable of :ippreci;iting his servic к- at a certain general's liousc. where lie had formerly lived ( ... was much pained to lie:>r it). He si^oke of Saxony, of his parents, of his friend the tialor, Scliunheit, antl so forth, and SI) forth. I symi)athizi'k myself to ra}- corner again, crouched down on my lieels, and pondered how 1 might bring about an undei'stancbng between them. When Karl Ivanitch returned to the sclioolroom, he ordered me to get up, and prepare my сору-1юок for writing from dictation. AVhen all was ready, he seated himself majesti- cally in his arm-chair, and in a л'о1се which appeared t(j issue from some great deptli, he Ijegan to dictate as follows : " 'Of all pas-sions the most re-volt-ing is,' have you writ- ten that?" Here he paused, slowly took a pinch of snuff, and continued with reuevved energy, — " ' the most revolting is In-gra-ti-tude ' . . . a capital /." 1 looked at him after writing the last word, in expectation of more. "Period," said he, with a barely perceptible smile, and made me a sign to give him my copy-book. He read this apothegm, which gave utterance to his in- ward sentiment, througii several times, with various intona- tions, and with an expression of the greatest satisfaction. Then he set us a lesson in history, and seated himself by the window. His face was not so morose as it had 1)een ; it expressed the deliglit of a man who had taken a proper revenge for an insult that had l)een put upon him. It was quarter to one ; but Karl Ivanitch had no idea of dismissing us, apparently : in fact, he gave out some new lessons. Ennui and hunger increased in equal measure. With the greatest impatience, I noted all the signs which betokened the near approach of dinner. There came the woman with her mop to wash the plates ; then I could hear the dishes rattle on the sideboard. I heard them move the table, and l)lace the chairs; then Mimi came in from the garden with J.;ubotchka and Jvatenka (Katenka was Mimi's twelve-year- ' )ld daughter); but hdthing was to be seen of Foka, the .mtler, who always came and announced that dinner was 'eady. Then only could we throw aside our books without aying au}' attention to Karl Ivanitch, and run down-stairs. Then footsteps were audible on the stairs, but that was not Foka ! I knew his step by heart, and could always recognize the squeak of his boots. The door opened, and a flgure which was totally unknown to me appeared. CHILDHOOD. 19 CHAPTER V. THE FOOL. Into the room walked a man of fifty, with a long, pale, pock-marked face, with long gra}' hair and a sparse reddish beard. He was of sncli vast height, that in order to pass through the door, he was obliged to bend not only his head, but his whole bod}'. He wore a ragged garment which re- semljled both a caftan and a cassock ; in his hand he carried a huge staff. As he entered the room, he smote the floor with it with all his might ; opening his mouth, and wrinkling his brows, he laughed in a terrible and unnatural manner. He was blind of one eye ; and the white pupil of that eye hopped about incessanth% and imparted to his otherwise homely countenance a still more repulsive exi)ression. "Aha! I've found you!" he shouted, running up to A"olod3^a with little steps : he seized his head, and began a careful examination of his crown. Then, with a perfectly serious expression, he left him, walked up to the table, and began to blow under the oil-cloth, and to make the sign of the cross over it. " 0-oh, it's a pity! o-oh, it's sad ! The ! dear children . . . will fly away," he said, in a voice quiv- ering with tears, gazing feelingly at Volodya ; and he began ' to wipe ana}- the tears which were actually falling, with his /^sleeve. / His A'oice was coarse and hoarse ; his moA-ements hast}'^ and rough ; his talk was silly and incoherent (he пел-ег used any pronouns) ; but his intonations were so touching, and his grotesque yellow face assumed at times such a frankly sorrowful expiession, that, in listening to him. it was impos- silile to refrain from a feeling of mingled pit}', fear, and grief._ • This was the fool and pilgrim Grischa. ДУЬепсе was he? "Wlio were liis parents? "What h:id in- duced him to adopt the singular life uhieii he led? No one 20 CHILDHOOD. knew. I only knew that ho had passed since the aoje of fif- teen as a foul who went barefoot winter and «uinmer. \-isited the monasteries, gave little images to those who struck his fanc3\ and uttered enigmatic words whicli some people ac- cepted as prophecy ; that no one hatl ever known him in any other aspect; that he occasionally went to grandmother's; and that some said he was the unfortunate sou of Avealth}' parents, and a genuine fool ; while others held that he was a simple peasant and lazy. At length the long-wished-for and punctual Foka arrived, and we went down-stairs. Grischa, who continued to sob and talk all sorts of nonsense, followed us, and pounded every step on the stairs with his staff. Papa and mamma entered the drawing-room arm in arm. discussing something in a low tone. Marya Ivanovna w^as sitting with much dig- nity in one of the arm-chairs, symmetrically arranged at right angles close to the divan, and giving instructions in a stern, repressed л'о1се to the girls who sat l^eside her. As soon as Karl Ivanitch entered the room, she glanced at him, but immediately turned awa}' ; and her face assumed an expres- sion which might have been interi)reted to mean: "I do not see you, Karl ivanitch." It was plain from the girls' eyes, that they were ver^' anxious to impart to us some extiemel}- important news as soon as possible ; but it would have been an infringement of Mirai's rules to jump up and come to us. We must first go to her, and say, '■'^ Bo)iJour, Mimi ! " and give a scrape with the foot ; and then it Avas permissil)le to enter into conversation. What an intolerable creature that Mimi was ! It was im- possible to talk about any thing in her presence : she con- sidered every thing improi)er. Moreover, she was coubtr exhorting us to speak French, and that, as if out of m; just when we wanted to chatter in Russian ; or at dinii you would just begin to enjoy a dish, and Avant to 1 alone, when she would infallibly say, " Eat that with brci ..." or •• How are з'ои holding your fork? " — " What business is it of hers? " you think. '• Let her teach her girls, but Karl Ivauitch is there to see to us." I fully 'shared his hatred for some 2)eo2)Ie. " Ask mamma to take us on the hunt," whispered Katen- ka, stopping me by seizing my round jacket, when tfie grown-up peojjle iiad passed on before into the dining-roipm. •'\'erv good : we will trv." CIIILDUOOD. 21 Grischa ate in the dining-room, but at a small table apart ; he did not raise his eyes from liis plate, made feaifnl o-rim- aces, sighed occasionally, and said, as though speaking to himself: ''It's a pity .\ . she ^ has flown away . . . the dove will fly to heaven. . . . Oh, there's a stone on the grave ! " and so on. Mamma had been in a troubled state of mind ever since the morning ; Grischa's presence, words, and behavior, evidently increased this i)ertiirl)ation. •'Ah,' I nearly forgot to ask you about one thing," she said, handing papa a plate of soup. "What is it? " "Please have your dreadful dogs shut up: they came near biting poor Grischa when he [)assed through the yard. And they might attack the children." Hearing himself mentioned, Grischa turned towards the table, and began to exhibit the torn tails of his garment, and to speak with his mouth full. " They wanted to bite to death. . . . God did not allow it. . . . It's a sin to set the dogs on ! Don't beat the bolschak- . . . why beat? God forgives — times are dif- ferent now." " What's that he's saying?" asked papa, gazing sternly and intently at him. '• I don't understand a word." "But I understand," answered mamma: "he is telling me that some huntsman set his dogs on liim, on pur[)Ose, as he says, 'that they might bite him to death,' and he begs 3'ou not to punish the man for it." " Ah ! that's it," said papa. " How does he know that I mean to punish tlie huntsman? You know that I'm not over fond of these gentlemen," he added in French, "and this one in i)articular does not please me, and ought" — " Ah, do not say that, my dear." interrupted mamma, os if frightened at something. '• What do you know about him ?" "it seems to me that I have had occasion to learn these people's ways by heart : enough of them come to you. They're all of one cut. It's forever and eternally the same/ story." It was plain that mamma held a totally different opinion on this point, but she would not dispute. ' It is iiidispeiisable to the [^еч^е in English to ciniiloy pror.onns, occasionally. This limy be considered a speeimen of Gnscha's piopUucy, the prououu being iudi- calcd liy th(^ temii nation of the veib. - Elder of a village, family, or ivligious coiumuuity. 22 CHILDHOOD. " Please ^ive me a patty," said she. " Are the}' good to- day?" "Yes, it makes me angry," went on papa, taking a patty in his hand, bnt hokling it at such a distance that mamma coukl not reach it ; "it makes me angry, when I see sensible and cultivated people fall into the trap." And he struck the table with his fork. "■ I asked you to hand me a patt}^," she repeated, reaching out her hand. "And they do well," continued papa, moving his hand farther awaj', "when they arrest such people. The only good the}' do is to upset the weak nerves of certain indi- viduals," he added with a smile, perceiving that the conver- sation greatly displeased mannna, and gave her the patty. " I have only one remark to make to you on the subject : it is difficult to believe that a man, who, in spite of his sixty years, goes barefoot summer and winter, and wears chains weighing two poods, which he never takes off, under his clothes, and who has more than once rejected a proposal to lead an easy life, — it is difficult to believe that such a man does all this from laziness." " As for prophecy," she added, with a sigh, after a pause, " I have paid for my belief; I think I have told j'ou how Kiriuscha foretold the very day and hour of papa's death." "Ah, what have you done to me!" exclaimed papa, smiling and putting his hand to his mouth on the side where Mimi sat. (When he did this, I always listened with strained attention, in the expectation of something amusing.) " Why have you reminded me of his feet? I have looked at them, and now I shall not be able to eat апл' thing." The dinner was nearing its end. Liubotchka and Katenka winked at us incessantly, twisted on their cliairs. and evinced the greatest uneasiness. The winks signified : " Why don't you ask them to take us hunting? " I nudged Volodya with my elbow ; Volodya nudged me, and finally summoned up his couiage : he explained, at first in a timid voice, but after- wards quite lirmly and loudly, that, as we were to leave on that day, we should like to have the girls taken to the hunt лvith us, in the carriage. After a short consultation among the grown-up people, the question was decided in our favor; aud, what Avas still more pleasant, mamma said that she would ЦО with us herself. cniLDnooB. 23 CHAPTER Vr. PKEPARATIONS FOR THE HUNT. During dessert, Jakov was summoned, and recewed orders with regard to the carriage, the dogs, and the saddle-horses, --all being giA'en with the greatest minuteness, and every Aorse specified byname. Volodya's horse was lame: papa ordered the hunter to be saddled for him. This word "■hunter" always souuded strange in mamma's ears: it seemed to her that it must be something in the nature of a wild beast, and that it would infallibly run away with and kill Volodya. In spite of the exhortations of papa and of Volodya, who with wonderful boldness asserted that that was nothing, and that he liked to have the horse run away ex- tremely, poor mamma continued to declare that she should be in torments during the whole of the excursion. Dinner came to an end ; the big people went to the library to drink their coffee, while we ran into the garden, to scrape our feet along the paths covered with the yellow leaves which had fallen, and to talk. The conversation began on the subject of Volodya riding the hunter, and how shameful it was that Liubotchka ran more softly than Katenka, and how interesting it would be to see Grischa's chains, and so on : not a word was said about our separation. Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage, upon each of whose springs sat a servant boy. Behind the carriage came the huntsmen with the dogs; behind the huntsmen, Ignat tlie coachman, on the horse destined for Volod^'a, and lead- ing my old nag by the bridle. First луе rushed to the fence, whence all these interesting things were visible, and then we flew up-stairs shrieking and stamping, lo dress ourselves as much like hunters as possible. One of the chief means to this end was tucking our trousers into our boots. We be- took ourselves to this without delay, making haste to com- plete the operation, and run out upon the steps to enjoy the 24 CniLDUOOD. sight of the dogs and horses, and the conversation with the huntsmen. Tlie day was warm. AVhite clouds of fanciful forms had been hoA'ering all the morning on the horizon ; then the little breezes drove them nearer and nearer, so that they obscured the sun from time to time. But black and frequent as were these clouds, it was i)lain that the}" were not destined to gather into a thunder-storm, and spoil our enjoyment on our last opportunity. Towards evening they began to disperse again : some grew pale, lengthened out, and fled to the hori- zon ; others, just overhead, turned into white transparent scales ; only one large black cloud lingered in the east. Karl Ivanitch always knew Avhere every sort of cloud went ; he declared that this cloud would go to Maslovka, that there would be no rain, and that the weather would be fine. Foka, in spite of his advanced years, ran down the steps very quickly and cleverly, cried, " Drive up ! " and, planting his feet far apart, stood firm in the middle of the entrance, between the spot to which the carriage should be brought, and the threshold, in the attitude of a man who does not need to be I'eminded of his duty. The ladies folloлved, and after a brief dispute as to луЬо should sit on which side, and whom they should cling to (although it seemed to me quite un- necessar}^ to hold on), they seated themselves, opened their parasols, and drove off. When the lineika ^ started, mam- ma pointed to the hunter, and asked the coachman in a trembling voice : '• Is that the horse for Vladimir PetroA'iteh? " And when the coachman replied in the affirmative, she waved her hand and turned away. I луаз very impatient : 1 mounted my horse, looked straight between his ears, and went through various evolutions in the court-yard. " Please not to crush the dogs," said one of the hunts- men. " Rest easy : this is not my first experience," I answered pi'oudly. Volodya mounted the hunter, not without some quaking in spite of his resolution of character, and asked several times as he patted him : '• Is he gentle? " He looked very handsome on horseback, — just like я grown-up person. His thighs sat so well on the saddle that ' л particular so.t of four-sealeii diozhky. CniLDnOOD. 25 I was еплпоиз, — particularly as, so far as I could judge from my shadow, I was far from presenting so fine au appearance. Then w^e heard papa's step on the stairs : the overseer of the young dogs drove up the scattered hounds ; the hunts- men with greyliounds called in theirs, and began to mount. The groom led the horse to the steps ; papa's leash of dogs, wiiich had been h'ing about in various picturesque poses, viva to him. After him, in a bead collar jingling like iron, jNIilka sprang gayly out. She always greeted the male dogs ^viien she came out; she played with some, smelled of others, growled a little, and hunted fleas ou others. Тара mounted his horse, and we set out. 26 CHILDHOOn. CHAPTER VII. THE HUNT, The huntsman in chief, who was called Turka, rode in front on a dark-gray Koman-nosed horse ; he wore a shaggy cap, a huge horn over his shoulder, and a knife in his belt. From the man's fierce and gloomj^ exterior, one would sooner imagine that he was going to deadl}' conflict than on a hunt- ing expedition. About the hiud heels of his horse ran the hounds, clustered together in a many-hued. undulating pack. It was pitiful to contemplate the fate which befell any un- fortunate dog who took it into his head to linger behind. His companion was forced to drag him along with great effort ; and when he had succeeded in this, one of the hunts- men who rode in the rear never failed to give him a cut with liis whip, saying, "To the pack with you!" AVhen ^Ye emerged from the gates, papa ordered us and the huntsmen to ride along the road, but he himself turned into a field of rye. The grain harvest was in full swing. The shinmg yellow field, extending farther than the eye could reach, was closed in on one side only by a lofty blue forest which seemed to me then a very distant and mysterious place, behind which the world came to an end, or some uninhabited region began. The whole field was covered with shocks of sheaves and with people. Here and there amid the tall rye, on some spot that had been reaped, the bended back of a reaper was visible, the swing of the ears as she laid them between her fingers, a woman in the shade, bending over a cradle, and scattered sheaA^es upon the stubble strewn with cornflowers. In another quarter, peasants clad only in their shirts, stand- ing on carts, were loading the sheaA'es, and raising a dust in the dry, hot fields. The starosta (overseer), in boots, and with his armyak^ thrown on without the slecA^es, and tally- 1 A long, wide coat worn by peasants. CniLDHOOD. 27 sticks ill his hand, perceiving papa in the distance, took off bis lamb's-wool cap, wiped liis reddish head and lieard with a towel, and shouted at the women. The sorrel horse which papa rode had a light, playful gait ; now and then he dropped his head on his breast, pulled at the reins, and with liis heavy tail brushed away the horse-flies and common flies Avhich clung thirstil}" to him. Two gre^diouuds with their tails curved in the shape of a sickle lifted their legs high, and si)rang gracefully over the tall stul)ble, behind the horse's heels ; Milka ran in front, and, Avith head bent low, was watching for the scent. The conversation of the peo- ple, the noise of the horses and carts, the merry whistle of the quail, the hum of insects which circled in motionless swarms in the air, the scent of the wormwood, the straw, and the sweat of the horses, the thousands of A'aryiug hues and shadows лvhich the glowing sun poured over the bright- yellow stubble field, the blue of the distant forest and the pale lilac of the clouds, the white spider's webs which floated through the air or lay upon the stubble, — all this I saw, heard, and felt. When лve reached Kalinovoe (л -ibnrnum) woods, we found the carriage alread}^ there, and, beyond all our expectations, a cart, in the midst of which sat the butler. In the shade луе beheld a samovar, a cask with a form of ice-cream, and some other attractive parcels and baskets. It was impossi- ble to make an^' mistake : there was to be tea, ice-cream, and fruit in the open air. At the sight of the cart, we manifested an uproarious 303^ ; for it was considered a great treat to drink tea in the woods on the grass, and especially in a place where nobody had ел'ег drunk tea before. Turka came to this little meadow-encircled wood, halted, listened attentively to papa's minute directions how to get into line, and where to sally forth (he never minded these directions, however, and did what seemed good to him), un- coupled the dogs, arranged the straps in a leisurely manner, mounted his horse, and disappeared behind the j'oung birches. The first thing the hounds did on being released was to express their joy by wagging their tails, shaking themselves, putting themselves in order ; and then, after a little scamper, they smelled each other, wagged their tails again, and set off in various directions. '• Have you a handkerchief?" asked papa. I pulled one from my pocket, and showed it to him. 28 CHILDnOOD. " Well, take that grny do^ on ycmv linndkerchief " — ''Zhirao?" 1 inquired with a knowing air. " Yes ; and run along the road. AVlien you come to a little meadow, stop '^uO^ look about you ; don't come back to nie without a hare." I wound тз' handkerchief about Zhiran's shagg}- neck, and started at a headlong pace for the spot indicated to me. Va\)ii laughed and called after me : " Faster, faster, or you'll be too late." Zhiran kept halting, pricking up his ears, and listening to the sounds of the hunt. I had not the strength to drag him from the spot, and I began to shout, "Catch him! catch him i " Then Zhiran tore awa}' with such force that I could hardly hold him, and I fell down more than once before 1 reached my post. .Selecting a shady and level place at the root of a lofty oak, I lay down on the grass, placed Zhiran beside me. and waited. My imagination, as always happens in such cases, far outran realit}'. I fancied that I was already coursing my third hare, when the first hound burst from the woods. Turka's voice rang loudly and Avith anima- tion through the forest ; the hound was whinipei'ing, and its voice was more and more frequently audible. Another voice, a bass, joined in, then a third and a fourth. These voices ceased, and again they interrupted each other. The sounds grew gradually louder and more unbroken, and at length merged into one ringing, all-pervading roar. The meadow- encircled clump of trees was one mass of sound, and the hounds were burning with impatience. When I heard that, I stiffened at ray post. Fixing my eyes upon the edge of the woods, 1 smiled foolishly ; the per- spiration poured from me in streams, and although the drops tickled me as they ran down my chin, I did not wipe them Oil'. It seemed to me that nothing could be more decisive t!!an this moment. This attitude of expectancy Avas too un- natural to last long. The hounds poured into the edge of the woods, then the}" retreated from me ; there was no hare. I began to look about. Zhiran was in the same state ; at tirst he tugged and whimpered, then la}' down beside me, put his nose upon my knees and became quiet. Around the bare roots of the oak tree under which I sat, upon the gray, parched earth, amid the withered oak-leaves, acorns, dry moss-grown sticks, yellowisli-green moss, and the liiin green bhuk's of grass which pushed their way through CniLDHOOD. 29 here and there, ants swarmed in countless numbers. They hurried after each other along the thorny paths which they had themselves prepared ; sou)e with burdens, some unladen. ] picked up an acorn, and obstructed their way with it. You should Ьал'е seen how some, despising the obstacle, climbed over it, while others, especially those who bad loads, quite lost their heads and did not know what to do ; they halted aud hunted for a path, or turned back, or crawled upon my hand from the acorn, with the intention, apparentl}^ of get- ting under the sleeve of my jacket. I was diverted from tiiese interesting observations by a butterfly with yellow Avings, which hoA'ered before me in an extremely attractive manner. No sooner had I directed my attention to it than it flew алуау a couple of paces, circled about a nearly- wilted head of wild white clover, and settled upon it. 1 do not know whether it was warming itself in the sun, or drawing the sap fi'om this weed, but it was evident that it was enjoy- ing itself. Now aud then it fluttered its wings and ])ressed closer to the flower, and at last becauie perfectl}' still. I propped ni}' head on both bauds and gazed at it with pleasure. All at once, Zhiran began to howl, and tugged with such force that I nearly fell over. I glanced about. Along the skirt of the woods ski[)ped a hare, with one ear droo]:)ing, the other raised. The blood rushed to my head, aud. for- getting every tiling for the moment, I shouted something in a Avild voice, loosed my dog, and set out to run. But no sooner had I done this than my repentance began. The hare squatted, gaA'e a leap, and I saw no more of him. But what was my mortification, when, following the hounds, who came baying down to the edge of the woods, Turka made his appearance from behind a bush ! He per- ceived my mistake (Avhich consisted in not Jiolding rntt), and casting a scornful glance u]^on me, he mereh' said, '■^ Eh^ b((n'n!"^ But you should have heard how he said it. It would Ьал'е been pleasanter for me if he had hung me to his saddle like a hare. For a long time I stood in deep despair on the same sj)ot. I did not call the dog, and only repeated as 1 beat my thighs, " Heavens, what have I done ! " I heard the hounds coursing in the distance ; I heard them give tongue on the other side of the лvood-island, and kill a hare, and Turka summoning the dogs with his long whip : but stilh 1 did not stir from the spot, 1 Ma^iter, 30 CHILDHOOD. CHAPTER VIII. GAMES. TiiK hunt was at an end. Л cloth was spread under the shadow of the young birches, and the whole company seated themselves around it. Gavrilo, the butler, having trodden down the lush green grass aliout him. wiped' the plates, and emptied the baskets of the plums and peaches wrapped in leaA'es. The sun shone through the green branches of the young birches, and cast round quivering gleams upon the patterns of the tablecloth, upon my feet, and even upon Gavrilo's polished perspiring hetid. A light breeze flutter- ing through the leaves, upon my hair and my streaming face, was ver}- refreshing. When we had divided the ices and fruits, there was noth- ing more to be done at the cloth ; and in spite of the sun's scorching, oblique rays, we rose and began to play. "Nov,-, what shall it be?" said Liubotchka, blinking in the sun, and dancing up and down upon the grass. " Let us have Robinson ! " "No, it's tiresome," said Volodya, rolling lazil}' on the turf, and chewing a leaf : '' it's eternally Robinson ! If you insist upon it, though, let's build an аг1юг." Volodya was evidently putting on airs : it must have been because he was proud of having ridden the hunter, and he feigned to be л'^ег}' much fatigued. Possibly also, he had too much sound sense, and too little force of imagination, to fully enjoy a game of Robinson. This game consisted in acting a scene from the " Robinsou Suisse," ^ which we had read not long before. " Now, please . . . wh}" won't you do this to please us? " persisted the girls. " You shall be Charles or Ernest or tlie father, whichever you like," said Katenka, trying to pull him from the ground b}' the sleeves of his jacket. ' The Swiss Family llobineoii. CTIILDIIOOD. 31 "I really don't want to: it's tiresome," said Volodya, stretching himself and smiling iu a self-satisfied way. " It's better to stay at home if nobody wants to play," declared Liubotchka through her tears. She was a horrible cry-baby. " Come along, then ; only please don't cry. I can't stand it." Volod^'a's condescension afforded us but very little satis- faction : on the contrary, his bored and lazy look destroyed all the illusion of the play. AVhen we sat down on tlie ground, and, imagining that we were setting out on a fishing expedition, began to row with all our might, Volodya sat with folded hands, and in an attitude which had nothing in connnon with the attitude of a fisherman. I remarked on this to him ; but he retorted that we should gain nothing and do no good by either a greater or less flourish of hands, and should not travel an^' farther. 1 involuntarily agreed with him. AVhen I made believe go hunting with a stick on my shoulder, and took m}^ wa}' to the woods', Volod3'a lay down flat on his back, with his hands under his head, and said it was all the same as though he went too. Such speeches and behavior cooled us towards this game, and were extremely unpleasant ; the more so, as it '^^as impossible not to admit in one's own mind that Volodya was behaving sensibly. I knew myself that not only could I not )-ill a bird with my stick, but that it was impossilile to fii'c it off. That was what the game consisted in. If you judge tinngs in that fashion, then it is impossible to ride on chairs ; hut, thought' I, Volodya himself must remember how, on Jong winter evenings, we covered an ai'mchair with a cloth, hvd made a calash out of it, while one mounted as coachman, the other as footman, and the girls sat in the middle, Avitli thre« chairs for a troika of horses, and we set out on a journey. And how many adventures hai)pened on the way ! and how mer- rily and swiftly the winter evenings passed ! Judging by the present standard, there would be no games. And if there are no games, what is left? 32 CUILDUOOD. СН АРТЕК IX. SOMETHING IN THE XATUUE OF FIRST LOVE. Pretexding that she was plucking some American fruits from a tree, Liubotclika tore off a leaf with a huge caterpillar on it, flung it on the ground in terror, raised her hands, and sprang back as though she feared that something would spout out of it. The game came to an end : we all flung ourselves down on the ground with our heads together, to gaze at this curiosit}'. I looked over Katenka's shoulder : she was trying to pick the worm up on a leaf which she placed in its wa}-. I had ol)served that many girls have a trick of tAvisting their shoulders, endeavoring liy this movement to bring back their low-necked dresses. Avhich have slipped down, to their proper place. I remember that this motion always made Mimi angry: "It is the gesture of a chambermaid," she said. Kateuka made this motion as she bent over the worm, and at the same moment the wind raised her kerchief from her Avhite neck. Her little shoulder was within two fingers' length of ni}^ lips. I no longer looked at the worm : I stared and stared at Katenka's shoulder, and kissed it with all my might. She did not turn round, but I noticed that her cheeks crimsoned up to her л^егу ears. Volodya did not raise his head, but said scornfully: '•^ What tenderness ! " The tears came into my eyes. I never took my eyes from Katenka. I had long been used to her fresh little blonde face, and I had always loved it. But now I began to observe it more attentiveh', and I liked it still better. When we went back to the grown-up people, papa announced, to our great joy. that, at mamma's request, our departure was postponed until the following day. We rode back in company Avith the carriage. Volodya and I, desirous of outdoing each other in the art of horse- CniLDIIOOD. 33 manship and in boldness, galloped around it. INIy sliadow was longer than before, and, judging from it, I imagined that I must present tlie effect of a very tine rider ; but the feeling of self-satisfaction wliich I experienced was speedily destroyed by the following circumstance. Desiring to com- pletely fascinate all who rode in the carriage, I fell behind a little ; then, with the assistance of my whip, I started my horse forwai'd, and assumed an attitude of careless grace, with the intention of dashing past them like a whirlwind on the side Avhere Katenka sat. The only point I was in doubt about was : would it be better to gallop by in silence, or to cry out? But the hateful horse came to a standstill so un- expectedly when he came up with the carriage-horses, that I flew over the saddle upon his neck, and almost tumbled off his back. 34 VUILJJIIOOI). CHAPTER X. WHAT KIND OP A MAN "W .S MY FATHER? He was a mau of the last century, and possessed that indeiuiable chivahy of character which was common to the youth of that period. He looked with disdain upon the people of the present century ; and this view proceeded quite as much from innate pride as from a secret feeling of vexation that he could not wield tliat influence or enjoy those successes in our age which he had enjo3'ed iu his own. His two principal passions in life were cards and women : he had won several millions during his lifetime, and had had liaisons with an innumerable number of women of all classes. A tall, stately figure, a strange, tripping gait, a habit of shrugging his shoulders, little eyes which were always smil- ing, a large aquiline nose, irregular lips which closed awk- wardly but agreeably, a defect in speech resulting in a lisp, and a large bald spot extending all over his head — such was my father's appearance from the time I first recollect him, — an appearance by means of which he not only man- aged to make the reputation of a man й bonnes fortunes, but to be so, and to please every one without exception, — people of all classes and conditions, and especially those whom he desired to please. ,^e understood how to get the upper hand in all his deal- ings. Without ever ha\4ng been a member of the very hiijh- est societi], he had always had intercourse with individuals belonging to that circle, and of such a sort that he was always respected. He understood that extreme measure of pride and self-confidence which, without offending others, raised him in the estimation of the world. He was original, though not always, and employed his originality as an in- sti'ument which in some cases takes the place of worldly wisdom or wealth. Nothing in the world could arouse in him a sensation of Avonder : however brilliant his position, be seemed born to it. He understood so well how to hide CniLDHOOD. 35 from others, and put away from himself, that dark side of life which is familiar to every one, and filled with petty vexations and griefs, that it was impossible not to envy him. He was a connoisseur of all things which afford comfort or pleasure, and understood how to make use of them. His hobb}' was h is brilliant couuectioiis, which lie possessed parti}" through my mother^s~reIation;s and partly through the companions of his youth, with whom he was secretly en- raged, because they had all risen to high official positions, while he had remained oul}' a retired lieutenant in the Guards, ^Like all men who have once been in the army, he did not know how to dress fashionably : nevertheless, his dress was original and elegant) His clothes were always very loose and light, his linen of the most beautiful quality, his large cuffs and collars were turned back. And it all suited his tall figure, his muscular build, his bald head, and his calm, self-confident movements. He was sensitive, and even easily moved to tears. Often, when he came to a pathetic place while reading aloud, his voice would begin to tremble, the tears would come ; and he would drop the book in A'exation. He loved music, and sang, to his own piano accompaniment, the romances of his friend A., g.ypsy songs, and some airs from the operas ; but he did not like scientific music, and said frankly, without heeding the general opin- ion, that Beethoven's sonatas drove him to sleep and enmd; and that "lie кпелу nothing finer than " Wake the 3'oung girl not," as sung b}' Madame Semenova, and " Not alone," as gypsy Taniuscha sang it. His nature was one of those to whose good deeds a i)ul)lic is indispensable. And he only considered that good which was so reckoned by the public. God knows whether he had an}- moral convictions. His l ife was so full of passions of every sort, that he never had any time to make an inventory of them, and he was so happy in his life that he saw no necessity for so doing. A fixed opinion on things generally, and unalterable prin- ciples, formulated themselves in his mind as he grew older — but solely on practical grounds. Those deeds and that manner of life which procured him happiness and pleasure, he considered good ; and he thought that every one should always do the same. He talked very persuasively ; and thir? quality, it seems to me, heightened the flexibility of his pi'incii)les : he was cnpable of depicting the same act as a charming bit of mischief, or as a [)iece of low-lived vilhuiy. 36 CHILDUOOI). CHAPTER XI. OCCUPATIONS IX THE LIBKAKY AND THE DRAWIXG-KOOM. It was already dark when we reached home. Mamma seated herself at the piano, and we children fetched our paper, pencils, and paints, and settled ourselves about the round table at our drawing. I had onl}- blue i>aint ; never- theless, I undertook to depict the hunt. After representing, in very lively style, a blue bo}' mounted on a blue horse, and some blue dogs, I was not quite sure whether I could paint a blue hare, and ran to papa in his stud}' to take advice on the matter. Papa was reading ; and in answer to my ques- tion, "Are there any blue hares?" he said, without raising his head, "Yes, my dear, there are." I went back to the round table, and painted a blue hare ; then I found it neces- sary to turn the blue hare into a bush. The luish did not please me either ; I turned it into a tree, and the tree into a stack of hay. and the haystack into a cloud ; and finally I blotted my whole paper so with blue paint, that I tore it up in vexation, and Avent to dozing in the l)ig arm-chair. Mamma was playing the Second Concerto of Field — her teacher. I dreamed, and light, bright, transparent recollec- tions penetrated my imagination. 8he played Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique, and my memories became painful, dark, burdensome. Mamma often })layed those two pieces ; there- fore I Avell remember the feeling which they aroused in me. It resembled memories: but memories of what? I seemed to remember something which had never happened. Opposite ine was the door into the study, and I saw Yakov enter, and some other people wijji caftans and beards. The door immediately closed behind them. " Now business lias begun ! " I thought. It seemed to me that nothing in the world could be more important than the l)usiness wliich was being transacted in that study; this idea of mine was coutirmed by the fact that all who entered the study door CniLBHOOD, 37 did SO on tiptoe and exchanging whispers. Papa's loud voice was audible ; and the smell of cigars, which always attracted me very much, I know not why, was perceptible. ЛИ at once, I was much surprised in my half slumber by the familiar squeak of boots in the butler's pantry. Kai'l Ivanitch walked up to the door on tiptoe, but with a gloomy and decided countenance, and some papers in his hand, and knocked lightl}'. He was admitted, and the door was slammed again. ''Some misfortune must have happened," I thought. "Karl Ivanitch is angry: he is ready for any thing." And again I fell into a doze. But no misfortune had occurred. In about an hour, the same squeaking boots woke me up. Karl Ivanitch emerged from the door, wiping away the tears which I espied on his clieeks, with his handkerchief, and went up-stairs, muttering something to himself. Papa came out after him, and en- tered the drawing-room. " Do you know what I have just decided upon? " he said in a gay voice, laying his hand on mamma's shoulder. " What is it, my dear? " " I shall take Karl Ivanitch with the children. There is room for him in the britchka. They are used to him, and it seems that, he is very much attached to them ; and seven I :r.4li'ed .ubles a year does not count for much : and then he IS a very good sort of fellow at bottom." I never could understand why })ai)a scolded Karl Ivanitch. " I am л^егу glad," said mamma, " both for the children's sake and for his : he is a fine old fellow." " If 3'ou could only have seen how much affected he was when I told him that he was to keep the five hundred rubles as a gift ! But the most amusing thing of all is this account which he brought me. It's worth looking at," he added with a smile, handing her a list in Karl Ivanitch's hand- writing : "it was delightful." This was what the list contained : — " Two fish-hooks for the children, seventy kopeks. " Colored paper, gold binding, a press and stretcher for a little box for a present, ^ix rul)les fifty-five kopeks. "Books and bows, presents to the children, eight rubles sixteen kopeks. " Trousers for Nikolai, four rubles. "^lie gold watch promised by Piotr Alexandrovitch, 38 CHILDHOOD. to Ъе got from Moscow in 18 — , one hundred and forty rubles. ''Total due Karl Mauer, above his salary, one hundred and fifty-nine rubles seventj'-nine kopeks." After reading this list, in which Karl Ivauitch demanded payment of all the sums which he had expended for presents, and even the price of the gifts promised to himself, any one would think that. Karl Ivanitch was nothing more than an unfeeling, covetous egoist — and he would be very much mistaken. When he entered the study with this account in his hand, and a speech ready prepared in his head, he intended to set forth eloquently' before papa all that he had endured in our house; but when he began to speak in that touching voice, and with the feeling intonations луЬ1сЬ he usually employed when dictating to us, his eloquence acted most powerfully on himself ; so that when he reached the place where he said, "Painful as it is to me to part from the children," he became utterly confused, his voice trembled, and he was forced to pull his checked handkerchief from his pocket. "Yes, Piolr Alexandritch," he said through his tears (this passage did not occur in the prepared speech): "I have become so used to the children, that I do not know what I shall do without them. It will be better for me to serve you without salary," he added, wiping away his tears ■with one hand, and presenting the bill with the other. That Karl b^anitch was sincere Avhen he spoke thus, I can affirm Vvith authority, for I know his kind heart ; but how he reconciled that account with his words, remains a mystery to me. "If it is painful for you, it would be still more painful for me to part with you," said papa, tapping him on the shoulder. " I have changed my mind." Not long before supper Grischa entered the room. From the moment he had come to the house, he had not ceased to sigh and weep ; which, according to the opinion of those who believed in his power of prophecy, presaged some evil to our house. He began to take leave, and said that he should proceed farther the next morning. I winked at Volodya, and went out. "What is it?" " If you want to see Grischa's chains, let's go np-stairs to CHILDHOOD. 39 the men's rooms immediately. Grischa sleeps in the second chamber. ЛУе can sit in the garret perfectly well, and see every thing." " Splendid ! Wait here ; I'll call the girls." The girls ran out, and we betook ourselves up-stairs. It was settled, not Avithout some disputing, however, who was to go first into the dark garret ; and we sat down and waited. 40 ClIILDUOOD. CHAPTER XII. GRISCHA. The darkness oppressed all of us : we pressed close to each other, aud did uot speak. Grischa followed us almost immediately, witli his quiet steps. In one hand he carried his staff, in the other a tallow caudle in a brass candlestick. We held our breaths. '' Lord Jesus Christ ! Most Holy Mother of God ! Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" he repeated several times, with A'arious intonations and abbrcAnations which are peculiar to those only who repeat these words often, as he drew the air into his lungs. Having placed his staff in the corner, and inspected his bed during his prayer, he began to undress. He unfastened his old black belt, removecl his tattered nankeen smock, folded it carefully, and laid it over the back of a chair. His face did not now express haste and stupidit}', as usual : on the contrary, it was composed, melancholy, and even majes- tic. His movements were deliberate and thoughtful. Clad in his underclothes alone, he sank gently down upon the bed, made the sign of the cross over it on all sides, aud with an evident effort (for he frowned) he adjusted the chains beneath his shirt. After sitting there a Avhile and anxiously examining several rents in his linen, he rose, lifted the candlestick on a level with the shrine in the corner, which contained several images, repeating a prayer meantime, crossed himself before them, and turned the candle upside down. It sputtered and went out. The moon, which was almost full, shone in through the window, looking towards the forest. The long wdiite figure of the fool was illuminated on one side by the pale, silvery rays of the moon : on the other it was in deep shadow ; it feil on tlie floor and walls, and reached to the ceiling in com- pany with the sliadows from the window-frame. Tlie watch- inau knocked (>n the copper plate in the court-yard. CniLDIIOOB. 41 Grischa folded his huge arras across his breast, bent his head, sighing heavil3% and without intermission, and stood in silence before the images ; then he knelt, with some diffi- culty, and began to pray. At first he softly recited the familiar praj-ers, merely ac- centuating certain words ; then he repeated them, but in a loud voice, and with much animation. He began to employ his own words, endeavoring, with evident effort, to express himself in Slavic st^de. His words were incoherent but touching. He prayed for all his benefactors (as he called those who entertained him), among them mamma, and us; he praj^ed for himself, besought God to forgive him his grievous sins, and said: ''O God, forgive my enemies!" He rose with a groan, and, repeating the same words over and over, he fell to the ground again, and again rose, not- withstanding the weight of the chains, which emitted a harsh, sharp sound as they struck the floor. Volodya gave me a painful pinch on my foot, but I did not even look round : I merely rubbed the spot with one hand, and continued to observe all Grischa's words and motions wnth a sentiment of childish wonder, pit}', and rev- erence. Instead of the merriment and laughter, upon which I had reckoned when I entered the garret, I felt a trembling and sinking at m}' heart. Grischa remained in this state of religious exaltation for a long time, and improvised prayers. He repeated '-'•Lord have viercy," several times in succession, but each time with fresh force and expression. Then he said: '■'■ Forgive we, Lord; teach me ivhat I should do ; tench me what I shoidd do, Lord!'" with an expression as though he expected an im- mediate response to his words ; then several lamentable groans were audible. He rose to his knees, crossed his hands upon his breast, and became silent. I put my head softly out of the door, and held my breath. Grischa did not stir ; heavy sighs forced themselves from his breast ; a tear stood in tiie dim pupil of his blind eye, which was illuminated by the moon. "Thy will be done! " he cried suddenly, with an inde- scribable expression, fell лvith his forehead to the floor, and sobbed like a child. A long time has passed since then ; many memories of the past have lost all significance for me, and have become like 42 CniLDUOOD. confused visions ; even pilgrim Grischa has long ago taken his last journey : but the impression which he made upon me, and the feeling which he awakened, will never die out of my memoiy. О great Christian Grischa ! Thy faith was so__ strong, that thou didst feel the nearness of God ; thy love was so great, tliat thy words poured from thy lips of themselves, — thou didst not revise them with thy judgment. And what lofty praise didst thou offer to His majesty, when, finding no words, thou didst tling thyself to the earth in tears ! The emotion with which I listened to Grischa could not last long ; in the first place, because my curiosity was satis- fied, and, in the second, because my legs were stiff with sitting in one position, and I wanted to join in the general whispering and movement which was audible behind me in the dark garret. Some one caught my hand, and said, " Whose hand is this? " It was perfectly dark, but I imme- diately recognized Katenka by the touch of the hand, and by the voice which was just above my ear. It was quite without premeditation that I gi'asped her arm, on which the sleeve reached only to the elbow, and raised it to my lips. Katenka was evidently surprised at this, and pulled her hand away : this movement caused her to strike a broken chair which stood in the garret. Grischa raised his head, glanced quietly about, repeating a prayer, and began to make the sign of the cross on all the corners. We ran out of the garret whispering, and making a great commotion. CniLDHOOB. 45 ' ^r knitting *oom CHAPTER ХШ. NATALYA SAVISCHNA. About the middle of the last century, a plump, red- clieeked, barefooted, but merry girl, Natasehka, used to run about the court-yard in the village of Khabarovka in a tattered dress. My grandfather had taken her upstairs as, one of grandmother's female servants, on account of the ser- vices of her father Нал'Л'а, and at his request. Natasehka, as a maid, was distinguished for her gentleness of nature, and her zeal. When mamma was born, and a nurse was required, this service was intrusted to Natasehka; and in this new career she won both praises and rewards for her activit}', faithfulness, and attachment to her 3'oung mistress. But the powdered head, stockings, and buckles of the stout young butler Foka, who, in virtue of his office, was often brought in contact with Natalya, captivated her rough but loving heart. She even made up her mind to go herself to grandfather, and ask permission to marr^^ Foka. Grand- father looked upon her request as ingratitude, turned her away, and sent poor Natalya to tlie cattle-farm, in a village of the steppe, to punish her. But within six months Na- talya was restoi'ed to her former duty, since no one could fill her place. On returning from banishment, she entered grandfather's presence, threw herself at his feet, and be- sought him to restore her to faл'or and affection, and to for- get the folly which had come upon her, and to which she swore not to return. And she kept her word. From that day Natasehka became Natalya Savischna, and wore a cap. All the treasures of love which she possessed she transferred to her young mistress. When, later on, a governess replaced her with mamma, she received the keys of the storehouse, and all the linen and provisions were given into her charge. She fulliUed these new duties with the same love and zeal. She had always 42 CHILDHOOD. confusefl'ic estate ; she saw waste, ruin, robbery, on every hi'', iind endeavored by every means in her power to coun- teract them. When mamma married, desiring in some way to show her gratitude to Natal3'a Savischna for her labor and attachment of twenty years, she had her summoned ; and. expi-essing in the most flattering terms all her love and obligations, she handed her a sheet of stamped paper, which declared that Natalya Savischna was a free woman ; and she said that whether the latter should continue to serve \\\ our house or not, she would alwaj's receive a yearly pension of three hundred rubles. Natalya Savischna listened to all this in silence ; then taking the document in her own hands, she looked angrily at it, muttered something between lier lips, and flew out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Not understanding the cause of this strange behavior, mamma, after wailing a little, went to Natalya's room. She was sitting on her chest, with tear-swollen ej'es, twisting her handkerchief in her fingers, and intently regarding the tattered fragments of her emancipation paper, which were scattered over the floor before her. " What is the matter, dearest Natalya Savischna? " asked mamma, taking her hand. " Nothing, matuschka," ^ she replied. " I must be repul- sive to vou in some way, that you drive me from the house. Well, I will go." She pulled away her hand, and, with difficulty restraining her tears, she made a motion to leave the room. Mamma detained her, embraced her, and they Ijoth wept in compan}'. From the time when I can recollect any thing, I remenil)er Natalya Savischna, her love and caresses ; but only now am I able to appreciate their worth, — but then it пел^ег entered my mind to think what a rare and wonderful being that old woman Avas. Not only did she пел'ег speak, but she seemed never even to think, of herself : her Avhole life was love and self-sacrifice. I was so accustomed to her tender, unselfish love for us, that I did not even imagine that it could be otherwise ; was not in the least grateful to her, and never I asked myself. Is she happy? Is slie content? \ Sometimes, under the plea of imperative necessity, I would \ run away from m^- lessons to her room, and begin to dream j aloud, not in the least embariassed by her presence. She I • Little mother ; a teim of euciearmeut. CHILDHOOD. 45 was always busy ол^ег something ; she was either knitting a stocking, or turning ол-^г the chests with which her room was filled, or taking account of the linen, and listening to all the nonsense which I uttered; how, •• when I got to be a general, I would marry a wonderful beauty, buy myself a sori'el horse, build a glass house, and send for all Karl Ivan- itch's relatives from 8ахопз%" and so on; she Avould sa}^ '••Yes, batiuschka,^ yes." Generally; when I rose and pre- pared to take my departure, she opened a blue chest, — on the inside of whose cover, as I now remember, there were pasted a picture of a hussar, a picture from a pomade-box, and a drawing by Yolodya, — and took from it a stick of incense, lighted it, and said as she waved it about, — "• This, my dear, is incense. When j^our late grandfather — may the kingdom of heaven be his! — went against the Turks, he brought this back. This is the last bit," she added with a sigh. Positively, there was every thing in the chests with which ■ her room was filled. Whatever was needed, the cry always was, " We must ask Natalya Savischna ; " and, in fact, she always found the article required, after a little lummaging, and said, "It's well that I hid it away." In those chests were thousands of things лvhich nobody in the house, except herself, ever knew or troubled themselves about. Once I was angry with her. This is how it was, I dropped the decanter when I was pouring myself some kvas at dinner, and spilled it on the tablecloth. " Call Natalya .Savischna, that she may take pride in her favorite," said mamma. Natalya Savischna came, and on seeing the puddle which I had made, she shook her head ; then mamma whispered something in her ear, and she went out, shaking her finger at me. After dinner, I was on my way to the hall, and skip- ping about in the most cheerful frame of mind, when, all at once, Natalya Savischna sprang out from behind the door, with the tablecloth in her hand, caught me, and, in s[)ite of desperate resistance on m}- part, began to rub my face with the wet place, crying, " Don't spot the tablecloth, don't spot the tablecloth ! " 1 was so offended that I roared with rage. ■*% *•■ What ! " I said to myself, as I walked up and down the 1 Little father, my dear. 46 CniLDnOOD. room and gulped down my tears, " Natalj^a Savischna, plain Nattdya^ calls me thou^ and strikes me in the face with a wet tablecloth to boot, as if 1 were a servant boy ! This is hor- rible ! " When Natalya Savischna saw that I was gasping with rage, she immediately ran off, and I went on pacing to and fro, and meditating how I might pay off that impudent Natal^'a for the insult which she had inflicted on me. In a few minutes Natalya Savischna returned, approached me timidl}', and began to exhort me. " Enough, my dear, don't cry. Forgive me, I was foolish. I am in the wrong. You will forgive me, my dove. Here, this is for 3'ou." From beneath her kerchief she drew a horn of red paper, in which were two caramels and one grape, and gave it to me with a treml)liug hand. 1 had not the strength to look the good old woman in the face ; I turned away, took her gift, and my tears flowed still more abundantly, but from love and shame now, and no longer from anger. CniLDUOOD. 47 CHAPTER XIV. At twelve o'clock ou the day following the events which I have described, the calash and britchka stood at the door. Nikolai was dressed for travelling ; that is to say, his trou- sers were tucked into his boots, and his old coat was \Qvy closely belted. He stood by the britchka, packing the over- coats and cushions under the seat ; when the pile seemed to him too high, he seated himself on the cushions, jumped up and dowu, and flattened them. " For HeaA'en's sake, Nikolai Dmitritch, can't we put the master's strong box in? " said papa's panting valet, leaning out of the calash : " it is small." " You should have said so before, Mikhei Ivanitch," an- swered Nikolai quickly and angrily, flinging a parcel with all his might on the floor of the britchka. "O Lord, my head is going round, and here you come with your box ! " he added, pulling off his cap, and wiping the big drops of per- spiration from his burning brow. Men-servants in coats, caftans, shirts, without hats, women in striped petticoats and striped dresses, with children in their arms, and barefooted children stood about the steps, stared at the equipages, and talked among themselves. One of the post-boys — a bent old man in a winter-cap and arm- yak — held in his hand the pole of the calash, moved it back and forth, and thoughtfully surveyed its action ; the other, a good-hjoking young fellow, clad onl}' in a white smock with siioulder-gnssets of red kumatch,^ and a l)lack lamb's-wool cap, which he tilted first over one ear and then over the other as he scratched his l)londe curls, placed his armyak ou the box, flung the reins there also, and, cracking his braided knout, gazed now at his boots, now at the coachmen who were greasing the britchka. One of them, after having fin- 1 л red cottou material. 48 CHILDHOOD. ished his liibors, was strainino; himself and holding the steps ; another was bending over the wheel, and carefully greasing axle and box, and even smearing it from below in a circle, in order tliat the oil upon his cloth might not be wasted. The broken-down post-horses of various coloi's stood at the fence, and brushed away the flies with tlieir tails. Some of them planted their shaggy, swollen legs far apart, closed thi'ir eyes, and dozed ; some scratched each other from ennui, or nipped the fronds and stalks of the harsh, dark- green ferns which grew beside the porch. Several grey- hounds breathed heavily as they lay in the sun ; others got into the shade beneath the calash and britchka, and licked the tallow around the axles. The whole atmosphere was flUed with a kind of dusty mist ; the horizon was of a grayish lilac hue, but there was not so much as a tiny cloud in the sky. The strong west wind raised pillars of dust from the roads and fields, bent the crests of the loft}' lindens, and the birches in the garden, and bore far awa}- the falling yel- low leaves. I sat by the window, and awaited the completion of the preparations with impatience. When all were assembled around the large table in the drawing-room, in order to spend a few minutes together for the last time, it never entered my mind what a painful moment was awaiting us. The most trivial thoughts wan- dered through my brain. I asked mj^self, Which post-boy will drive the calash, and which the britchka? who would travel with papa, and who with Karl Ivanitch ? and луЬз* was it indispensable to wrap me up in a scarf and a long wadded overcoat ? ''Am I so delicate? I shall not freeze. I wish they would get through this as quickly as [wssible ! I want to get in and ride off." "To whom shall I give the list of the children's linen?" asked Natalya Savischna, coming in with tear-swollen e^'es and the list in her hand, as she turned to mamma. " Give it to Nikolai, and come back to say good-by to the children." The old woman tried to say something, but suddenly paused, covered her face with her handkerchief, and left the room with a wave of the hand. My heart contracted with pain when I saw that motion ; but im]:)atieuce to start was stronger than that feeling, and I continued to listen indifferentl}' to papa's conversation with сщьвнооп. 49 mamma. They talked of things which evidently interested nuither of them : What Avas it necessaij to purchase fur the house? what was to l)e said to Princess Sophie aud Madame Julie? and would the traA-elling be good? Foka entered, and, halting on the threshold, said, " The horses are ready," in exactly the same tone with which lie announced, "Dinner is served." I noticed that mamma shuddered aud turned pale at this announcement, as though she had not expected it. Foka was ordered to close all the doors of the room. ] was very much amused *■* at their all hiding themselves from somebody." When all sat down, Foka also seated himself on the edge of a chair ; but no sooner liad he done so than a door squeaked, and all glanced round. Natalya Savischna entered in haste, and, without raising her e3'es, took refuge on the same chair with Foka. I seem now to see Foka's bald head and wrinkled, immovable face, and the kind, bent form in the cap beneath which the gray hair was visil)le. They crowded together on the one chair, and both felt awkward. 1 remained unconcerned and impatient. The ten seconds during which we sat there with closed doors seemed a wliole hour to me. At length we all rose, crossed ourselves, and began to take leave. Papa embraced mamma, aud kissed her several times. "Enough, my dear," said papa. " AVe are not parting forcA'er." "It is painful, nevertheless," said mamma in a voice Avliich quivered with tears. When I heard that voice, and l)eheld her trembling lips and her eyes filled with tears, I forgot ever}' thing, and every thing seemed to me so sad and miserable and terrible tliat I would rather have run away than have said good-by to her. At that moment I realized tliat when she embraced papa, she had already taken leave of us. She kissed aud crossed Yolodya so many times, that, sup- posing that she would now turn to me, I stepped forward. But she continued to bless him and to press him to her liosom. Finally I eml)raced lier. and clinging to lier I wept witliout a thouglit beyond my grief. Wlien we went out to get into tlie carnage, the tiresome servants stepped forward in the anteroom to say farewell. Their '* Your hand, please, sir," their uoisy kis-scs on our 50 CniLBIIOOD. shonklers, and the smell of the tallow on their heads, aroused in me a sentiment nearly akin to that of bitterness inirrital)le people. Under the iniiuence of this feeling I kissed Natah a Navischna л^егу coldl}' on her cap when, bathed in tears, she bade me farewell. It is strange that I can even now see the faces of all those servants, and I could draw them with all the most minute details, but mamma's face and attitude have utterly escaped my mind ; perhaps because during all that time I could not once summon up courage to look at her. It seemed to me that if I did so, her sorrow and mine must increase to the bounds of impossibility. I flung myself first of all into the calash, and placed my- self on the back seat. As the back was up, I could see nothing, but some instinct told me that mamma was still there. " Shall I look at her again, or not? ЛУе11, for the last time, then ! " I said to myself, and leaned out of the calash towards the porch. At that moment mamma had come to the other side of the carriage with the same intent, and called me by name. When I heard her Aoice behind me, I turned round, but I did it so abruptly that we bumped our heads together. She smiled mourufull}', and kissed me long and warml}- for the last time. When we had driven several rods, I made up my mind to look at her. The breeze raised the blue kerchief which was tied about her head ; with bended head, and face covered with her hands, she was entering the porch slowly. Foka was sustaining her. Papa sat beside me, and said nothing. I was choking with tears, and something oppressed my throat so that I was afraid I should stifle. As we entered the highway, we saw a white handkerchief which some one was waving from the balcony. I began to wave mine, and this movement calmed me somewhat. I continued to cry, and the thought that my tears proved my sensitiveness afforded me pleasure and consolation. After we had travelled a verst, I sat more composedly, and began to observe the nearest objects which presented themselves to my eyes, — the hind quarters of the side horse which was on my side. I noticed how this piebald animal flourished his tail, how he set one foot down after the otlier, how the post-boy's braided knout reached him, and his feet 5*5 CHILDHOOD. began to leap together. I noticed bow tbe harness leaped about on him, and the lings on the harness ; and I gazed until the harness was covered around the tail with foam. 1 began to look about me, upon the undulating fields of ripe rye, on the dark waste laud, on which here and there ploughs, peasants, and mares with their foals were visible ; on the verst-stones ; I even glanced at the carriage-box to find out which post-boy was driving us ; and the teai's were not dry on my face, when my thoughts were already far from the mother whom I had left perhaps forever. But every recol- lection led me to the thought of her. I recalled the mush- room which I had found the day before in the birch-alley, and remembered that Liubotchka and Kateuka had disputed as to who should pluck it, and I remember how they had wept at parting from us. I was sorry for them, and for Natalya Savischna, and the birch-alley, and РЪка. I was even sorry for malicious Mimi. I was sorry for every thing, every thing ! But poor mamma, У And the tears again filled my eyes, but not for long. г^ 50 CHILDHOOD. CHAPTER XV. CHILDHOOD. Happy, happy days of j'oiith which can never be recalled ! How is it possible not to love it, to cheribh memories of it? Those memories refresh and elevate my soul, and serve me as the fountain of my best enjoyment. — You have run your fill. You sit at the tea-table, in your high chair ; 3'ou have drunk your cup of milk and sugar long ago ; sleep is gluing your eyes together, but you do not stir from the spot, you sit and listen. And how can 3'ou help listening? Mamma is talking with souie one, and the sound of her voice is so sweet, so courteous. That sound alone says so much to my heart ! With ej'es dimmed with slumber, I gaze upon her face, and all at once she has become sm.all, so small — her face is no larger than a button, but I see it just as plainly still. I see her look at me and smile. I like to see her so small. I draw my eyelids still closer together, and she is no larger than the little boys one sees in the pupils of the eyes ; but I moved, and the illusion was destro3-ed. I close my e3'es, twist about, and try in eveiy way to reproduce it, but in vain. 1 rise, tuck my feet under me, and settle myself comfort- abl}' in an eas^'-chair. "You will go to sleep again, Nikoliuka," sa^-s mamma; "you had better go up-stairs." "I don't want to go to bed, mamma," 3'ou reply, and sweet, dim fancies fill your brain ; the healthy slee'p of child- hood closes your lids, and in a moment 30U lose conscious- ness, and sleep until the}' wake 3'ou. You feel in your dreams that somebody's soft hand is touching you ; you recognize it by that touch alone ; and still sleeping you invol- untarily seize it, and press it warmh', so warmly, to your lips. Every one has already dejiarted : one candle only burns in the drawing-room. Mamma has said that she would wake г CniLDIIOOD. 55 me : it is she who has sat down on the chair in wh. ain sleeping, and strokes my hair лvith her wonderfully ь hand, and in my ears resoimds the dear, familiar лю1се. '' Get up, m}' darling, it is time to go to bed." She is not embarrassed b}' any one's indifferent glances ; she does not fear to pour out upon me all her tenderness and love. I do not move, but kiss her hand yet more earnestly. " Get up, тз' angel." She takes me by the neck with her other hand, and her slender fingers rouse me and tickle me ; she touches me, and I am conscious of her perfume and her voice. All this makes me spring up, encircle her neck with my arms, press my head to her bosom with a sigh, and say, — '' Oh, dear, dear mamma, how I love 3'ou ! " She smiles, with her sad, beлvitching smile, takes mj^ head in both her hands, kisses my brow, and sets me on her knees. "So 3'ou 1ол'е me very nuich?" She is silent for a moment, then speaks: "See that 3'ou alwa3^s love me, and never forget me. If you lose 3'our mamma, 3'ou will not for- get her? 3"0U will not forget her, Nikolinka?" She kisses me still more tenderly. "Stop! don't say that, my darling, my precious one!" I СГ3', kissing her knees ; and the tears stream in floods from my eyes, — tears of love and rapture. After that, perhaps, wdien 3'ou go up-stairs, and stand before the images in yovw wadded dressing-gown, what a wonderful sensation з'ои experience when you sa3% "O Lord ! save papa and mamma!" In repeating the ргаз^егз which my mouth lisped for the first time after nn- Ijeloved mother, tlie love of her and the love of God are united, in some strange fashion, in one feeling. After 3'our ргаз^ег you wrap yourself in the bedclothes, with a spirit light, bright, and inspiring ; one dream succeeds another, but what are they all about? They are indescrib- able ; but'full of pure love, of hope and earthly happiness. You perhaps recall Karl Ivanitch and his bitter lot, — the only unhappy man I knew, — and 3'Ou are so sorry for him, you lo\e liim so, that tears trickle from your eyes, and you think, "May God give him happiness; may He grant me power to help him, to lighten his sorrow ; I am ready to sacrifice everv thing for him." Then you thrust your favorite porcelain plaything — a dog and a hare — into the corner of -^ CniLDUOOD. .own pillow, and it pleases you to think how warm and .nt'ortal)le they will be there. You pray again, that God .»ill grant ha[)i)iuess to all, that every one may be content, and that the weather to-morrow may be good for walking. You turn on the other side ; your thoughts and dreams min- gle confusedly, and intertwine, and you fall asleep quietly, calmly, with your face still wet with tears. Will that freshness, that happy carelessness, that neces- sity for love and strength of faith, which you possessed in childhood, ever return? Can anytime be better thah that when tlie two greatest of virtues — innocent gayet}-, and unbounded thirst for love — were the only requirements in life? Where are those burning prayers? AYhere is that best , gift of all, those pure tears of emotion ? The angel of com- fort flew thither with a smile, and wiped away those tears, and instilled sweet visions into the uucorrupted imagination of infancy. lias life left such heavy traces in my heart that those tears and raptures have deserted me forever ? Do the memo- ries alone abide? CHILDHOOD. 55 CHAPTER XVI. VERSES. Nearly a month after we removed to Moscow, I was sitting up-stairs in grandmamma's Iiouse, at a big table, writing. Opposite me sat the drawing-master, making the final corrections in a pencil-sketch of the head of some Turk or otlier in a turban. Volodya was standing behind the master, with outstretched neck, gazing over his shoulder. This little head was Volodya' s first production in pencil ; and it was to be presented to 'grandmamma that day, which was her saint's day . "And you would not put any more shading here?" said Volodya, rising on tiptoe, and poiuting at the Turk's neck. "■ No, it is not necessary," said the teacher, laying aside the pencil and drawing-pen in a little box with a lock; "it is very good now, and you must not touch it again. Now for you, Nikolinka," he added, rising, and continuing to gaze at the Turk from the corner of his eye : " reveal yowY secret to us. What are you going to carry to your graud- mother? To tell the truth, another head just like this would be the best thing. Good-by, gentlemen," said he, and, taking his hat and note, he went out. I had been thinking myself, at the moment, that a head would be better than what I was working at. When it had been announced to us that grandmamma's name-day was near at hand, and that we must prepare gifts for the occa- sion, I had immediately made up a couple of verses, hoping soon to find the rest. I really do not know how such a strange idea for a child entered my miud ; but I rememlier that it pleased me greatly, and that to all questions on the subject I replied that I would give grandmamma a present without fail, but that I would not tell any one of wiuit it was to consist. Contrary to my expectations, and in spite of all ni}' efforts, 56 CHILDHOOD. I could not compose any more than the two stanzas which I had thouoht out on the S|)ur of the moment. I began to read the poems in our books ; but neither Umitrief nor Derzhavin afforded me any assistance. Quite the re\'erse : they but couA'iuced me more thoroughl}' of m^^ own in- capacity. Knowing that Karl Ivauitch was fond of copying poetr}', I went to rummaging among his papers on the sly ; and among the German poems I found one liussian, which must have been the product of his own pen : JBr TO MADA]ME L. Remember me near; Eemember me afar; Eemember me Колу and forever; Remember ел^еп to my grave How faithfully I can love.^ KARL MAUER. Petrovskoe, 1S28, June 3. This poem, transcribed in a handsome round hand, on a thin sheet of note-paper, pleased me because of the touching sentiment with which it was penetrated. I immediately learned it by heart, and resolved to take it for a pattern. The matter progressed much more easily then. On the name-day a congratulation in twelve verses was read}^ and Д8 I sat in the schoolroom, I was copying it on vellum paper. Two sheets of paper were already ruined ; not because I had undertaken to make any alterations in them, — the verses seemed to me very fine, — but from the third line on, the ends began to incline upwards more and more, so that it was evident, ел^еп at a distance, that it was written crookedly, and was fit for nothing. The third sheet was askew like the others ; but I was determined not to do any more copying. In my poem I con- gratulated grandmamma, wished her many years of health, and concluded thus : " To comfort thee we shall endeavor, And love thee like our own dear motlier." It seemed to be very good, з -et the last line offended my ear strangely. 1 It hardly comes under the head of poetry, even lu the original. — Tiianslatob. CniLDUOOD. 57 I kept repeating it to m3'self, апЛ trj'ing to find a rlij^rae instead of " mother." ^ " Well, let it go. It's better than Karl lA'auitch's, au3'\vay." So I transcribed the last stanza. Then I read mj' whole composition over aloud in the bedroom, with feeling and ges- ticulations. The verses were entirely lacking in rhythm, but I did not pause over them ; the last, however, struck me still more powerfully and unpleasantly. I sat down on the bed, and began to think. " ЛУЬу did I write like our own dear mother? She's not here, and it was not necessary to mention her. I 1ол^е grand- ma, it's true ; I reverence her, but still she is not the same. AVhy did I write that? Why have I lied? Suppose this is poetry : it was not necessary, all the same." At this moment the tailor entered with a new jacket. ''AVell, let it go," I said, vei'y impatiently, thrust my verses under m}' pillow in great vexation, and ran to try ou my Moscow clothes. The Moscow coat proved to be excellent. The cinnamon- brown half-coat, with its bronze buttons, was made to fit snugly ; not as they made them in the country. The black trousers were also tight ; it was wonderful to see how well they showed the muscles, and set upon the shoes. "At last I've got some trousers with real straps," I thought, quite beside myself with joy, as I surveyed my legs on all sides. Although the new garments were л^ег}' tight, and it was hard to move in them, I concealed the fact from everybody, and declared, that, on the contrary, I was ex- tremely comfortable, and that if there was an}' fault about the clothes, it was that the}' were, if any thing, a little too large. After that I stood for a long time before the glass, ])rushing my copiously pomaded hair: but, try as I would, I could not make the tuft where the hair parts ou the crown lie flat ; as soon as I ceased to press it down with the brush, in order to see if .it would obey me, it rose, and projected in all directions, imparting to my face the most ridiculous ex- pression. Karl Ivanitch was dressing in another room ; and his blue swallow-tailed coat, and some white belongings, were carried through the schoolroom to him. The voice of one of grand- mamma's maids became audible at the door which led down- ^ Mat (mother), as a rhyme to uti/eschat (to comfort), is the difficultj-. Nikolai tries to fit in igrat (to play) and krovat (bed), in elderly rhymester fashion. 58 CniLDHOOD. stairs. I went out to see what she wanted. In her hand she held a stiffl}^ starched shirt-front, which she told me she had brouglit for Karl Ivanitch, and that she had not slept all the previous night, in order that she might get it washed in season. I undertook to deliver it, and asked if grandmamma had risen. " Yes indeed, sir ! She has already drank her coffee, and the protopope^ has arrived. How fine you are ! " she added, glancing at my new suit with a smile. This remark made me blush. I whirled round on one foot, cracked my fingers, and gave a leap ; wishing by this means to make her feel that slie did not thoroughly appreciate, as yet, how very grand I was. When 1 carried the shirt-front to Karl Ivanitch, he no longer needed it ; he had put on another, and, bending over before the little glass wliich stood on the table, he was hold- ing the splendid ribbon of his cravat with both hands, and trying whether his clean-shaven chin would go into it easily and out again. After smoothing our clothes down on all sides, and requesting Nikolai to do the same for him, he led us to grandmamma. I laugh when I remember how strongly we three smelt of pomade as we descended the stairs. Karl Ivanitch had in his hands a little box of his own manu- facture, Volodya had his drawing, I had my verses ; each one had upon his tongue the greeting with which he intended to present his gift. At the very moment when Karl Ivanitch opened the drawing-room door, the priest was putting on his robes, and the first sounds of the service resounded. Grandmamma was already in the drawing-room: she was standing by the wall, sup[)orting herself on the back of a chair, over which she bent, and was praying devoutl}^ ; beside her stood papa. He turned towards us, and smiled, as he saw us hide our gifts in haste behind our backs, and halt just inside the door, in our endeavor to escape being seen. The whole effect of unexpectedness upon which we had counted was ruined. When the time came to go up and kiss the cross, I sud- denly felt that I was under the oppressive influence of an ill-defined, benumbing timidity, and, realizing that I should never have courage to present my gift, I hid behind Karl Ivanitch, who, having congratulated grandmamma in the choicest language, shifted his box from his right hand to his » Upper priest. CniLDnOOD. 69 left, handed it to the lady whose name-day it was, and re- treated a few paces in order to make way for Volodya. Grandmamma appeared to be in ecstasies over the box, which had gilt strips jiasted on the edges, and expressed her gratitude with the most flattering of smiles. It was evi- dent, however, that she did not know where to put the dox, and it must have been for this reason that she proposed that papa should examine with лvhat wonderful taste it was made- After satisfying his curiosity, papa handed it to the proto- pope, who seemed exceedingly pleased with this trifle. He dandled his head, and gazed curiously now at the box, and again at the artist who could make such a beautiful object. Volodya produced his Turk, and he also received the most flattering encomiums from all quarters. Now it was my turn : grandmamma turned to me with an encouraging smile. Those who have suffered from shyness know that that feel- ing increases in direct proportion to the time which elapseSi, and that resolution deci'eases in an inverse ratio ; that is to' say, the longer the sensation lasts, the more unconquerable it becomes, and the less decision there is left. The last remnants of courage and determination forsook me when Karl Ivanitch and Volodya presented their gifts, and my shyness reached a crisis ; I felt that the blood was incessantly rushing from my heart into my head, as though one color succeeded another on ray face, and that great drops of perspiration broke out upon m}' nose and forehead. My ears burned ; I felt a shiver and a cold perspiration all over my body ; I sliifted from foot to foot, and did not stir from the spot. "Come, Nikoliuka, show us what you Ьал^е, — a box or a drawing," said papa. There Avas nothing to be done. With a trembling hand, I presented the crumpled, fateful parcel ; but my voice utterly refused to serve me, and 1 stood before grandmamma in silence. I could not get over the thought, that, in place of the drawing ллЬ1сЬ was ex- pected, my worthless verses would be read before ever}' one, including the words, like our ow)i dear mother, which would clearly i)rove that I had пел'ег loAcd her and had forgotten her. IIow convey an idea of ni}' sufferings during the time when grandmamma liegan to read m}' poem aloud, and when, unable to decipher it, she paused in the middle of a line in order to glance at papa with what then seemed to me a mocking smile ; when she did not pronounce to suit me ; and 60 CniLDnOOD. when, owing to her feebleness of vision, she gave the paper to papa before she had finished, and begged him to read it all over again from the beginning? It seemed to me that she did it becanse she did not like to read sueh stupid and crookedly written verses, and in order that papa might read for himself that last line which proved so clearly my lack of feeling. I expected that he would give me a fillip on the nose with those verses, and say, ''You good-for-nothing boy, don't forget 3'our mother — take that!" But nothing of the sort happened : on the contrary, when all was read, grandmamma said, '' Charming ! " and kissed my brow. The little box, the drawing, and the verses were laid out in a row, beside two cambric handkerchiefs and a snuff-box with a portrait of mamma, on the movable table attached to the arm-chair in which grandmamma alwaj's sat. " Princess Varvara Ilinitchna," announced one of the two huge lackeys who accompanied grandmamma's carriage. Grandmamma gazed thoughtfully at the portrait set in the tortoise-shell cover of the snuff-box, and made no reply. " Will your excellency receive her? " repeated the footman. CniLDnOOD. 61 CHAPTER XVII. PRINCESS KORNAKOVA. "Ask her iu," said grandmamma, sitting back in her arm-chair. The Princess was a woman of about fortj'-five, small, fragile, dry and bitter, with disagreeable grayish-green eyes, whose expression plainly contradicted tliat of the preter- naturally sweet pursed-up mouth. Beneath her л"elл'et bon- net, adorned with an ostrich plume, her bright red hair was visible ; her eyebrows and lashes appeared still lighter and redder against the unhealth}' color of her face. In spite of this, thanks to her unconstrained movements, her tiny hands, and a peculiar coldness of feature, her general appearance was rather noble and energetic. The Princess talked a great deal, and by her distinct enun- ciation belonged to the class of people who always speak as though some one were contradicting them, though no one has uttered a word : she alternately raised her voice and lowered it gradually, and began all at once to speak with fresh animation, and gazed at the persons who were present but who took no part in the conversation, as though endeav- oring to obtain sui)port by this glance. In si)ite of the fact that the Princess kissed grandmamma's hand, and called her via bonne tante incessantly, I observed tliat grandmamma was not pleased with her : she twitched her l)rows in a peculiar manner while listening to her story, al)out the reason why Prince INIikhailo could not come iu person to congratulate grandmamma, iu spite of his ardent desire to do so ; and, replying in Russian to the Princess's French, she said, with a singular drawl, "I am very much obliged to you, m}' dear, for your attention ; and as for Prince Mikhailo not coming, it is not worth mentioning, he always has so much to do ; and what pleasure could he find in sitting with an old woman? " 62 CniLDIIOOB. And without giving the Princess time to contradict her, she went on : " How lire з'оиг children, my dear? " "Thank God, aunt, they are growing well, and studying and placing pranks, especially Etienne. He is the eldest, and he is getting to be so wild that луе can't do any thing with him; but he's clever, — a promising boy. — Just im- agine, cousin," she continued, turning exclusively to papa, because grandmamma, who took no interest in the Princess's children, and wanted to brag of her own grandchildren, had taken my verses from the box with great care, and was beginning to unfold them, — " just imagine, cousin, what he did the other day." And the Princess bent over papa, and began to i-elate something with great animation. When she had finished her tale, which I did not hear, she imme- diately began to laugh, and looking inquiringly at papa, said : "That's a nice kind of boy, cousin? He deserA'ed a whipping; but his caper луаз so clever and amusing, that I forgave him, cousin." And, fixing her eyes on grandmamma, the Princess went on smiling, but said nothing. "Do 3'ou beat your children, my dear? " inquired grand- manmia, raising her brov\s significantly, and laying a special emphasis on the word beat. "Ah, my good aunt," replied the Princess in a good- natured tone, as she cast a swift glance at papa, " I know your opinion on that point ; but you must permit me to dis- agree with you in one particular : iu spite of all my thought and reading, in spite of all the advice which I have taken on this subject, experience has led me to the conviction, that it is indispensable that one should act upon children thi-ough their fears. Fear is requisite, in order to make any thing out of a child; is it not so, my cousin? Now, I ask you, do children fear any thing more than the rod? " AVith this, she glanced inquiringly at us, and I confess I felt rather uncomfortable at that moment. " Whatever you may say, a boy of twelve, or even one of fourteen, is still a child ; but a girl is quite another matter. ' ' "How lucky," I thought to myself, "that I am not her son "Yes, that's all very fine, my dear," said grandmamma, folding up my verses, and placing them under the box, as CniLDnOOD. 63 though, after that, she considered the Princess unTvorthy of hearing such a production : '' that's all \чму fine, but tell me, please, how you can expect au}^ delicac}' of feeling in your children after that." And regarding this argument as unanswerable, grand- mamma added, in order to put an end to the conversation : " However, every one has a right to his own opinion on that subject." The Princess made no reply, but smiled condescendingly, thereby giving us to understand that she pardoned these strange prejudices in an individual who was so much re- spected. " Ah, pray make me acquainted with your young people," she said, glancing at us, and smiling politely. We rose, fixed our eyes on the Princess's face, but did not in the least know what we ought to do in order to show that the acquaintance had been made. " Kiss the Princess's hand," said papa. " I beg that you will love your old aunt." she said, kissing Volodya on the hair: '' although I am only a distant aunt, I reckon on our friendly relations rather than on degrees of blood relationship," she added, directing her remarks chiefly to grandmamma ; but grandmamma was still displeased with her, and answered : " Eh ! my dear, does such relationship count for any thing nowadays ? ' ' "This is going to be m}' young man of the world," said papa, pointing to Volod^-a ; " and this is the poet," he added, just as I was kissing the Princess's dry little hand, and im- agining, with exceeding vividness, that the hand held a rod, and beneatli the rod was a l)ench, and so on, and so on. '• Which? " asked the Princess, detaining me b}- the hand. "This little fellow Avith the tuft on his crown," answered papa, smiling gayl}'. *'AVhat does my tuft matter to him? Is there no other sul)ject of conversation?" 1 thought, and retreated into a corner. I had the strangest possible conceptions of beauty. I even considered Karl Ivanitch the greatest beaut}' in the world ; but I knew very Avell that I was not good-looking myself, and on this point I made no mistake : therefore any allusion to my personal appearance offended me deeply. I remember very well, how once — I was six years old 64 CHILDHOOD. at the time — they were discussing my looks at dinner, and mamma was trviiig to discover something handsome about my face : she said 1 had intelligent eyes, an agreeable smile, and at last, yielding to papa's arguments and to ocular evidence, she was forced to confess that I was homely ; and then, wdien I thanked her for the dinner, she tapped my cheek and said : ^ " You know, Nikolinka, that no one will love you for j^our Jit*' face ; therefore you must endeavor to be a good and sensi- ble boy." These words not only convinced me that I was not a beauty, but also that I should, Avithout fail, become a good sensible boy. In spite of this, moments of despair often visited me ; I fancied that there was no happiness on earth for a person with such a wide nose, such thick lips, and such small gray eyes as I had ; I besought God to woi'k a miracle, to turn me into a beauty, and all I had in the present, or might have in the future, I would give in exchange for a handsome face» CHILDHOOD. в5 CHAPTER XVIII. PRINCE IVAN IVANITCH. "When the Princess had heard the A^erses, and had show- ered praises npon the author, grandmamma relented, began to address her in French, ceased to call her you,^ and mif dear, and invited her to come to us in the evening, with all her children, to which the Pi-incess consented ; and afcer sitting a while longer, she took her departure. So many visitors came that day with congratulations, that the court-yard near the entrance was never free, all the morning, from several carriages. '•Good-morning, cousin," said one of the guests, as he entered the room, and kissed grandmamma's hand. He was a man about seventy years of age, of lofty stature, dressed in a militar}' uniform, Avith big epaulets, from be- neath the collar of Avhich a large white cross was visible, and with a calm, frank expression of countenance. The freedom and simplicity of his moA^ements surprised me. His face was still notably handsome, in spite of the fact that onl}^ a thin semicircle of hair was left on the nape of the neck, and that the position of his upper lip betrayed the lack of teeth. Prince Ivan Ivanitch had enjoj'ed a brilliant career while he was still \evy young at the end of the last century, thanks to his noble character, his handsome person, his noteworthy bravery, his distinguished and powerful family, and thanks especiallv to good luck. He remained in the service, and his ambition was very speedily so thoroughly gratified that there was nothing left for him to wish for in that direction. From his earliest youth he had conducted himself as if preparing himself to occupy that dazzling station in the worlil in which fate eventually |ilaced him. Th.orefore. although he encoun- tered some dibappointments. disenciiantmeuts, and bitterness 1 TluiL IS Ij buy, oliu Ciiilc-d liur Ihuu. 66 CHILDHOOD. in his brilliant and somewhat vain-glorious life, such as all people undergo, he never once changed his usual calm char- acter, his lofty manner of thought, nor his well-grounded principles of religion and moralitj', and won universal re- spect, which was founded not so much on his brilliant posi- tion as upon his firmness and trustworthiness. His mind was small ; but, thanks to a position which permitted him to look down upon all the л^а1п bustle of life, his cast of thouglit was elevated. He was kind and feeling, but cold and some- лvhat haught}' in his intercourse with others. This arose from the circumstance that he was placed in a position where he could be of use to many people, and he endeavored by his cold manner to protect himself against the incessant peti- tions and appeals of persons who onl}' wished to take advan- tage of his influence. But this coldness was softened b}' the condescending courtesy of a man of the very hiijhest society. He was cultivated and well read ; but his cultivation stopped at what he had acquired in his youth, that is to say, at the close of the last century. He had read every tiling of note which had been written in France on the subject of philosophy and eloquence during the eighteenth centur}' ; he was thoroughly acquainted with all the best products of French literature, so that he was able to quote passages from Racine, Corneille, Boilean, MoliOre, Montaigne, and Fenelon, and was fond of doing so ; he possessed a brilliant knowledge of mythology, and had studied with profit the ancient monuments of epic poetry in the French translations ; he had acquired a sufficient knowledge of history from Segur ; but he knew nothing at all of mathematics beyond arithme- tic, nor of physics, nor of contemporary literature ; he could maintain a courteous silence in conversation, or utter a few commonplaces, about Goethe, Schiller, and Byron, but he had never read them. In spite of this French and classical cultivation, of which so few examples still exist, his conver- sation was simple ; and yet this simplicity concealed his ignorance of various things, and exhibited tolerance and an agreeable tone. He was a great enemy of all originalit}^, declaring that originality is the bait of people of bad tone. Society was a necessity to him, wherever he might be living ; wliether ifi ^Moscow or abroad, he always lived generously, and on certain da^'s received all the town. His standing in town was such that an invitation from him served as a pass- port to all drawing-rooms, and many young and pretty стьвпооп. 67 women willingl}' presented to him their rosy cheeks which he kissed with a kind of fatherly feeling ; and otlier, to all ap- pearances, л'егз' important and respectable people were in a state of indescribable joy when they were admitted to the Prince's parties. Verj- few people were now left, who, like grandmamma, had been members of the same circle, of the same age, possessed of the same education, the same view of matters ; and for that reason he especially prized the ancient friendly connection with her, and always showed her the greatest respect. 1 could not gaze enough at the Prince. The respect which ел'егу one showed him, his huge epaulets, the par- ticular joy which grandmamma manifested at the sight of liim, and the fact that he alone did not fear her, treated her with perfect ease, and even had the daring to address her as ma coushie, inspired me with a reverence for him which equalled if it did not excel that which 1 felt for grandmannna. When she showed him my A'erses, he called me to him, and said, — " Who knows, cousin, but this may be another Derzhavin ? " Thereupon he pinched my cheek in such a painful manner that if I did not сг}' out it was because I guessed that it must be accepted as a caress. The guests dispersed. Papa and Volodya went out : only the Prince, grandmamma, and I remained in the drawing- room. " AVhy did not our dear Natalya К1ко1аелта come?" asked Prince Ivan Ivanitch suddenly, after a momentary silence. " Ah ! vion cher," replied grandmamma, bending her head and la3"ing her hand upon the sleeve of his uniform, " she certainly would have come had she been free to do as she wished. She лvrites to me that Pierre proposed that she should come, but that she had refused because they had had no income at all this j^ear ; and she Avrites : ' Moreover, there is no reason why I should remove to ]Moscow this з^еаг with the whole household. Liiibotchka is still too 3'oung ; and as for the bo^'s who are to Ил^е with you, I am more easj" about tlieni than if they were to live with me.' All that is very fine ! " continued grandmannna. in a tone which showed very plainly that she did not consider it fine at all. "The l)oys should luu'c been sent here long ago, in order that they might 68 CTITLDIIOOD. learn somethliifT, and become ficcustomed to society. What kind of education was it possible to give tlicm in the coun- try? Why, the eldest will soon be thirteen, and the other eleven. You have observed, cousin, that tliey are perfectly untamed here : the}' don't know how to enter a room." •'• But I don't undeistand," re[)lied the prince : " why these daily complaints of reduced circumstancco? He has a л'егу handsome property, and Isataschinka's КЬаЬагол'ка, where I played in the theatre with you once upon a time, I know as луе11 as the five fingers on my own hand. It's a wonderful estate, and it must always bring in a handsome revenue." " I will tell you, as a true friend," broke in grandmamma, with an expression of sadness: "it seems to me that all excuses are simply for the jiurpose of allowing him to live here alone, to lounge about at the clubs, at dinners, and to do God knows what else. . But she suspects uothiug. You know what an augel of goodness she is ; she believes him in every thing. He assured her that it was necessary to bring the children to Moscow, and to leave her alone with that stui)id governess in the countr3% and she believed him. Jf he were to tell her that it Avas necessary to whip the chil- dren as Princess Varvara lliuitehna whips hers, she would prol^ably agree to it," said grandmamma, turning about in her chair, with an expression of thorough disdain. '' Yes, my friend," pursued grandmamma, after a momentary pause, taking in her hand one of the two handkerchiefs, in order to Avipe away the tear which made its appearance: "I often think that he can neither value her nor understand her, and that, in spite of all her goodness and love for him. and her efforts to conceal her grief, — I know^ it very well, — she cannot be happy with him ; and mark my w'ords, if he does not . . ." Grandmamma covered her face with her handkerchief. "Eh, my good friend," said the Prince reproachfully. " I see that you have not gi'own any wisei'. You are always mourning and weejnng over an imaginary' grief. Come, are you not ashamed of yourself? I have known him for a long time, and I know him to be a good, attentive, and л-ег^- fine husband, and, what is the principal thing, a perfectly honest man." Having involuntarily overheard this conversation which I ought not to have heard, I took myself out of the room, on tiptoe, in violent emotion. CIIILDUOGD. CHAPTER XIX. THE IVINS. I " VoLODYA ! Voloclya ! the Ivins ! " I shouted, catching siglit from the window of three boys in bhie overcoats, with beaver collars, who were crossing from the opposite sidewalk to our house, headed by their young and dandified tutor. The Ivins were related to us, and were of about our own age ; we had made their acquaintance, and struck up a friendship soon after our arrival in Moscow. The second Ivin, Serozha, was a dark-complexioned, curly- headed boy, with a determined, turned-up little nose, very fresh red lips, which seldom completely covered the upi)er row of his white teeth, handsome dark-blue eyes, and a remarkably alert expression of countenance. He never smiled, but eitlier looked quite serious, or laughed heartily with a distinct, ringing, and very attractive laugh. His original beauty struck me at first sight. I felt for him an unconquerable liking. It was sutficient for my happiness to see him : at one time, all the powers of my soul were concen- trated upon this wish ; when three or four da3's chanced to pass without my having seen him, I began to feel bored and sad even to tear . All my dreams, both waking and sleep- ing, were of him : when I lay down to sleep, 1 willed to dream of him ; when I shut my eyes, I saw him before me, and cherished the vision as the greatest bliss. I could not linve brcuglit myself to confess this feeling to any one in the v.orh], much as I prized it. He evidently i)ref erred to play witli \'olodya and to talk wilii him, lather tlian with me, pos- .sil)ly because it annoyed him to feel my restless eyes con- stantly fixed upon him, or simply because he felt no sympathy forme: but nevertheless I was content; I desired notliing, dcmandeciily demonstrated, — in whatever form it may occur, — this suffering ceases. How charming Sonitchka Valakhina was, as she danced opposite me in the French quadrille with the clumsy young Prince ! How sweetly she smiled when she gave me her little hand in the chain ! How prettily her golden curls waved in measure, how naively she brought her tiny feet together ! AVhen, in the fifth figure, my i)artner left me and went to the other side, while 1 waited for tlie time and piv- pared to execute my solo, Sonitchka clobtd her lii)s srriunsly 80 CUILDIIOOD. ias de Basques. And our Volodya has picked up the new fashion ! It's not bad ! And how lovel}' Souitchka is ! There she goes ! " I was very merry. The mazurka was nearing its end. Several elderlv ladies and gentlemen came up to take leave of grandmanmia, and departed. The lackeys, skilfully keeping out of the way of the dancers, brought the dishes into the back room. Grand- mamma was evidently weary, and seemed to speak unwill- ingly and in a very drawling waN' : the musicians indolently began the same air for the thirtieth time. The big girl with whom 1 liad danced caught sight of me as she was going through a figure, and smiling treacherously, — she must have wanted to please grandmamma, — she led Sonitclika and one of the innumerable princesses up to me. "Rose or nettle?" said she. "Ah, so you are here!" said grandmamma, turning I'ound in her chair. " Go, my dear, go." Althouiih at that moment 1 would much rather ha\e hid CHILDnOOD. 85 my head under grandmamma's chair, than emerge from be- hind it, how could I refuse ? I stood up, and said '' Rose," as 1 glanced timidly at Souitchka. Before I could гесолег myself, some one's hand in a white kid glove rested in mine, and the princess started forward with a pleasant smile, with- out the least suspicion that 1 did not in the least know what to do with mj' feet. I knew that the p^rs de Basques was out of place, un- suitable, and that it might even put me to shame ; but the well-known sounds of the Mazurka acting upon my ear, communicated a familiar movement to the acoustic nerves, which, in turn, communicated it to my feet ; and the latter, quite involuntarily, and to the amazement of all beholders, began the fatal circular gliding step on the tips of the toes. As loug as we proceeded straight ahead, we got on after a fashion ; but when we turned I observed, that, unless I took some precautions, I should certainly get in advance. In order to avoid such a catastrophe I stopped short, with the intention of making the same kind of knee which the 3'oung man in the first couple made so beautifully. But at the very moment w'hen I separated my feet, and was preparing to spring, the princess, circling hastily around me, looked down at ni}' feet w'ith an expression of stupid curiosity' and amazement. That look finished me. I lost my self-com- mand to such an extent, that instead of dancing I stamped my feet up and down in one spot in a fashion which resem- bled nothing on earth, and finall}' came to a dead stand-still. Every one stared at me, some with surprise, others with curiosity, with amusement, or sympathy ; grandmamma alone looked on Avith complete indifference. ''You should not dance if you do not know how," said jiapa's angry voice in my ear ; and thrusting me aside with a light push, he took my partner's hand, danced a turn Avith her in antique fashiou, to the A-ast delight of the lookers-on, and led her to her seat. The mazurka immediately came to an end. Lord ! wh}' dost thou. chastise me so terribly^? Everybody despises me, and will always scorn me. The paths to every thing, love, friendshi[), honor, are shut to me. AH is lost! Why did ЛЪЬх1уа make signs to me wliich ever3' one saw, and which could render me no assist- ance ? Why did that hateful princess look at my feet like 86 CHILDHOOD. that? Why (lid Sonitchka — she was lovely, but why did she smile just theu? Why did papa blush, and seize my hand? was even he asliamed of me? Oh, this was frightful ! If mamma had been there, she would uot have blushed for her Nikolinka. And my fancy bore me far awa}' to this sweet vision. I recalled the meadow in front of the house, the tall linden-trees in the garden, the clear pond over which the swallows tluttered, tlie blue sk}" in which hung transpar- ent white clouds, the perfumed stacks of fresh hay ; and many other joyous, soothing memories were borne in upon шу distracted uuaginatiou. CHILDUOOD. 87 CHAPTER XXIII. AFTER THE MAZURKA. At supper, the young man who had danced in the first couple sat down at our children's table, and paid special attention to me, which would have flattered my vanity not a little, if I had been capable of any sentiment whatever after the catastrophe which had occurred to me. But the young man seemed determined to cheer me up on any terms. He played with me, he called me a fine fellow ; and when none of the grown-up people were looking at us, he poured me glasses of wine out of various bottles, and made me drink them. At the end of the supper, when the waiter poured me only a quarter of a glass of champagne from his napkin- wrapped bottle, and the youug man insisted that he should pour it full, and made me swallow it at one gulp, I felt an agreeable warmth through all my body, and a special kindli- ness towards m}' jolly protector, and I laughed excessively over something. All at once the sounds of the grandfather dance resounded from the salon, and the guests began to rise from the table. My friendship with the young man immediately came to an end ; he went off to the big people, and I, not daring to fol- low, approached with a curiosity to hear what Madame Valakhina was saying to her daughter. *■' Just another little half-hour," said Souitchka entreat- ingly. "It is really impossible, m}- angel." "Come, for my sake, please," she said coaxingly. " Will it make you happy if I am ill to-morrow?" said Madame Valakhina, and was so inipi'udent as to smile. "Oh, you permit it! we may stay?" cric^d Souitchka, dancing with joy. " What is to be done with you? Well then, go, dance. Here's a cavalier for you," she said, pointing at me. 88 - CniLDIIOOD. Sonitchka gave me her hand, and we ran into the salon. The wine which I had drunk, tSonitchka's presence and gayety, caused me to completely forget my miserable scrape in the mazurka. I cut amusing cai)ers with my feet ; 1 imi- tated a horse, and went at a gentle trot, lifting m}' legs proudly, then I stamped on one spot like a ram Avho is angr^' at a dog, and laughed heartil}', without caring in the least what impression I might produce upon the spectators. Sonitchka, too, never ceased to laugh ; she laughed when we circled round hand in hand, she laughed when she looked at some old gentleman who lifted his feet with care and stepped over a handkerchief, pretending that it was very difficult for him to do it, and she nearly died of laughter when I leaped almost to the ceiling in order to display my agility. As I passed through grandmamma's study, I glanced at myself in the mirror: my face Avas bathed in perspiration, тз' hair was in disorder, the tuft on the crown of my head stood up worse than ever ; but the general expression of my countenance was so merry, kind, and healthy, that I was even pleased W4th myself. " If I were always like this," I thought, " I might be able to please." But when I glanced again at the very beautiful little face of my partner, there was in it, besides the expression of gayety, health, and freedom from care, which had pleased me in my own, so much gentle and elegant beauty, that I was vexed with myself. I comprehended how stupid it was of me to call the attention of such a wonderful being to myself. I could not hope for a reciprocal feeling, and, indeed, I did not think of it : my soul was filled with bliss independent of that. I did not understand that in return for the love which filled my soul with joy, still greater happiness might be demanded, and that something more was to be desired than that this feeling might never end. All was well with me. My heart fluttered like a dove, the blood poured iuto it incessantly, and I wanted to ег}-. AVhen we went through the comdor, past the dark store- room under the stairs, I glanced at it, and thought : What bliss it would be if I could live forever with her in that dark storeroom ! and if nobody knew that we lived there. ''It's very jolly now, isn't it?" I said in a quiet, ti'em- bling voice, and hastened my stej^s. frightened not so much at what 1 had said, but at what 1 had been mindetl to say. CfllLDflOOD. 89 "Yes, very, "-she replied, turning her little head towards me, with sucli a frank, kind expression that m}- fears ceased. "Especially after supper. But if you only knew how sorry [I Avanted to say j^ciined, but did not dare] I ain that you are going away so soon, and that we shall not see each other any inore ! " " Why shall we not see each other? " said she, regarding intently the toes of her slippers, and drawing her fingers along the grated screen which we were passing. " Mamma and I go to the Tversky boulevard every Tuesday and Friday. Don't you go to walk ? " " I shall ask to go without fail on Tuesday ; and if they won't let me go, I will run away alone, and without my hat. I know the way." " Do you know," said Sonitchka suddenly, " I always say thou to some little boys who come to our house ; let us call each other thou. Wilt thou? " she added throwing back her little head, and looking me straight in the eye. At this moment we entered the salon, and the second, livelv part of grandfather was beginning. "Do," I said at a point when the noise and music could drown my words. " Say thoii," ^ corrected Sonitchka, with a laugh. ■ " Grandfather" ended, and I had not managed to utter a single phrase with thou, although 1 never ceased inventing such as would allow of several repetitions of that pronoun. I had not sufficient courage. "Wilt thou?" resounded in my ears, and produced a kind of intoxication. I saw nothing and nobody but Sonitchka. I saw them lift her locks, and tuck them behind her ears, disclosii>g portions of her brow and temples which I had not seen before ; I saw them wrap her up in the green shawl so closely, that only the tip of her little nose was visible ; I observed that if she had not made a little aperture near her mouth with her rosy little fingers, she wcjuld infaUibly have suffocated ; and I saw how she turned quickly towards us, as she descended the stairs with her mother, nodded her head, and disappeared through the door. Volodya, the Ivins, the young Prince, and 1 were all in love with Sonitchka, and we followed her with our eyes as we stood on the stairs. I do not know to whom in particu- lar she nodded her little head ; but at that moment I was firmly convinced that it was done for me. 1 Nikolai used davai-te, the second person plural. Sonitchka said datai, second person singular. 90 CniLDnOOD. As I took leave of the Ivins, I couverserl and shook hands quite iinconstrainedly, and even rather coldly, with Serozha. If he understood that on that day he had lost my love, and his power over me, he was surely sorry for it, though he endeavored to appear quite indifferent. For the fii'st time in my life I had changed in love, and for the first time I experienced the sweetness of that feeling. It delighted me to exchange a worn-out sentiment of familiar affection for the fresh feeling of a love full of mystery and uncertainty. Moreover, to fall out of love and into love at the same time means loving with twice the previous fervor. CHILDHOOD. 91 CHAPTER XXIV. "How could I love Serozlia so passionately, and so long? " 1 meditated, as I lay in bed, "• No, he never understood, he never was capable of prizing my love, and he was never worthy of it. And Sonitchka? how charming ! ' Wilt thou? * ' It is thy turn to begin.' " I sprang up on all fours, as I pictured to myself her little face in lively colors, covered my head with the coverlet, tucked it under me on all sides, and when no opening re- mained an}- where, I lay down, and, with a pleasant sensation of warmth, buried myself in sweet visions and memories. Fixing my gaze immovably upon the lining of the wadded quilt, I saw her as clearly as I had seen her an hour before ; I conversed with her mentally, and that conversation, though utterly lacking in sense, afforded me iudescribal)le delight, because thee, to thee, and thine occurred in it constantly. These visions were so clear that I could not sleep for sweet emotion, and I wanted to share my superabundance of bliss with some one. " The darling ! " I said almost aloud, turning abruptly оц the other side. " Volodya ! are you awake? " " No," he replied in a sleepy voice : " what is it? " " I am in love, Volodya. I am decidedly in love with Sonitchka." " AVell, Avhat of it? " he answered, stretching himself. "O Volodya! you cannot imagine what is going on with- in me ; here I was just now lying tucked up in the coverlet, and I saw her so plainly, so plainly, and I talked with her ; it wassimjily marvellous ! And, do yon know, when 1 lie and think of her I grow sad, and 1 want to weep dreadfully, God knows why." Volodya moved. " There's only one thing I wish," I went on : " that is, to 92 CniLDIIOOD. be always with her, to see her always, and nothing else. And are you in love? Confess the truth, Volodya ! " It's odd, but I wanted everybody to be in love \vith So- nitchka, and then I wanted them all to tell me. " What is that to 3'ou ? " said Volodya, turning his face towards me, — '■'■ perhaps." "You don't Avant to sleep; you were making believe! " I cried, perceiving by his shining eyes that he was not think- ing of sleep in the least ; and I flung aside the coverlet. "Let's discuss her. She's charming, isn't she? 80 charm- ing that if she were to say to me : ' Nikolascha ! jump out of the window, or throw yourself into the fire,' — well, 1 swear I should do it immediately," said I, "and with joy. Ah, how bewitching! " I added, as I called her before me in imagination, and in order to enjoy myself in this manner to the fullest extent, I rolled abruptly over on the other side, and thrust my head under the pillow. " I want to cry dreadfully, Volodya ! " " What a fool ! " said he smiling, and then was silent for a while. " I'm not a bit like you : I think that, if it were possible, I should like at first to sit beside her and talk." " Ah ! so you are in love too? " I interrupted. "And then," continued Volodya, smiling tenderly, "then I would kiss her little fingers, her eyes, her lips, her nose, her tin}' feet, — I would kiss all." " Nonsense ! " cried I from under the pillow. " You don't understand any thing about it," said Volodya contemjituously. "Yes, I do understand, but you don't, and 3'ou're talkiug nonsense," I said tlirough my tears. " AVell, there's nothing to cry about. She's a genuine oirll" CHILDHOOD. 93 CHAPTER XXV. THE LETTER. On the 16th of April, nearly six months after the clay which I have described, father came np-stairs to us, during our lesson liour, and announced to us that we were to set out for the country with him tliat night. My heart con- tracted at this news, and my thoughts turned at once to my mother. The following letter was the cause of our unexpected de- parture : — Petrovskoe, April 12. I have but just recpived your kind letter of April .3d, at ten o'clock in the evening, and, in accordance with my usual custom, I answer it immediately. Fedor l)rought it from town last night, but, as it was late, he gave it to Mimi. And Mimi, under the pretext that I was ill and unnerved, did not give it to me for a whole day. I really have had a little fever, and, to tell the truth, this is the fourth day that I have been too ill to leave my bed. Pray do not be alarmed, my dear; I feel very well, and if Ivan Vasilitch will permit me, I intend to get up to-morrow. On Friday of last week. I went to ride with the children; but the horses stuck in the nuid close to the entrance to the higliAvay, near tiiat very bridge which has always frightened me. The day was \erf fine, and I thought I would go as far as the highway on foot, while they pulled the calash out. When I reached tlie chapel, I was very nui'di faiigued, and sat down to rest; and about half an hour elapsed while they were sunmioning people to drag the carriage out. I felt col 1, particularly in my feet, for I had on thin-soled shoes, and they were wet through. After dinner I felt a chill and a hot turn, but I coutinued to walk according to the usual programme, and after tea I sat down to play a duet Avith Liubotchka. ( Vou would not recog- nize her, she has made such progress!) But imagine my surprise, when I found that I could not count the time. I began to count several times, but my head was all in confusion, and I felt a strange n;)ise in my ears. I counted one, two, three, then all at once eiglit and fifteen; and the chief point was tliat I saw that I was lying, and could not correct myself. Finally Mimi came to my assistance, and put me to bed, almost by force. This, my dear, is a circmnstaiitial account of how I became ill, and how I myself am to W ime. The 94 CHILDHOOD, next day, I had quite a high fever, and oiir good old Ivan Vasilitch came: he still lives with us, and promises to set me free speedily in God's world once more. Л wonderful old man is tliat Ivan Vasilitch! When I had the fever, and was delirious, he sat beside my bed all night, without closing his eyes; and now he knows that I am writing, he is sitting in the boudoir with the girls, and from my bedroom I can hear him telling them German tales, and them dying with laughter as they listen. La belle Flamande, as you call her, has been staying with me for two weeks past, because her mother has gone off visiting somewhere, and she evinces the most sincere affection by her care for me. She intrusts me with all her secrets of the heart. If she were in good hands, she might turn out a very fine girl, with her beautiful face, kind lieart, and youth; but she will be utterly ruined in the society in whicli sbe lives, judging from her own account. It has occurred to me, that, if I had not so many children, I should be doing a good deed in taking charge of her. Liubotchka wanted to Avrite to you herself; but she has already torn up the third sheet of paper, and says: "I know what a scoffer papa is; if you make a single mistake, he shows it to everybody." Katenka is as sweet as ever, Mimi as good and stupid. Now I will talk to you about serious matters. You write that your affairs are not going well this winter, and that it is indispensable that you should take the money from Khabarovka. It surprises me that you should even ask my consent to that. Does not what belongs to me belong equally to you ? You are so kind an 1 good, that you conceal the real state of things, from the fear of troubling me: but I guess that you have probably lost a great deal at play, and I assure you that I am not angry at you; therefore, if the matter can only be arranged, pray do not think too much of it, and do not worry yourself needlessly. I bave become ac- customed not to count upon your winnings for the children, but even (excuse me) on your whole estate. Your winnings cause me as little pleasure as your losses cause pain: the only thing which does pain me is your unhappy passion for gambling, which deprives me of a portion of your tender attachment, and makes me tell you such bitter truths as I tell you now; and God knows how this hurts me! I shall not cease to pray God for one thing, that he will save you, not from poverty (what is poverty?), but from that frightful situation, when the interests of the children, which I am bound to protect, shall come into conflict with ours. Heretofore tbe Lord has fulfilled my prayer: you have not passed the line beyond which we must either sacrifice our property, — which no longer belongs to us, but to ош* children, — or — and it is terrible to think of, but this horrible misfor- tune continu;illy tbreatens us. Yes, it is a heavy cross which the Lord has sent to both of us. You write about the children, and return to our old dispute: you ask me to consent to send them to some educational institution. You know my prejudices against such education. I do not know, my dear friend, whether you will agree with me; but I beseech you, in any case, to promise, out of love for me, that as long as I live, and after my death, if it shall jilease God to part us, never to do this. You write that it is indispensable that you should go to Petersburg CUILDIIOOD. 93 about our affairs. Christ be with you, my friend; go and return as speedily as possible. It is so wearisome for all of us without you! The spi'ing is wonderfully beautiful. The balcony door has already been taken down, the paths to the orangery were perfectly dry four days ago, the peach-trees are in full bloom, the snow lingers in a few spots only, the swallows have come, and now Liubotchica has brought me the first spring tlowers. The doctor says I shall be quite Avell in three days, and may breathe the fresh air, and warm myself in the April sun. Farewell, dear friend: pray do not луоггу about my illness, nor about your losses; finisli your business as speedily as possible, and come to us with the children for the whole summer. I am making famous plans for passing it, and you alone are lacking to their realiza- tion. The remaining portion of the letter was written in French, in a cramped and uneven hand, on a second scrap of paper. I translate it word for word : — Do not believe what I wrote to you about my Illness ; no one sus- pects how serious it is. I alone know that I shall never rise from my bed again. Do not lose a moment: come and bring the children. Perhaps I may be able to embrace them once again, and bless them: that is my last wish. I know what a terrible blow I am dealing you; but it matters not: sooner or later you would receive it from me, or from others. Let us try to bear this misfortune with firmness, and hope in God's mercy. Let us submit to His will. Do not think that what I write is the raving of a delirious imagin- ation: on the contrary, my thoughts are remarkably clear at this moment, and 1 am perfectly composed. Do not comfort yourself with vain hopes, that these are but the dim deceitful presentiments of a timid soul. No, I feel, I know — and I know because God was pleased to reveal this to me — that I have not long to live. Will my love for you and the children end with this life? I know that this is imi)ossible. I feel too strongly at this moment to think that this feeling, without which I cannot conceive of existence, could ever be annihilated. My soul cannot exist without its love for you; and I know that it will exist forever, from this one thing, that such a sentiment as my love could never arise, were it ever to come to an end. 1 shall not be with you, but I am firmly convinced that my love will never leave you; and tliis thought is so comforting to my heart, that I await my fast apijroaching death, calmly, and without terror. I am calm, and G(jd knows tliat4 have always regarded death, and still regard it, as a passage to a better life; but why do tears crush me? Why deprive the childi-en of their beloved mother? Why deal you so heavy, so unlooked-for a blow? ^Vhy must 1 die, when your love has rendered life boundlessly happy for me? May His holy will be done! I can write no more for tears. Perhaps I shall not see you. I thank you, my precious friend, for all the happiness with Avhich you have surrounded me in this life; I shall pray God there, that he will reward you. Farewell, dear friend ; remember, when I am no more, that my love wiil never abandon you, wherever you may be. Fare- well Volodya, fai'ewell my angel, farewell Benjamin, my Nikolinka. \ W^ill they ever forget me? \ 06 CniLDnOOD. This letter enclosed a note in French, from Mimi, which read c4s follows : — The sa 1 presentiments of which she speaks are Imt too well con- firmeJ by tlie doctor's words. Last night slie ordered tliis letter to he talcen to the post at once. Thinking that slie said tliis in delirium, I Avaited until this morning, and then made up my mind to open it. No sooner had I done so, than Natalya Nilcolaevna asked me what I had done Avith the letter, and ordered me to burn it if it had not been sent. Slie keeps speaking of it and declai-es that it Avill kill you. Do not delay your coming, if you wish to see this angel while she is still left with us. Excuse this scrawl. I have not slept for three nights. You know how I love her! Natalya Savisclina, who had passed the entire night of the 11th of April in mamma's chamber, told me, that, after writing the first part of the letter, mamma laid it on the little table beside her, and went to sleep. "I confess," said Natal3'a Savisclina, "that I dozed in the arm-chair myself, and my stocking fell from my hands. But, about one o'clock, I heard in my dreams, that she seemed to be couv^ersing with some one ; I opened my eyes, and looked : she was sitting up in bed, my little doA^e, with her little hands folded thus, and her tears were flowing in streams. ' So all is over?' she said, and covered her face with her hands. I sprang up and began to inquire, ' What is the matter with j'ou ? ' " 'Ah, Natalya Savischna, if you onl}^ knew what I have just seen ! ' " But in spite of all my questions, she would say no more ; she merely ordered me to bring the little table, wrote some- thing more, commanded me to seal the letter in her presence, and send it off immediately. After that, things grew worse and worse." CUlLLUOOn. 97 CHAPTER XXVI. WIIAT АЛ^АТТЕВ US IX THE COUNTRY. Ox the 2')th of April we descended from the travellinc; carriage at the porch of the Petrovskoe house. Papa hatl been very thoughtful when we left Moscow, and when Volodva asked him whether mamma was not ill, he looked sadly at him, and nodded in silence. During the journey he evidently grew more composed ; but as we approached home his face assumed a more and more mournful expression, and when, on alighting from the calash, he asked Foka, who ran pantmg out, '" Where is Natalya Nikolaevna? " his \o\cq Avas not firm, and there were tears in his eyes. Good old Foka glanced at us, dropped his eyes, and, opening the door of the anteroom, he turned aside and answered : '' She has not left her room in six days." 31 ilka, who. as I afterwards learned, had not ceased to howl mournfully since the very day that mamma v/as taken ill, sprang joyously at papa, leaped upon him, whined, and licked his hands ; but he pushed her aside, and went into the drawing-room, thence into the boudoir, from which a door led directly into the bedroom. The nearer he came to the room, the more evident became his disquiet, as was shown by all his movements : as he entered the boudoir, he walked on tiptoe, hardly drew his breath, and crossed himself before he could make up his mind to grasp the handle of the closed door. At that moment Mimi. dishevelled and tear-stained, ran in from the corridor. •• Ah.Piotr Alexandrovitch." she said in a whisper, with an exi)ression of genuine despair, and then, observing that i)apa Avas turning the handle, she added almost inaudildy, •■ it is imi)ossible to pass here; the s[)ring is gone." Oh, how sadly this affected my childish imagination, wliich was attuned to sorrow, with a fearful foreboding ! We weut to the maids' room. In the corridor we eu- 98 CIllLBUOOD. countered Akim, the little fool, who always amused us with his grimaces ; but at that moment he not only did not seem laughable to me, but nothing struck me so painfully as his mindless, iuditferent face. In the maids' room two maids, who were sitting over their work, rose in order to courtesy to us, with such a sorrowful expression that I was frightened. Traversing Mimi's room next, papa opened the door of the bedroom, and we entered. To the right of the door >vere two windows, hung with cloths ; at one of them sat Natalya Savischua, with her spectacles on her nose, knitting a stocking. She did not kiss us as she generally did, but merely rose, looked at us through her spectacles, and the tears poured down her face in streams. I did not like it at all to__ have people begin to cry as soon as they looked at us, when they had been quite calm before. At the left of the door stood a screen, and behind the screen the bed, a little table, a little cabinet spread with medicines, and the big arm-chair in which dozed the doctor ; beside the bed stood a youug, extremely fair, and remarkably pretty girl, in a white morning dress, who, with her sleeves turned back, was applying ice to mamma's head, which I could not see at that moment. This girl was la belle Fhimande. of whom mamma had written, and who, later on, played such an important role in the life of the whole farail}'. As soon as we entered, she removed one hand from mamma's head, and arranged the folds on the bosom of her gown, then said in a whisper, " She is unconscious." I was very wretched at that moment, but I involuntarily noted all these trifles. It was nearly dark in the room, it was hot, and there was a mingled odor of mint, cologne-water, chamomile, and Hoffmann's drops. This odor impressed me to such a degree that when I siuell it, or when I even recall it, fancy immediately bears me back to that dark, stifling chamber, and reproduces every detail, even the most minute, of that terrible moment. Mamma's eyes were open, but she saw nothing.' Oh. I shall never forget that dreadful look ! It expressed so much suffering. They led us away. ЛУЬеп I afterwards asked Xatalya Savischna about mamma's last moments, this is what she told me : '•'After you were taken away, my dear one was restless . for a long time as though something oppressed her, then she CniLDHOOD. 99 dropped her head on her pillow, and dozed as quietl}' and peacefully as an angel from heaven. I only went out to see why they did not bring her drinks. AVheu I returned my darling was throwing herself all about, and beckoning your papa to her ; he bent over her, and it was evident that he lacked the power to sa}' what he wished to ; she could only open her lips, and begin to groan, ' My God ! Lord ! The children, the children ! ' I wanted to run and fetch you, but Ivan Vasilitch stopped me and said, 'It луШ excite her more, it is better not.' After that she only raised her hand and dropped it again. What she meant by that, God only knows. I think that she was blessing you in your absence, and it was plain that the Lord did not grant her to see her little children before the end. Then my little dove raised herself, made this motion with her hand, and all at once she spoke in a voice which I cannot bear to think of, ' Mother of God, do not desert them ! ' Then the pain attained her heart ; it was evi- dent from her eyes that the poor woman was sutfering toitures ; she fell back on the pillows, caught the bed-clothes in her teeth, and her tears flowed, my dear." " Well, and then? " I asked. Natalya Savischna said no more ; she turned away and wept bitterl}'. Mamma died in terrible agony. 100 CUILDIIOOD. CHAPTER XXVII. SORROW. Late in the evening of the following clay I wanted to see her once more. 1 overcame the involuntary feeling of teiTor, opened the door gently, and entered the hall on tiptoe. In the middle of the room, upon a table, stood the coffin, and around it stood lighted candles in tall silver candlesticks. In a distant corner sat the dyaehok,^ reading the Pbalter in a low, monotonous voice. I itaused at the door, and gazed ; but my eyes were so swol- len with weeping, and my nerves were so unstrung, that I could distinguish nothing. Every thing ran together in a strange fashion, — lights, brocade, velvet, the great candelabra, tli(! rose-colored pillow bordered with lace, the frontlet,- the cap with ribbons, and the transparent light of the wax candles. 1 climbed upon a chair in order to see her face, but in the place where it was the same pale-yellowish transparent object presented itself to me. I could not believe that that was her face. I began to examine it attentively, and little by little I began to recognize the dear familiar features. I shivered Vi'itli terror when I had convinced myself that it was she ; br.t why were the closed ез^ез so sunken? Why that dreadful pallor, and the blackish spot lieneath the skin on one cheek? Why was the expression of the whole face so stern and cold.'' Why were the lii)s so pale, and their outline so л-егу b-.-au- tifui, so majestic, and so expressive of an unearthly calm that a cold shudder I'an down my back and through my hair when I looked upon it? 1 gazed, and felt that some incomprehensible, irresistible power was drawing my cj^es to that lifeless face. I did not take my eyes from it, and imagination sketched me a picture ' Clerk-ecclesiastical. 2 'I'he ri/i'iilc/ilA- i i iiiacle of saUii or paper, with pictures of {'hvist, ЛГа'у, aiij St. Joba, ami laid upou the blow of the corpse, iii the Russian Church. — Tii. CHILDHOOD. 101 of blooming life rnd liappiness. I forgot tliat the dead body which lay before me, and upon which 1 stnpidly gazed, as upon an object which had nothing iu common with me, was she. I fancied her now in one, now in another situation — alive, merry, smiling. Then all at once some feature in the pale face upon which my eyes rested struck me. I recalled the terrible realit}', shuddered, but did not cease my gaze. And again visions usurped the place of reality, and again the consciousness of the reality shattered my visions. At length imagination grew weary, it ceased to deceive me ; the con- sciousness of reality also vanished, and I lost rr.y senses. I do not know how long I remained in this state, I do not know in what it consisted ; I only know, that, for a time, I lost consciousness of my existence, and expei'ieneed an ex- alted, indescribably pleasant and sorrowful delight. Perliaps, in flying hence to a better world, her beautiful soul gazed sadly back upon that in which she left us ; she perceived my grief, took pity upon it, and descended to earth on the pinions of love, with a heavenly smile of compassion, iu order to comfort and bless me. The door creaked, a dyachok entered the room to relieve the other. This noise roused me ; and the first thought which occurred to me was that since 1 was not crying, and was standing on a chair, in an attitude which had nothing touching about it, the dyaclioic might take me for an unft'cl- ing boy, who had climbed on the chair out of pity or curios- ity. I crossed myself, made a reverence, and began to cry. As I now recall my impressions, I find that that moment of self-forgetf uln ^ss was the only one of genuine grief. Be- fore and after f le burial, 1 never ceased to weej), and was sad ; l)ut it puts me to shame to recall that sadness, because a feeling of self-love was always mingled with it ; at one time a desire to show that I was more sorr}' than anyI)ody else ; again, solicitude as to the impression which I was producing u[)on others ; at another time, an aimless curiosity wliich caused me to make observations upon Mimi's ca}) and the faces of those present. I despised myself, because the feel- ing I experienced was not exclusively one of sorrow, and I tried to conceal all others ; for this reason my regret was insincere and unnatural. Moreover, 1 experienced a sort of pleasure in knowing that I was unha[^py. t 1 tried to arouse my consciousness of unha[)|)iness ; and tliis egotistical feel- ing, mont tliau all tlie rest, stilled genuini' grief within me. 102 стъвпоов. After passing the night in a deep and quiet sleep, as is always the ease after great sorrow, I awoke with my tears dried and m}' nerves calm. At ten o'clock we were sum- moned to the mass for the dead, which was celebrated Ijefore the body was taken away. The room was filled with house- servants and peasants, who came in tears to take leave of their mistress. During the service I cried in proper fashion, crossed myself, and made reverences to the earth ; but 1 did not pray in spirit, and was tolerabh' cold-blooded. I was worrying because my new half-coat, which they had put on me, hurt me very much under the arms. I meditated how not to spot the knees of my trousers too much ; and 1 took observations, on the sly, of all those who were present. My father stood at the head of the coffin. He was as pale as his handkerchief, and restrained his tears with evident difficulty. His tall figure in its black coat, his pale, expressive face, his movements, graceful and assured as ever, when he crossed himself, bowed, touching the ground with his hand, took the candle from the hand of the priest, or approached the coffin, were extremely effective. But, I do not know why, the fact that tie could show himself off so effectively at such a moment was precisely what did not please me. Mimi stood leaning against the wall, and appeareil hardh' able to keep her feet. Her dress was crumpled and flecked with down ; her cap was pushed on one side ; her swollen eyes were red ; her head shook. She never ceased to sob in a voice that rent the soul, and she incessantly covered her face with her hands and her handkerchief. It seemed to me that she did this iu order to hide her countenance from the spectators, and to rest for a moment after her feigned sobs. I remembered how she had told papa, the day before, that mamma's death was such a terrible shock to her that she had no hope of liv- ing through it ; that it deprived her of every thing ; that that angel (as she called mamma) had not forgotten her before her death, and had expressed a desire to secure her future and Katenka's forever from care. She shed bitter tears as she said this, and perhaps her grief was genuine. l)ut it was not pure and exclusive. Liubotchka. in her black frock, with mourning trimmings, was all bathed iu tears, and dropped her little head, glancing rarely at the coffin, and her face expressed only childish terror. Katenka stood beside her mother, and, in spite of the long face she had put on. was as rosy as ever. Yolodya's frank nature was frank even in his CBILDnOOD. 103 grief. He stood at times with his thoughtful, immovable glance fixed ou some object ; theu his moutli began sudden- ly to twitch, and he hastily' crossed himself, and bowed in rev- erence. All the strangers who were present at the funeral were intolerable to me. The phrases of consolation which /they uttered to father, that she would be better off there, thaJt / / she was not for this world, aroused a kind of anger in me. i I AVhat right had they to speak of her and mourn for her? 1 Some of them in speaking of us called us orplians. As if ' we did not know without their assistance that children who have no mother are called by that name Г It evidently pleased them to be the first to bestow it upon us, just as the}^ generally make haste to call a young girl who has just . been married, Madame for the first time. ■ In the far corner of the hall, almost concealed by the open door of the pantry, knelt a bowed and gra3'-haired woman. AVith clasped hands, and eyes raised to Ьеал'еп, she neither wept nor prayed. Her soul aspired to God, and she besought him to let her join the one whom she loved more than all on earth, and she confidently hoped that it would be soon. ''There is one who loved her trulj' ! " thought I, and I was ashamed of myself. The mass came to an end ; the face of the dead woman was uncovered, and all present, with the exception of our- selves, approached the coffin one by one and kissed it. One of the last to draw near and take leave of her was a peasant woman, leading a beautiful five-year-old girl, whom she had brought hither God only knows wh}'. At that moment, I unexpectedly dropped m}^ moist handkerchief, and stooped to pick it up. But I had no sooner bent over, than a frightful piercing shriek startled me : it was so full of terror that if I live a hundred j'ears I shall never forget it, and when I recall it a cold chill always runs all over my body. I raised my head : on a tabouret beside the coffin, stood the same peasant woman, holding in her arms with difficulty the little girl, who with her tiny hands thrust out before her, her frightened little face turned aside, and her staring eyes fastened upon the face of the corpse, was shrieking in a wild and dreadful voice. I uttered a shriek in a tone which I think must have been even moi'e terrible then the one which had startled me, and ran out of the room. 104 CHILDHOOD. It was onl}^ at that moment that I understood whence came that strong, heavy odor, which, mingling with the odor of the incense, filled the room ; and the thought that that face, лvhich a few days before had been full of beauty and tenderness, that face which I loved more than any thing in the world, could excite terror, seemed for the first time to reveal to me the bitter truth, and filled my soul with despair. О K^lllljUllUUU. ш CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LAST SAD MEMORIES. Mamma was dead, but our life pursued its iisiial course. We went to bed and got up at the same hours, and in tlie same rooms ; morning and evening tea, dinner, supper, all took place at the usual time ; tlie tables and chairs stood in the same places ; nothing was changed in the house or in our manner of life, only — she was no more. It seemed to me, that, after such unhappiness, all must change : our ordinary manner of life appeared to me au insult to her memory, and recalled her absence too vividly. After dinner, on the evening before the funeral, I wanted to go to sleep ; and I went to Natalj^a Savischna's room, intending to install myself in her bed, on the soft feather- bed, aud beneath the warm wadded coverlet. ЛУЬеп I en- tered, Natalya Savischna was lying on her bed, and was probably asleep ; hearing the noise of my footsteps, she rose up, flung aside the woollen cloth which protected her head from the flies, and, adjusting her cap, seated herself on the edge of the bed. '^ What is it? They have sent you to get some rest, my dear? Lie down." '^ЛVllat is the matter with you, Natalya Savischna?" I said, holding her hand. " That is not it at all. I just came, and you are weary yourself; you had better lie down." '• No, batiuschka, I have slept enough," she said (I knew that she had not slept for three days, for grief.) "And besides, I am not sleepy now," she added with a deep sigh. I wanted to discuss our misfortune with Natalya Savischna. I knew her honesty and love, and it would have been a comfort to me to луеер witli her. " Natalya Savischna," I said, seating myself on the bed, after a brief silence, " did you ex[)ect this? " The old woman looked at me iu amazement and curiosity, 106 CniLDnOOD. probably because she did not understand why I asked her that. " Who could expect this? " I repeated. " Ah, my dear," said she, casting a glance of the tender- est sympathy upon me, "it was not to be expected, and I cannot believe it even now. Such an old woman as I ought to have laid her old bones in the grave long ago. The old master. Prince Nikolai Mikhailovitch, your grandfather (may his memor}^ be eternal!) had two brothers, and a sister Annuchka ; and I have buried them all, and they were all younger than I am, batiusehka ; and now, for my sins evi- dentl}', it is my fate to outlive her. His holy will be done ! He took her because she was worthy, and He wants good people there." This simple thought impressed me as a comfort; and I moved nearer Natalya Savischna. She folded her hands on her bosom, and looked upwards; her sunken, tearful e_yes expressed great but quiet suffering. She cherished a firm hope that God would not long part her from her u[)on whom she had for so many years concentrated all the power of her love. " Yes, my dear, it does not seem long since I was her nurse, and dressed her, and she called me Naselia. She would run to me, seize me with her plump little hands, and begin to kiss me, and to say : ^' ' My Naschjk, my beauty, my little turkey ! ' "And I would say in jest : " ' It's not true, matuschka, you do not 1ол'е me ; wait until you grow up, and marry, and forget your Nascha.' She would begin to reflect. *■ No,' she would say, 'it will be better not to maiTy, if I cannot take Nascha with me ; I will never desert Nascha.' And now she has deserted me, and has not waited for me. And she loved me, the dear dead woman ! And, in truth, who was there that she did not love? Yes, batiusehka, it is impossible for you to forget З'оиг mamma. She was not a human being, but an an^el from heaven. When her soul reaches the kingdom of heaven, it will love you there, and rejoice over 3'ou." " Why do you say, when she reaches the kingdom of heaven, Natalya Savischna? " 1 asked. " Why, 1 think she is there now." " No. batiusehka." said Natalya Savischna, loweriu",- her voice, and biUiug closer to uie on tiie bed: " her t^ovA is hare CniLDIIOOD. 107 now," and she pointed upwards. She spoke almost in a whisper, and with so much feeling and conviction that I invohintaril}' raised my eyes, and inspected the cornice in search of something. " Before the soul of the just goes to paradise, it undergoes fort}' clianges, my dear, and it can stay in its home for forty days." iSlie tallved long in this strain, and with as much simplicity and faith as though she were relating the most every-day oc- currences, which she had witnessed herself, and on tlie score of which it would иел'ег enter any one's head to entertain the sliglitcst donl)t. I held nw breath as I listened to her ; and although I did not understand very well what she said, I believed her entirely. "Yes, batiuschka, she is here now; she is looking at us; perhnps she hears what we are saying," said Natalya 8a- vischna, in conclusion. She bent her head, and became silent. She wanted a handkerchief to wipe her falling tears ; she rose, looked me straight in the face, and said, in a voice which treml)led with emotion : "The Lord has brought me many degrees nearer to him through this. AVhat is left for me here now ? "Whom have I to live for? Whom Ьал^е I to love? " "■Don't 3"ou love us?" I said reproachfully, hardly re- straining my tears. "God knoAvs how I love you, my darlings ; but IJiave never loved any one as I loved her, and 1 never can love any one in that way." She could say no more, but turned away, and sobbed loudly. I no longer thought of sleeping : we sat opposite each other in silence, and wept. Foka entered the room ; perceiving our condition, and probably not wishing to disturb us, he glanced at us timidly and in silence, and paused at the door. " What do 3-0U Avant, Fokaseha? " asked Xatal^-a Savisch- na, wiping her e^'es. ",V pound and a half of raisins, four pounds of sugar, and three pounds of rice, for the kiitija." ^ " Lnmediatel}^ immediately, batiuschka," said Natalya Savisclma, taking a hasty pinch of snuff; and she went to her cupboaid V\-ith brisk steps. The last traces of the grief 1 л i!i.