detested heels, and never wore them), and make us sing gipsy songs. At
such times you should have seen the quaint enthusiasm of his beloved
Lubotshka, who adored him!
Sometimes, again, he would come to the schoolroom and listen with a
grave face as I said my lessons; yet by the few words which he would let
drop when correcting me, I could see that he knew even less about the
subject than I did. Not infrequently, too, he would wink at us and make
secret signs when Grandmamma was beginning to scold us and find fault
with us all round. "So much for us children!" he would say. On
the whole, however, the impossible pinnacle upon which my childish
imagination had placed him had undergone a certain abasement. I still
kissed his large white hand with a certain feeling of love and respect,
but I also allowed myself to think about him and to criticise his
behaviour until involuntarily thoughts occurred to me which alarmed me
by their presence. Never shall I forget one incident in particular which
awakened thoughts of this kind, and caused me intense astonishment. Late
one evening, he entered the drawing-room in his black dress-coat and
white waistcoat, to take Woloda (who was still dressing in his bedroom)
to a ball. Grandmamma was also in her bedroom, but had given orders
that, before setting out, Woloda was to come and say goodbye to her (it
was her invariable custom to inspect him before he went to a ball, and
to bless him and direct him as to his behaviour). The room where we were
was lighted by a solitary lamp. Mimi and Katenka were walking up
and down, and Lubotshka was playing Field's Second Concerto (Mamma's
favourite piece) at the piano. Never was there such a family likeness as
between Mamma and my sister--not so much in the face or the stature as
in the hands, the walk, the voice, the favourite expressions, and,
above all, the way of playing the piano and the whole demeanour at the
instrument. Lubotshka always arranged her dress when sitting down just
as Mamma had done, as well as turned the leaves like her, tapped her
fingers angrily and said "Dear me!" whenever a difficult passage did not
go smoothly, and, in particular, played with the delicacy and exquisite
purity of touch which in those days caused the execution of Field's
music to be known characteristically as "jeu perle" and to lie beyond
comparison with the humbug of our modern virtuosi.
Papa entered the room with short, soft steps, and approached Lubotshka.
On seeing him she stopped playing.
"No, go on, Luba, go on," he said as he forced her to sit down again.
She went on playing, while Papa, his head on his hand, sat near her for
a while. Then suddenly he gave his shoulders a shrug, and, rising, began
to pace the room. Every time that he approached the piano he halted
for a moment and looked fixedly at Lubotshka. By his walk and his
every movement, I could see that he was greatly agitated. Once, when he
stopped behind Lubotshka, he kissed her black hair, and then, wheeling
quickly round, resumed his pacing. The piece finished, Lubotshka went up
to him and said, "Was it well played?" whereupon, without answering, he
took her head in his two hands, and kissed her forehead and eyes with
such tenderness as I had never before seen him display.
"Why, you are crying!" cried Lubotshka suddenly as she ceased to toy
with his watch-chain and stared at him with her great black eyes.
"Pardon me, darling Papa! I had quite forgotten that it was dear Mamma's
piece which I was playing."
"No, no, my love; play it often," he said in a voice trembling with
emotion. "Ah, if you only knew how much good it does me to share your
tears!"
He kissed her again, and then, mastering his feelings and shrugging
his shoulders, went to the door leading to the corridor which ran past
Woloda's room.
"Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?" he cried, halting in the middle of
the passage. Just then Masha came along.
"Why, you look prettier every day," he said to her. She blushed and
passed on.
"Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?" he cried again, with a cough and a
shake of his shoulders, just as Masha slipped away and he first caught
sight of me.
I loved Papa, but the intellect is independent of the heart, and often
gives birth to thoughts which offend and are harsh and incomprehensible
to the feelings. And it was thoughts of this kind that, for all I strove
to put them away, arose at that moment in my mind.
XXIII. GRANDMAMMA
Grandmamma was growing weaker every day. Her bell, Gasha's grumbling
voice, and the slamming of doors in her room were sounds of constant
occurrence, and she no longer received us sitting in the Voltairian
arm-chair in her boudoir, but lying on the bed in her bedroom, supported
on lace-trimmed cushions. One day when she greeted us, I noticed a
yellowish-white swelling on her hand, and smelt the same oppressive
odour which I had smelt five years ago in Mamma's room. The doctor came
three times a day, and there had been more than one consultation. Yet
the character of her haughty, ceremonious bearing towards all who lived
with her, and particularly towards Papa, never changed in the least. She
went on emphasising certain words, raising her eyebrows, and saying "my
dear," just as she had always done.
Then for a few days we did not see her at all, and one morning St.
Jerome proposed to me that Woloda and I should take Katenka and
Lubotshka for a drive during the hours generally allotted to study.
Although I observed that the street was lined with straw under the
windows of Grandmamma's room, and that some men in blue stockings
[Undertaker's men.] were standing at our gate, the reason never dawned
upon me why we were being sent out at that unusual hour. Throughout
the drive Lubotshka and I were in that particularly merry mood when the
least trifle, the least word or movement, sets one off laughing.
A pedlar went trotting across the road with a tray, and we laughed.
Some ragged cabmen, brandishing their reins and driving at full speed,
overtook our sledge, and we laughed again. Next, Philip's whip got
caught in the side of the vehicle, and the way in which he said, "Bother
the thing!" as he drove to disentangle it almost killed us with mirth.
Mimi looked displeased, and said that only silly people laughed for
no reason at all, but Lubotshka--her face purple with suppressed
merriment--needed but to give me a sly glance, and we again burst out
into such Homeric laughter, when our eyes met, that the tears rushed
into them and we could not stop our paroxysms, although they nearly
choked us. Hardly, again, had we desisted a little when I looked at
Lubotshka once more, and gave vent to one of the slang words which we
then affected among ourselves--words which always called forth hilarity;
and in a moment we were laughing again.
Just as we reached home, I was opening my mouth to make a splendid
grimace at Lubotshka when my eye fell upon a black coffin-cover which
was leaning against the
gate--and my mouth remained fixed in its gaping
position.
"Your Grandmamma is dead," said St. Jerome as he met us. His face was
very pale.
Throughout the whole time that Grandmamma's body was in the house I was
oppressed with the fear of death, for the corpse served as a forcible
and disagreeable reminder that I too must die some day--a feeling which
people often mistake for grief. I had no sincere regret for Grandmamma,
nor, I think, had any one else, since, although the house was full of
sympathising callers, nobody seemed to mourn for her from their hearts
except one mourner whose genuine grief made a great impression upon me,
seeing that the mourner in question was--Gasha! She shut herself up in
the garret, tore her hair and refused all consolation, saying that, now
that her mistress was dead, she only wished to die herself.
I again assert that, in matters of feeling, it is the unexpected effects
that constitute the most reliable signs of sincerity.
Though Grandmamma was no longer with us, reminiscences and gossip about
her long went on in the house. Such gossip referred mostly to her will,
which she had made shortly before her death, and of which, as yet, no
one knew the contents except her bosom friend, Prince Ivan Ivanovitch.
I could hear the servants talking excitedly together, and making
innumerable conjectures as to the amount left and the probable
beneficiaries: nor can I deny that the idea that we ourselves were
probably the latter greatly pleased me.
Six weeks later, Nicola--who acted as regular news-agent to the
house--informed me that Grandmamma had left the whole of her fortune to
Lubotshka, with, as her trustee until her majority, not Papa, but Prince
Ivan Ivanovitch!
XXIV. MYSELF
Only a few months remained before I was to matriculate for the
University, yet I was making such good progress that I felt no
apprehensions, and even took a pleasure in my studies. I kept in good
heart, and learnt my lessons fluently and intelligently. The faculty
I had selected was the mathematical one--probably, to tell the truth,
because the terms "tangent," "differentials," "integrals," and so forth,
pleased my fancy.
Though stout and broad-shouldered, I was shorter than Woloda, while my
ugliness of face still remained and tormented me as much as ever. By way
of compensation, I tried to appear original. Yet one thing comforted
me, namely, that Papa had said that I had "an INTELLIGENT face." I quite
believed him.
St. Jerome was not only satisfied with me, but actually had taken to
praising me. Consequently, I had now ceased to hate him. In fact, when,
one day, he said that, with my "capacities" and my "intellect," it would
be shameful for me not to accomplish this, that, or the other thing, I
believe I almost liked him.
I had long ago given up keeping observation on the maidservants' room,
for I was now ashamed to hide behind doors. Likewise, I confess that
the knowledge of Masha's love for Basil had greatly cooled my ardour
for her, and that my passion underwent a final cure by their marriage--a
consummation to which I myself contributed by, at Basil's request,
asking Papa's consent to the union.
When the newly-married couple brought trays of cakes and sweetmeats to
Papa as a thank-offering, and Masha, in a cap with blue ribbons, kissed
each of us on the shoulder in token of her gratitude, I merely noticed
the scent of the rose pomade on her hair, but felt no other sensation.
In general, I was beginning to get the better of my youthful defects,
with the exception of the principal one--the one of which I shall often
again have to speak in relating my life's history--namely, the tendency
to abstract thought.
XXV. WOLODA'S FRIENDS
Although, when in the society of Woloda's friends, I had to play a part
that hurt my pride, I liked sitting in his room when he had visitors,
and silently watching all they did. The two who came most frequently
to see him were a military adjutant called Dubkoff and a student named
Prince Nechludoff. Dubkoff was a little dark-haired, highly-strung man
who, though short of stature and no longer in his first youth, had
a pleasing and invariably cheerful air. His was one of those limited
natures which are agreeable through their very limitations; natures
which cannot regard matters from every point of view, but which are
nevertheless attracted by everything. Usually the reasoning of such
persons is false and one-sided, yet always genuine and taking; wherefore
their narrow egotism seems both amiable and excusable. There were two
other reasons why Dubkoff had charms for Woloda and myself--namely,
the fact that he was of military appearance, and, secondly (and
principally), the fact that he was of a certain age--an age with which
young people are apt to associate that quality of "gentlemanliness"
which is so highly esteemed at their time of life. However, he was in
very truth un homme comme il faut. The only thing which I did not like
about it all was that, in his presence, Woloda always seemed ashamed
of my innocent behaviour, and still more so of my youthfulness. As for
Prince Nechludoff, he was in no way handsome, since neither his small
grey eyes, his low, projecting forehead, nor his disproportionately long
hands and feet could be called good features. The only good points about
him were his unusually tall stature, his delicate colouring, and
his splendid teeth. Nevertheless, his face was of such an original,
energetic character (owing to his narrow, sparkling eyes and
ever-changing expression--now stern, now childlike, now smiling
indeterminately) that it was impossible to help noticing it. As a rule
he was very shy, and would blush to the ears at the smallest trifle, but
it was a shyness altogether different from mine, seeing that, the more
he blushed, the more determined-looking he grew, as though he were vexed
at his own weakness.
Although he was on very good terms with Woloda and Dubkoff, it was
clearly chance which had united them thus, since their tastes were
entirely dissimilar. Woloda and Dubkoff seemed to be afraid of anything
like serious consideration or emotion, whereas Nechludoff was beyond all
things an enthusiast, and would often, despite their sarcastic remarks,
plunge into dissertations on philosophical matters or matters of
feeling. Again, the two former liked talking about the fair objects of
their adoration (these were always numerous, and always shared by the
friends in common), whereas Nechludoff invariably grew annoyed when
taxed with his love for a certain red-haired lady.
Again, Woloda and Dubkoff often permitted themselves to criticise their
relatives, and to find amusement in so doing, but Nechludoff flew into
a tremendous rage when on one occasion they referred to some weak points
in the character of an aunt of his whom he adored. Finally, after supper
Woloda and Dubkoff would usually go off to some place whither Nechludoff
would not accompany them; wherefore they call
ed him "a dainty girl."
The very first time that I ever saw Prince Nechludoff I was struck
with his exterior and conversation. Yet, though I could discern a great
similarity between his disposition and my own (or perhaps it was because
I COULD so discern it), the impression which he produced upon me at
first was anything but agreeable. I liked neither his quick glance, his
hard voice, his proud bearing, nor (least of all) the utter indifference
with which he treated me. Often, when conversing, I burned to contradict
him, to punish his pride by confuting him, to show him that I was clever
in spite of his disdainful neglect of my presence. But I was invariably
prevented from doing so by my shyness.
XXVI. DISCUSSIONS
Woloda was lying reading a French novel on the sofa when I paid my usual
visit to his room after my evening lessons. He looked up at me for a
moment from his book, and then went on reading. This perfectly simple
and natural movement, however, offended me. I conceived that the glance
implied a question why I had come and a wish to hide his thoughts from
me (I may say that at that period a tendency to attach a meaning to the
most insignificant of acts formed a prominent feature in my character).
So I went to the table and also took up a book to read. Yet, even before
I had actually begun reading, the idea struck me how ridiculous it was
that, although we had never seen one another all day, we should have not
a word to exchange.
"Are you going to stay in to-night, Woloda?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Oh, because--" Seeing that the conversation did not promise to be
a success, I took up my book again, and began to read. Yet it was a
strange thing that, though we sometimes passed whole hours together
without speaking when we were alone, the mere presence of a