Yet, for all that, her animated movements, small hands, and peculiarly
dry features communicated something aristocratic and energetic to her
general appearance. She talked a great deal, and, to judge from her
eloquence, belonged to that class of persons who always speak as though
some one were contradicting them, even though no one else may be saying
a word. First she would raise her voice, then lower it and then take on
a fresh access of vivacity as she looked at the persons present, but not
participating in the conversation, with an air of endeavouring to draw
them into it.
Although the Princess kissed Grandmamma's hand and repeatedly called her
"my good Aunt," I could see that Grandmamma did not care much about her,
for she kept raising her eyebrows in a peculiar way while listening
to the Princess's excuses why Prince Michael had been prevented from
calling, and congratulating Grandmamma "as he would like so-much to
have done." At length, however, she answered the Princess's French with
Russian, and with a sharp accentuation of certain words.
"I am much obliged to you for your kindness," she said. "As for Prince
Michael's absence, pray do not mention it. He has so much else to do.
Besides, what pleasure could he find in coming to see an old woman like
me?" Then, without allowing the Princess time to reply, she went on:
"How are your children my dear?"
"Well, thank God, Aunt, they grow and do their lessons and
play--particularly my eldest one, Etienne, who is so wild that it
is almost impossible to keep him in order. Still, he is a clever and
promising boy. Would you believe it, cousin," (this last to Papa, since
Grandmamma altogether uninterested in the Princess's children, had
turned to us, taken my verses out from beneath the presentation box, and
unfolded them again), "would you believe it, but one day not long ago--"
and leaning over towards Papa, the Princess related something or other
with great vivacity. Then, her tale concluded, she laughed, and, with a
questioning look at Papa, went on:
"What a boy, cousin! He ought to have been whipped, but the trick was
so spirited and amusing that I let him off." Then the Princess looked at
Grandmamma and laughed again.
"Ah! So you WHIP your children, do you" said Grandmamma, with a
significant lift of her eyebrows, and laying a peculiar stress on the
word "WHIP."
"Alas, my good Aunt," replied the Princess in a sort of tolerant tone
and with another glance at Papa, "I know your views on the subject, but
must beg to be allowed to differ with them. However much I have thought
over and read and talked about the matter, I have always been forced to
come to the conclusion that children must be ruled through FEAR. To make
something of a child, you must make it FEAR something. Is it not so,
cousin? And what, pray, do children fear so much as a rod?"
As she spoke she seemed, to look inquiringly at Woloda and myself, and I
confess that I did not feel altogether comfortable.
"Whatever you may say," she went on, "a boy of twelve, or even of
fourteen, is still a child and should be whipped as such; but with
girls, perhaps, it is another matter."
"How lucky it is that I am not her son!" I thought to myself.
"Oh, very well," said Grandmamma, folding up my verses and replacing
them beneath the box (as though, after that exposition of views, the
Princess was unworthy of the honour of listening to such a production).
"Very well, my dear," she repeated "But please tell me how, in return,
you can look for any delicate sensibility from your children?"
Evidently Grandmamma thought this argument unanswerable, for she cut the
subject short by adding:
"However, it is a point on which people must follow their own opinions."
The Princess did not choose to reply, but smiled condescendingly, and as
though out of indulgence to the strange prejudices of a person whom she
only PRETENDED to revere.
"Oh, by the way, pray introduce me to your young people," she went on
presently as she threw us another gracious smile.
Thereupon we rose and stood looking at the Princess, without in the
least knowing what we ought to do to show that we were being introduced.
"Kiss the Princess's hand," said Papa.
"Well, I hope you will love your old aunt," she said to Woloda, kissing
his hair, "even though we are not near relatives. But I value friendship
far more than I do degrees of relationship," she added to Grandmamma,
who nevertheless, remained hostile, and replied:
"Eh, my dear? Is that what they think of relationships nowadays?"
"Here is my man of the world," put in Papa, indicating Woloda; "and here
is my poet," he added as I kissed the small, dry hand of the Princess,
with a vivid picture in my mind of that same hand holding a rod and
applying it vigorously.
"WHICH one is the poet?" asked the Princess.
"This little one," replied Papa, smiling; "the one with the tuft of hair
on his top-knot."
"Why need he bother about my tuft?" I thought to myself as I retired
into a corner. "Is there nothing else for him to talk about?"
I had strange ideas on manly beauty. I considered Karl Ivanitch one of
the handsomest men in the world, and myself so ugly that I had no need
to deceive myself on that point. Therefore any remark on the subject of
my exterior offended me extremely. I well remember how, one day after
luncheon (I was then six years of age), the talk fell upon my personal
appearance, and how Mamma tried to find good features in my face, and
said that I had clever eyes and a charming smile; how, nevertheless,
when Papa had examined me, and proved the contrary, she was obliged to
confess that I was ugly; and how, when the meal was over and I went
to pay her my respects, she said as she patted my cheek; "You know,
Nicolinka, nobody will ever love you for your face alone, so you must
try all the more to be a good and clever boy."
Although these words of hers confirmed in me my conviction that I was
not handsome, they also confirmed in me an ambition to be just such
a boy as she had indicated. Yet I had my moments of despair at my
ugliness, for I thought that no human being with such a large nose, such
thick lips, and such small grey eyes as mine could ever hope to attain
happiness on this earth. I used to ask God to perform a miracle by
changing me into a beauty, and would have given all that I possessed, or
ever hoped to possess, to have a handsome face.
XVIII -- PRINCE IVAN IVANOVITCH
When the Princess had heard my verses and overwhelmed the writer of them
with praise, Grandmamma softened to her a little. She began to address
her in French and to cease calling her "my dear." Likewise she invited
her to return that evening with her children. This invitation having
been accepted, the Princess took her leave. After that, so many other
callers came to congratulate Grandmamma that the courtyard was crowded
all day long with carriages.
"Good morning, my dear cousin," was the greeting of one guest in
/>
particular as he entered the room and kissed Grandmamma's hand. He was
a man of seventy, with a stately figure clad in a military uniform and
adorned with large epaulettes, an embroidered collar, and a white cross
round the neck. His face, with its quiet and open expression, as well
as the simplicity and ease of his manners, greatly pleased me, for, in
spite of the thin half-circle of hair which was all that was now left
to him, and the want of teeth disclosed by the set of his upper lip, his
face was a remarkably handsome one.
Thanks to his fine character, handsome exterior, remarkable valour,
influential relatives, and, above all, good fortune, Prince, Ivan
Ivanovitch had early made himself a career. As that career progressed,
his ambition had met with a success which left nothing more to be sought
for in that direction. From his earliest youth upward he had prepared
himself to fill the exalted station in the world to which fate actually
called him later; wherefore, although in his prosperous life (as in the
lives of all) there had been failures, misfortunes, and cares, he had
never lost his quietness of character, his elevated tone of thought, or
his peculiarly moral, religious bent of mind. Consequently, though he
had won the universal esteem of his fellows, he had done so less through
his important position than through his perseverance and integrity.
While not of specially distinguished intellect, the eminence of his
station (whence he could afford to look down upon all petty questions)
had caused him to adopt high points of view. Though in reality he was
kind and sympathetic, in manner he appeared cold and haughty--probably
for the reason that he had forever to be on his guard against the
endless claims and petitions of people who wished to profit through
his influence. Yet even then his coldness was mitigated by the polite
condescension of a man well accustomed to move in the highest circles
of society. Well-educated, his culture was that of a youth of the end of
the last century. He had read everything, whether philosophy or belles
lettres, which that age had produced in France, and loved to quote from
Racine, Corneille, Boileau, Moliere, Montaigne, and Fenelon. Likewise he
had gleaned much history from Segur, and much of the old classics from
French translations of them; but for mathematics, natural philosophy, or
contemporary literature he cared nothing whatever. However, he knew how
to be silent in conversation, as well as when to make general remarks
on authors whom he had never read--such as Goethe, Schiller, and Byron.
Moreover, despite his exclusively French education, he was simple in
speech and hated originality (which he called the mark of an untutored
nature). Wherever he lived, society was a necessity to him, and, both in
Moscow and the country he had his reception days, on which practically
"all the town" called upon him. An introduction from him was a passport
to every drawing-room; few young and pretty ladies in society objected
to offering him their rosy cheeks for a paternal salute; and people even
in the highest positions felt flattered by invitations to his parties.
The Prince had few friends left now like Grandmamma--that is to say, few
friends who were of the same standing as himself, who had had the same
sort of education, and who saw things from the same point of view:
wherefore he greatly valued his intimate, long-standing friendship with
her, and always showed her the highest respect.
I hardly dared to look at the Prince, since the honour paid him on all
sides, the huge epaulettes, the peculiar pleasure with which Grandmamma
received him, and the fact that he alone, seemed in no way afraid of
her, but addressed her with perfect freedom (even being so daring as to
call her "cousin"), awakened in me a feeling of reverence for his person
almost equal to that which I felt for Grandmamma herself.
On being shown my verses, he called me to his side, and said:
"Who knows, my cousin, but that he may prove to be a second Derzhavin?"
Nevertheless he pinched my cheek so hard that I was only prevented from
crying by the thought that it must be meant for a caress.
Gradually the other guests dispersed, and with them Papa and Woloda.
Thus only Grandmamma, the Prince, and myself were left in the
drawing-room.
"Why has our dear Natalia Nicolaevna not come to-day" asked the Prince
after a silence.
"Ah, my friend," replied Grandmamma, lowering her voice and laying a
hand upon the sleeve of his uniform, "she would certainly have come if
she had been at liberty to do what she likes. She wrote to me that Peter
had proposed bringing her with him to town, but that she had refused,
since their income had not been good this year, and she could see
no real reason why the whole family need come to Moscow, seeing that
Lubotshka was as yet very young and that the boys were living with me--a
fact, she said, which made her feel as safe about them as though she had
been living with them herself."
"True, it is good for the boys to be here," went on Grandmamma, yet in
a tone which showed clearly that she did not think it was so very good,
"since it was more than time that they should be sent to Moscow to
study, as well as to learn how to comport themselves in society. What
sort of an education could they have got in the country? The eldest boy
will soon be thirteen, and the second one eleven. As yet, my cousin,
they are quite untaught, and do not know even how to enter a room."
"Nevertheless" said the Prince, "I cannot understand these complaints
of ruined fortunes. He has a very handsome income, and Natalia has
Chabarovska, where we used to act plays, and which I know as well as
I do my own hand. It is a splendid property, and ought to bring in an
excellent return."
"Well," said Grandmamma with a sad expression on her face, "I do not
mind telling you, as my most intimate friend, that all this seems to me
a mere pretext on his part for living alone, for strolling about from
club to club, for attending dinner-parties, and for resorting to--well,
who knows what? She suspects nothing; you know her angelic sweetness and
her implicit trust of him in everything. He had only to tell her that
the children must go to Moscow and that she must be left behind in the
country with a stupid governess for company, for her to believe him! I
almost think that if he were to say that the children must be whipped
just as the Princess Barbara whips hers, she would believe even that!"
and Grandmamma leant back in her arm-chair with an expression of
contempt. Then, after a moment of silence, during which she took her
handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe away a few tears which had stolen
down her cheeks, she went, on:
"Yes, my friend, I often think that he cannot value and understand
her properly, and that, for all her goodness and love of him and her
endeavours to conceal her grief (which, however as I know only too well,
exists). She cannot really be happy with him. Mark my words if he does
not--"
Here Grandmamma buried her face in the handkerchief.
"Ah, my dear old friend," said the Prince reproachfully. "I think you
are unreasonable. Why grieve and weep over imagined evils? That is
not right. I have known him a long time, and feel sure that he is an
attentive, kind, and excellent husband, as well as (which is the chief
thing of all) a perfectly honourable man."
At this point, having been an involuntary auditor of a conversation
not meant for my ears, I stole on tiptoe out of the room, in a state of
great distress.
XIX -- THE IWINS
"Woloda, Woloda! The Iwins are just coming." I shouted on seeing from
the window three boys in blue overcoats, and followed by a young tutor,
advancing along the pavement opposite our house.
The Iwins were related to us, and of about the same age as ourselves. We
had made their acquaintance soon after our arrival in Moscow. The second
brother, Seriosha, had dark curly hair, a turned-up, strongly pronounced
nose, very bright red lips (which, never being quite shut, showed a
row of white teeth), beautiful dark-blue eyes, and an uncommonly bold
expression of face. He never smiled but was either wholly serious or
laughing a clear, merry, agreeable laugh. His striking good looks had
captivated me from the first, and I felt an irresistible attraction
towards him. Only to see him filled me with pleasure, and at one time my
whole mental faculties used to be concentrated in the wish that I
might do so. If three or four days passed without my seeing him I felt
listless and ready to cry. Awake or asleep, I was forever dreaming of
him. On going to bed I used to see him in my dreams, and when I had
shut my eyes and called up a picture of him I hugged the vision as