mock-pathetic way, "you have been angry with me long enough. I am sorry
if I offended you," and he tendered me his hand.
It was as though something welled up from my heart and nearly choked
me. Presently it passed away, the tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt
immensely relieved.
"I too am so-rry, Wo-lo-da," I said, taking his hand. Yet he only looked
at me with an expression as though he could not understand why there
should be tears in my eyes.
VI. MASHA
None of the changes produced in my conception of things were so striking
as the one which led me to cease to see in one of our chambermaids a
mere servant of the female sex, but, on the contrary, a WOMAN upon whom
depended, to a certain extent, my peace of mind and happiness. From the
time of my earliest recollection I can remember Masha an inmate of our
house, yet never until the occurrence of which I am going to speak--an
occurrence which entirely altered my impression of her--had I bestowed
the smallest attention upon her. She was twenty-five years old, while I
was but fourteen. Also, she was very beautiful. But I hesitate to give a
further description of her lest my imagination should once more picture
the bewitching, though deceptive, conception of her which filled my mind
during the period of my passion. To be frank, I will only say that she
was extraordinarily handsome, magnificently developed, and a woman--as
also that I was but fourteen.
At one of those moments when, lesson-book in hand, I would pace the
room, and try to keep strictly to one particular crack in the floor as I
hummed a fragment of some tune or repeated some vague formula--in
short, at one of those moments when the mind leaves off thinking and the
imagination gains the upper hand and yearns for new impressions--I left
the schoolroom, and turned, with no definite purpose in view, towards
the head of the staircase.
Somebody in slippers was ascending the second flight of stairs. Of
course I felt curious to see who it was, but the footsteps ceased
abruptly, and then I heard Masha's voice say:
"Go away! What nonsense! What would Maria Ivanovna think if she were to
come now?"
"Oh, but she will not come," answered Woloda's voice in a whisper.
"Well, go away, you silly boy," and Masha came running up, and fled past
me.
I cannot describe the way in which this discovery confounded me.
Nevertheless the feeling of amazement soon gave place to a kind of
sympathy with Woloda's conduct. I found myself wondering less at the
conduct itself than at his ability to behave so agreeably. Also, I found
myself involuntarily desiring to imitate him.
Sometimes I would pace the landing for an hour at a time, with no other
thought in my head than to watch for movements from above. Yet, although
I longed beyond all things to do as Woloda had done, I could not bring
myself to the point. At other times, filled with a sense of envious
jealousy, I would conceal myself behind a door and listen to the sounds
which came from the maidservants' room, until the thought would occur to
my mind, "How if I were to go in now and, like Woloda, kiss Masha? What
should I say when she asked me--ME with the huge nose and the tuft on
the top of my head--what I wanted?" Sometimes, too, I could hear her
saying to Woloda,
"That serves you right! Go away! Nicolas Petrovitch never comes in here
with such nonsense." Alas! she did not know that Nicolas Petrovitch was
sitting on the staircase just below and feeling that he would give all
he possessed to be in "that bold fellow Woloda's" place! I was shy by
nature, and rendered worse in that respect by a consciousness of my own
ugliness. I am certain that nothing so much influences the development
of a man as his exterior--though the exterior itself less than his
belief in its plainness or beauty.
Yet I was too conceited altogether to resign myself to my fate. I tried
to comfort myself much as the fox did when he declared that the grapes
were sour. That is to say, I tried to make light of the satisfaction
to be gained from making such use of a pleasing exterior as I believed
Woloda to employ (satisfaction which I nevertheless envied him from
my heart), and endeavoured with every faculty of my intellect and
imagination to console myself with a pride in my isolation.
VII. SMALL SHOT
"Good gracious! Powder!" exclaimed Mimi in a voice trembling with alarm.
"Whatever are you doing? You will set the house on fire in a moment, and
be the death of us all!" Upon that, with an indescribable expression of
firmness, Mimi ordered every one to stand aside, and, regardless of
all possible danger from a premature explosion, strode with long and
resolute steps to where some small shot was scattered about the floor,
and began to trample upon it.
When, in her opinion, the peril was at least lessened, she called for
Michael and commanded him to throw the "powder" away into some remote
spot, or, better still, to immerse it in water; after which she adjusted
her cap and returned proudly to the drawing-room, murmuring as she went,
"At least I can say that they are well looked after."
When Papa issued from his room and took us to see Grandmamma we found
Mimi sitting by the window and glancing with a grave, mysterious,
official expression towards the door. In her hand she was holding
something carefully wrapped in paper. I guessed that that something was
the small shot, and that Grandmamma had been informed of the occurrence.
In the room also were the maidservant Gasha (who, to judge by her
angry flushed face, was in a state of great irritation) and Doctor
Blumenthal--the latter a little man pitted with smallpox, who was
endeavouring by tacit, pacificatory signs with his head and eyes to
reassure the perturbed Gasha. Grandmamma was sitting a little askew and
playing that variety of "patience" which is called "The Traveller"--two
unmistakable signs of her displeasure.
"How are you to-day, Mamma?" said Papa as he kissed her hand
respectfully. "Have you had a good night?"
"Yes, very good, my dear; you KNOW that I always enjoy sound health,"
replied Grandmamma in a tone implying that Papa's inquiries were
out of place and highly offensive. "Please give me a clean
pocket-handkerchief," she added to Gasha.
"I HAVE given you one, madam," answered Gasha, pointing to the
snow-white cambric handkerchief which she had just laid on the arm of
Grandmamma's chair.
"No, no; it's a nasty, dirty thing. Take it away and bring me a CLEAN
one, my dear."
Gasha went to a cupboard and slammed the door of it back so violently
that every window rattled. Grandmamma glared angrily at each of us, and
then turned her attention to following the movements of the servant.
After the latter had presented her with what I suspected to be the same
handkerchief as before, Grandmamma continued:
"And when do you mean to cut me some snuff, my dear?"
"When I have time."
"What do you say?"
r />
"To-day."
"If you don't want to continue in my service you had better say so at
once. I would have sent you away long ago had I known that you wished
it."
"It wouldn't have broken my heart if you had!" muttered the woman in an
undertone.
Here the doctor winked at her again, but she returned his gaze so firmly
and wrathfully that he soon lowered it and went on playing with his
watch-key.
"You see, my dear, how people speak to me in my own house!" said
Grandmamma to Papa when Gasha had left the room grumbling.
"Well, Mamma, I will cut you some snuff myself," replied Papa, though
evidently at a loss how to proceed now that he had made this rash
promise.
"No, no, I thank you. Probably she is cross because she knows that no
one except herself can cut the snuff just as I like it. Do you know, my
dear," she went on after a pause, "that your children very nearly set
the house on fire this morning?"
Papa gazed at Grandmamma with respectful astonishment.
"Yes, they were playing with something or another. Tell him the story,"
she added to Mimi.
Papa could not help smiling as he took the shot in his hand.
"This is only small shot, Mamma," he remarked, "and could never be
dangerous."
"I thank you, my dear, for your instruction, but I am rather too old for
that sort of thing."
"Nerves, nerves!" whispered the doctor.
Papa turned to us and asked us where we had got the stuff, and how we
could dare to play with it.
"Don't ask THEM, ask that useless 'Uncle,' rather," put in Grandmamma,
laying a peculiar stress upon the word "UNCLE." "What else is he for?"
"Woloda says that Karl Ivanitch gave him the powder himself," declared
Mimi.
"Then you can see for yourself what use he is," continued Grandmamma.
"And where IS he--this precious 'Uncle'? How is one to get hold of him?
Send him here."
"He has gone an errand for me," said Papa.
"That is not at all right," rejoined Grandmamma. "He ought ALWAYS to be
here. True, the children are yours, not mine, and I have nothing to do
with them, seeing that you are so much cleverer than I am; yet all the
same I think it is time we had a regular tutor for them, and not this
'Uncle' of a German--a stupid fellow who knows only how to teach them
rude manners and Tyrolean songs! Is it necessary, I ask you, that they
should learn Tyrolean songs? However, there is no one for me to consult
about it, and you must do just as you like."
The word "NOW" meant "NOW THAT THEY HAVE NO MOTHER," and suddenly
awakened sad recollections in Grandmamma's heart. She threw a glance at
the snuff-box bearing Mamma's portrait and sighed.
"I thought of all this long ago," said Papa eagerly, "as well as taking
your advice on the subject. How would you like St. Jerome to superintend
their lessons?"
"Oh, I think he would do excellently, my friend," said Grandmamma in a
mollified tone, "He is at least a tutor comme il faut, and knows how to
instruct des enfants de bonne maison. He is not a mere 'Uncle' who is
good only for taking them out walking."
"Very well; I will talk to him to-morrow," said Papa. And, sure enough,
two days later saw Karl Ivanitch forced to retire in favour of the young
Frenchman referred to.
VIII. KARL IVANITCH'S HISTORY
THE evening before the day when Karl was to leave us for ever, he was
standing (clad, as usual, in his wadded dressing-gown and red cap)
near the bed in his room, and bending down over a trunk as he carefully
packed his belongings.
His behaviour towards us had been very cool of late, and he had seemed
to shrink from all contact with us. Consequently, when I entered his
room on the present occasion, he only glanced at me for a second and
then went on with his occupation. Even though I proceeded to jump on
to his bed (a thing hitherto always forbidden me to do), he said not
a word; and the idea that he would soon be scolding or forgiving us no
longer--no longer having anything to do with us--reminded me vividly of
the impending separation. I felt grieved to think that he had ceased to
love us and wanted to show him my grief.
"Will you let me help you?" I said, approaching him.
He looked at me for a moment and turned away again. Yet the expression
of pain in his eyes showed that his coldness was not the result of
indifference, but rather of sincere and concentrated sorrow.
"God sees and knows everything," he said at length, raising himself to
his full height and drawing a deep sigh. "Yes, Nicolinka," he went on,
observing, the expression of sincere pity on my face, "my fate has been
an unhappy one from the cradle, and will continue so to the grave. The
good that I have done to people has always been repaid with evil; yet,
though I shall receive no reward here, I shall find one THERE" (he
pointed upwards). "Ah, if only you knew my whole story, and all that I
have endured in this life!--I who have been a bootmaker, a soldier, a
deserter, a factory hand, and a teacher! Yet now--now I am nothing, and,
like the Son of Man, have nowhere to lay my head." Sitting down upon a
chair, he covered his eyes with his hand.
Seeing that he was in the introspective mood in which a man pays
no attention to his listener as he cons over his secret thoughts, I
remained silent, and, seating myself upon the bed, continued to watch
his kind face.
"You are no longer a child. You can understand things now, and I will
tell you my whole story and all that I have undergone. Some day, my
children, you may remember the old friend who loved you so much--"
He leant his elbow upon the table by his side, took a pinch of snuff,
and, in the peculiarly measured, guttural tone in which he used to
dictate us our lessons, began the story of his career.
Since he many times in later years repeated the whole to me
again--always in the same order, and with the same expressions and
the same unvarying intonation--I will try to render it literally, and
without omitting the innumerable grammatical errors into which he always
strayed when speaking in Russian. Whether it was really the history of
his life, or whether it was the mere product of his imagination--that
is to say, some narrative which he had conceived during his lonely
residence in our house, and had at last, from endless repetition, come
to believe in himself--or whether he was adorning with imaginary facts
the true record of his career, I have never quite been able to make
out. On the one hand, there was too much depth of feeling and practical
consistency in its recital for it to be wholly incredible, while, on the
other hand, the abundance of poetical beauty which it contained tended
to raise doubts in the mind of the listener.
"Me vere very unhappy from ze time of my birth," he began with a
profound sigh. "Ze noble blot of ze Countess of Zomerblat flows in my
veins. Me vere born six veek after ze vetting. Ze man of my Mutter (I
called him 'Papa') vere f
armer to ze Count von Zomerblat. He coult not
forget my Mutter's shame, ant loaft me not. I had a youngster broser
Johann ant two sister, pot me vere strange petween my own family. Ven
Johann mate several silly trick Papa sayt, 'Wit sis chilt Karl I am
never to have one moment tranquil!' and zen he scoltet and ponishet me.
Ven ze sister quarrellet among zemselves Papa sayt, 'Karl vill never
be one opedient poy,' ant still scoltet ant ponishet me. My goot Mamma
alone loaft ant tenteret me. Often she sayt to me, 'Karl, come in my
room,' ant zere she kisset me secretly. 'Poorly, poorly Karl!' she sayt.
'Nopoty loaf you, pot I will not exchange you for somepoty in ze worlt,
One zing your Mutter pegs you, to rememper,' sayt she to me, 'learn
vell, ant be efer one honest man; zen Got will not forsake you.' Ant
I triet so to become. Ven my fourteen year hat expiret, ant me coult
partake of ze Holy Sopper, my Mutter sayt to my Vater, 'Karl is one
pig poy now, Kustaf. Vat shall we do wis him?' Ant Papa sayt, 'Me ton't
know.' Zen Mamma sayt, 'Let us give him to town at Mister Schultzen's,
and he may pea Schumacher,' ant my Vater sayt, 'Goot!' Six year ant
seven mons livet I in town wis ze Mister Shoemaker, ant he loaft me.
He sayt, 'Karl are one goot vorkman, ant shall soon become my Geselle.'
Pot-man makes ze proposition, ant Got ze deposition. In ze year 1796
one conscription took place, ant each which vas serviceable, from ze
eighteens to ze twenty-first year, hat to go to town.
"My Fater and my broser Johann come to town, ant ve go togezer to throw