Mamma, bending towards him
and raising her voice, 'But I asked you whether the children had slept
well?'
Still he did not hear, but, covering his bald head again with the red
cap, went on smiling more than ever.
'Stop a moment, Mimi,' said Mamma (now smiling also) to Maria Ivanovna.
'It is impossible to hear anything.'
How beautiful Mamma's face was when she smiled! It made her so
infinitely more charming, and everything around her seemed to grow
brighter! If in the more painful moments of my life I could have seen
that smile before my eyes, I should never have known what grief is. In
my opinion, it is in the smile of a face that the essence of what we
call beauty lies. If the smile heightens the charm of the face, then the
face is a beautiful one. If the smile does not alter the face, then the
face is an ordinary one. But if the smile spoils the face, then the face
is an ugly one indeed.
Mamma took my head between her hands, bent it gently backwards, looked
at me gravely, and said: 'You have been crying this morning?'
I did not answer. She kissed my eyes, and said again in German: 'Why did
you cry?'
When talking to us with particular intimacy she always used this
language, which she knew to perfection.
'I cried about a dream, Mamma' I replied, remembering the invented
vision, and trembling involuntarily at the recollection.
Karl Ivanitch confirmed my words, but said nothing as to the subject of
the dream. Then, after a little conversation on the weather, in which
Mimi also took part, Mamma laid some lumps of sugar on the tray for
one or two of the more privileged servants, and crossed over to her
embroidery frame, which stood near one of the windows.
'Go to Papa now, children,' she said, 'and ask him to come to me before
he goes to the home farm.'
Then the music, the counting, and the wrathful looks from Mimi began
again, and we went off to see Papa. Passing through the room which had
been known ever since Grandpapa's time as 'the pantry,' we entered the
study.
III -- PAPA
He was standing near his writing-table, and pointing angrily to some
envelopes, papers, and little piles of coin upon it as he addressed some
observations to the bailiff, Jakoff Michaelovitch, who was standing in
his usual place (that is to say, between the door and the barometer)
and rapidly closing and unclosing the fingers of the hand which he held
behind his back. The more angry Papa grew, the more rapidly did those
fingers twirl, and when Papa ceased speaking they came to rest also.
Yet, as soon as ever Jakoff himself began to talk, they flew here,
there, and everywhere with lightning rapidity. These movements always
appeared to me an index of Jakoff's secret thoughts, though his face was
invariably placid, and expressive alike of dignity and submissiveness,
as who should say, 'I am right, yet let it be as you wish.' On seeing
us, Papa said, 'Directly--wait a moment,' and looked towards the door as
a hint for it to be shut.
'Gracious heavens! What can be the matter with you to-day, Jakoff?' he
went on with a hitch of one shoulder (a habit of his). 'This envelope
here with the 800 roubles enclosed,'--Jacob took out a set of tablets,
put down '800' and remained looking at the figures while he waited
for what was to come next--'is for expenses during my absence. Do you
understand? From the mill you ought to receive 1000 roubles. Is not
that so? And from the Treasury mortgage you ought to receive some 8000
roubles. From the hay--of which, according to your calculations, we
