I know that I liked it vastly, and answered all questions on the subject
of my gift by declaring that I should soon have something ready for
Grandmamma, but was not going to say what it was.
Contrary to my expectation, I found that, after the first two couplets
executed in the initial heat of enthusiasm, even my most strenuous
efforts refused to produce another one. I began to read different poems
in our books, but neither Dimitrieff nor Derzhavin could help me. On
the contrary, they only confirmed my sense of incompetence. Knowing,
however, that Karl Ivanitch was fond of writing verses, I stole softly
upstairs to burrow among his papers, and found, among a number of German
verses, some in the Russian language which seemed to have come from his
own pen.
To L
Remember near
Remember far,
Remember me.
To-day be faithful, and for ever--
Aye, still beyond the grave--remember
That I have well loved thee.
'KARL MAYER.'
These verses (which were written in a fine, round hand on thin
letter-paper) pleased me with the touching sentiment with which they
seemed to be inspired. I learnt them by heart, and decided to take them
as a model. The thing was much easier now. By the time the name-day had
arrived I had completed a twelve-couplet congratulatory ode, and sat
down to the table in our school-room to copy them out on vellum.
Two sheets were soon spoiled--not because I found it necessary to alter
anything (the verses seemed to me perfect), but because, after the third
line, the tail-end of each successive one would go curving upward and
making it plain to all the world that the whole thing had been written
with a want of adherence to the horizontal--a thing which I could not
bear to see.
The third sheet also came out crooked, but I determined to make it do.
In my verses I congratulated Grandmamma, wished her many happy returns,
and concluded thus:
'Endeavouring you to please and cheer,
We love you like our Mother dear.'
This seemed to me not bad, yet it offended my ear somehow.
'Lo-ve you li-ike our Mo-ther dear,' I repeated to myself. 'What other
rhyme could I use instead of 'dear'? Fear? Steer? Well, it must go at
that. At least the verses are better than Karl Ivanitch's.'
Accordingly I added the last verse to the rest. Then I went into
our bedroom and recited the whole poem aloud with much feeling and
gesticulation. The verses were altogether guiltless of metre, but I
did not stop to consider that. Yet the last one displeased me more than
ever. As I sat on my bed I thought:
'Why on earth did I write 'like our Mother dear'? She is not here, and
therefore she need never have been mentioned. True, I love and respect
Grandmamma, but she is not quite the same as--Why DID I write that?
What did I go and tell a lie for? They may be verses only, yet I needn't
quite have done that.'
At that moment the tailor arrived with some new clothes for us.
'Well, so be it!' I said in much vexation as I crammed the verses
hastily under my pillow and ran down to adorn myself in the new Moscow
garments.
They fitted marvellously-both the brown jacket with yellow buttons (a
garment made skin-tight and not 'to allow room for growth,' as in
the country) and the black trousers (also close-fitting so that they
displayed the figure and lay smoothly over the boots).
'At last I have real trousers on!' I thought as I looked at my legs with
the utmost satisfaction. I concealed from every one the fact that the
