hastened to her drawers. All traces of the grief, aroused by our
conversation disappeared on, the instant that she had duties to fulfil,
for she looked upon those duties as of paramount importance.
'But why FOUR pounds?' she objected as she weighed the sugar on a
steelyard. 'Three and a half would be sufficient,' and she withdrew a
few lumps. 'How is it, too, that, though I weighed out eight pounds of
rice yesterday, more is wanted now? No offence to you, Foka, but I am
not going to waste rice like that. I suppose Vanka is glad that there
is confusion in the house just now, for he thinks that nothing will be
looked after, but I am not going to have any careless extravagance with
my master's goods. Did one ever hear of such a thing? Eight pounds!'
'Well, I have nothing to do with it. He says it is all gone, that's
all.'
'Hm, hm! Well, there it is. Let him take it.'
I was struck by the sudden transition from the touching sensibility
with which she had just been speaking to me to this petty reckoning and
captiousness. Yet, thinking it over afterwards, I recognised that it was
merely because, in spite of what was lying on her heart, she retained
the habit of duty, and that it was the strength of that habit which
enabled her to pursue her functions as of old. Her grief was too strong
and too true to require any pretence of being unable to fulfil trivial
tasks, nor would she have understood that any one could so pretend.
Vanity is a sentiment so entirely at variance with genuine grief, yet
a sentiment so inherent in human nature, that even the most poignant
sorrow does not always drive it wholly forth. Vanity mingled with grief
shows itself in a desire to be recognised as unhappy or resigned;
and this ignoble desire--an aspiration which, for all that we may
not acknowledge it is rarely absent, even in cases of the utmost
affliction--takes off greatly from the force, the dignity, and the
sincerity of grief. Natalia Savishna had been so sorely smitten by her
misfortune that not a single wish of her own remained in her soul--she
went on living purely by habit.
Having handed over the provisions to Foka, and reminded him of the
refreshments which must be ready for the priests, she took up her
knitting and seated herself by my side again. The conversation reverted
to the old topic, and we once more mourned and shed tears together.
These talks with Natalia I repeated every day, for her quiet tears
and words of devotion brought me relief and comfort. Soon, however, a
parting came. Three days after the funeral we returned to Moscow, and I
never saw her again.
Grandmamma received the sad tidings only on our return to her house, and
her grief was extraordinary. At first we were not allowed to see her,
since for a whole week she was out of her mind, and the doctors were
afraid for her life. Not only did she decline all medicine whatsoever,
but she refused to speak to anybody or to take nourishment, and never
closed her eyes in sleep. Sometimes, as she sat alone in the arm-chair in
her room, she would begin laughing and crying at the same time, with a
sort of tearless grief, or else relapse into convulsions, and scream out
dreadful, incoherent words in a horrible voice. It was the first dire
sorrow which she had known in her life, and it reduced her almost
to distraction. She would begin accusing first one person, and then
another, of bringing this misfortune upon her, and rail at and blame
them with the most extraordinary virulence. Finally she would rise from
