moment, a thousand new thoughts with regard to their lonely position
came crowding into my head, and I felt so remorseful at the notion
that we were rich and they poor, that I coloured up and could not look
Katenka in the face.
'Yet what does it matter,' I thought, 'that we are well off and they are
not? Why should that necessitate a separation? Why should we not share
in common what we possess?' Yet, I had a feeling that I could not talk
to Katenka on the subject, since a certain practical instinct, opposed
to all logical reasoning, warned me that, right though she possibly was,
I should do wrong to tell her so.
'It is impossible that you should leave us. How could we ever live
apart?'
'Yet what else is there to be done? Certainly I do not WANT to do it;
yet, if it HAS to be done, I know what my plan in life will be.'
'Yes, to become an actress! How absurd!' I exclaimed (for I knew that to
enter that profession had always been her favourite dream).
'Oh no. I only used to say that when I was a little girl.'
'Well, then? What?'
'To go into a convent and live there. Then I could walk out in a black
dress and velvet cap!' cried Katenka.
Has it ever befallen you, my readers, to become suddenly aware that your
conception of things has altered--as though every object in life
had unexpectedly turned a side towards you of which you had hitherto
remained unaware? Such a species of moral change occurred, as regards
myself, during this journey, and therefore from it I date the beginning
of my boyhood. For the first time in my life, I then envisaged the idea
that we--i.e. our family--were not the only persons in the world; that
not every conceivable interest was centred in ourselves; and that there
existed numbers of people who had nothing in common with us, cared
nothing for us, and even knew nothing of our existence. No doubt I had
known all this before--only I had not known it then as I knew it now; I
had never properly felt or understood it.
Thought merges into conviction through paths of its own, as well as,
sometimes, with great suddenness and by methods wholly different from
those which have brought other intellects to the same conclusion. For me
the conversation with Katenka--striking deeply as it did, and forcing me
to reflect on her future position--constituted such a path. As I gazed
at the towns and villages through which we passed, and in each house of
which lived at least one family like our own, as well as at the women
and children who stared with curiosity at our carriages and then became
lost to sight for ever, and the peasants and workmen who did not even
look at us, much less make us any obeisance, the question arose for the
first time in my thoughts, 'Whom else do they care for if not for us?'
And this question was followed by others, such as, 'To what end do
they live?' 'How do they educate their children?' 'Do they teach their
children and let them play? What are their names?' and so forth.
IV. IN MOSCOW
From the time of our arrival in Moscow, the change in my conception of
objects, of persons, and of my connection with them became increasingly
perceptible. When at my first meeting with Grandmamma, I saw her thin,
wrinkled face and faded eyes, the mingled respect and fear with which
she had hitherto inspired me gave place to compassion, and when, laying
her cheek against Lubotshka's head, she sobbed as though she saw before
her the corpse of her beloved daughter, my compassion grew to love.
I felt deeply sorry to see her grief at our meeting, even though I knew
that in ourselves we represented nothing in her eyes, but were dear to
her only as reminders of our mother--that every kiss which she imprinted
