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 farmer 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
