with us all round. 'So much for us children!' he would say. On
the whole, however, the impossible pinnacle upon which my childish
imagination had placed him had undergone a certain abasement. I still
kissed his large white hand with a certain feeling of love and respect,
but I also allowed myself to think about him and to criticise his
behaviour until involuntarily thoughts occurred to me which alarmed me
by their presence. Never shall I forget one incident in particular which
awakened thoughts of this kind, and caused me intense astonishment. Late
one evening, he entered the drawing-room in his black dress-coat and
white waistcoat, to take Woloda (who was still dressing in his bedroom)
to a ball. Grandmamma was also in her bedroom, but had given orders
that, before setting out, Woloda was to come and say goodbye to her (it
was her invariable custom to inspect him before he went to a ball, and
to bless him and direct him as to his behaviour). The room where we were
was lighted by a solitary lamp. Mimi and Katenka were walking up
and down, and Lubotshka was playing Field's Second Concerto (Mamma's
favourite piece) at the piano. Never was there such a family likeness as
between Mamma and my sister--not so much in the face or the stature as
in the hands, the walk, the voice, the favourite expressions, and,
above all, the way of playing the piano and the whole demeanour at the
instrument. Lubotshka always arranged her dress when sitting down just
as Mamma had done, as well as turned the leaves like her, tapped her
fingers angrily and said 'Dear me!' whenever a difficult passage did not
go smoothly, and, in particular, played with the delicacy and exquisite
purity of touch which in those days caused the execution of Field's
music to be known characteristically as 'jeu perle' and to lie beyond
comparison with the humbug of our modern virtuosi.
Papa entered the room with short, soft steps, and approached Lubotshka.
On seeing him she stopped playing.
'No, go on, Luba, go on,' he said as he forced her to sit down again.
She went on playing, while Papa, his head on his hand, sat near her for
a while. Then suddenly he gave his shoulders a shrug, and, rising, began
to pace the room. Every time that he approached the piano he halted
for a moment and looked fixedly at Lubotshka. By his walk and his
every movement, I could see that he was greatly agitated. Once, when he
stopped behind Lubotshka, he kissed her black hair, and then, wheeling
quickly round, resumed his pacing. The piece finished, Lubotshka went up
to him and said, 'Was it well played?' whereupon, without answering, he
took her head in his two hands, and kissed her forehead and eyes with
such tenderness as I had never before seen him display.
'Why, you are crying!' cried Lubotshka suddenly as she ceased to toy
with his watch-chain and stared at him with her great black eyes.
'Pardon me, darling Papa! I had quite forgotten that it was dear Mamma's
piece which I was playing.'
'No, no, my love; play it often,' he said in a voice trembling with
emotion. 'Ah, if you only knew how much good it does me to share your
tears!'
He kissed her again, and then, mastering his feelings and shrugging
his shoulders, went to the door leading to the corridor which ran past
Woloda's room.
'Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?' he cried, halting in the middle of
the passage. Just then Masha came along.
'Why, you look prettier every day,' he said to her. She blushed and
