“On receipt of this, and as soon as winter communication is established, thou art ordered to send to my house, situated in the city of Moscow, twenty-five peasant-sledges, drawn by two horses each, one horse from each house, and one sledge and one man from each second house, and to load them with [so many] quarters of oats, [so many] of wheat, and [so many] of rye, as also with all the poultry and geese and ducks, well frozen, which have to be killed this winter, well packed and accompanied by a complete list, under the supervision of a well-chosen man;” and so it went on for a couple of pages, till the next full stop was reached. After this there followed an enumeration of the penalties which would be inflicted in case the provisions should not reach the house situated in such a street, number so-and-so, in due time and in good condition.
Some time before Christmas the twenty-five peasant-sledges really entered our gates, and covered the surface of the wide yard.
“Frol!” shouted my father, as soon as the report of this great event reached him. “Kiryúshka! Yegórka! Where are they? Everything will be stolen! Frol, go and receive the oats! Uliana, go and receive the poultry! Kiryúshka, call the princess!”
All the household was in commotion, the servants running wildly in every direction, from the hall to the yard, and from the yard to the hall, but chiefly to the maidservants’ room, to communicate there the Nikóskoye news: “Pásha is going to marry after Christmas. Aunt Anna has surrendered her soul to God,” and so on. Letters had also come from the country, and very soon one of the maids would steal upstairs into my room.
“Are you alone? The teacher is not in?”
“No, he is at the university.”
“Well, then, be kind and read me this letter from mother.”
And I would read to her the naive letter, which always began with the words, “Father and mother send you their blessings for ages not to be broken.” After this came the news: “Aunt Eupraxie lies ill, all her bones aching; and your cousin is not yet married, but hopes to be after Easter; and Aunt Stepanída’s cow died on All Saints’ day.” Following the news came the greetings, two pages of them: “Brother Paul sends you his greetings, and the sisters Mary and Dária send their greetings, and then Uncle Dmitri sends his many greetings,” and so on. However, notwithstanding the monotony of the enumeration, each name awakened some remarks: “Then she is still alive, poor soul, if she sends her greetings; it is nine years since she has lain motionless.” Or, “Oh, he has not forgotten me; he must be back, then, for Christmas; such a nice boy. You will write me a letter, won’t you? and I must not forget him then.” I promised, of course, and when the time came I wrote a letter in exactly the same style.
When the sledges had been unloaded, the hall filled with peasants. They had put on their best coats over their sheepskins, and waited until father should call them into his room to have a talk about the snow and the prospects of the next crops. They hardly dared to walk in their heavy boots on the polished floor. A few ventured to sit down on the edge of an oak bench; they emphatically refused to make use of chairs. So they waited for hours, looking with alarm upon everyone who entered father’s room or issued from it.
Some time later on, usually next morning, one of the servants would run slyly upstairs to the classroom.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then go quickly to the hall. The peasants want to see you; something from your nurse.”
When I went down to the hall, one of the peasants would give me a little bundle containing perhaps a few rye cakes, half a dozen hard-boiled eggs, and some apples, tied in a motley colored cotton kerchief. “Take that: it is your nurse, Vasilísa, who sends it to you. Look if the apples are not frozen. I hope not: I kept them all the journey on my breast. Such a fearful frost we had.” And the broad, bearded face, covered with frostbites, would smile radiantly, showing two rows of beautiful white teeth from beneath quite a forest of hair.
“And this is for your brother, from his nurse Anna,” another peasant would say, handing me a similar bundle. “ ‘Poor boy,’ she says, ‘he can never have enough at school.’ ”
Blushing and not knowing what to say, I would murmur at last, “Tell Vasilísa that I kiss her, and Anna too, for my brother.” At which all faces would become still more radiant.
“Yes, I will, to be sure.”
Then Kiríla, who kept watch at father’s door, would whisper suddenly, “Run quickly upstairs; your father may come out in a moment. Don’t forget the kerchief; they want to take it back.”
As I carefully folded the worn kerchief, I most passionately desired to send Vasilísa something. But I had nothing to send, not even a toy, and we never had pocketmoney.
Our best time, of course, was in the country. As soon as Easter and Whitsuntide had passed, all our thoughts were directed toward Nikóskoye. However, time went on—the lilacs must be past blooming at Nikóskoye—and father had still thousands of affairs to keep him in town. At last five or six peasant-carts entered our yard: they came to take all sorts of things which had to be sent to the country-house. The great old coach and the other coaches in which we were going to make the journey were taken out and inspected once more. The boxes began to be packed. Our lessons made slow progress; at every moment we interrupted our teachers, asking whether this or that book should be taken with us, and long before all others we began packing our books, our slates, and the toys that we ourselves
