by Leo Tolstoy
And love you like our mother dear.
That would have been quite fine, I think, had not the last line strangely grated.
‘And love you like our mother dear,’ I repeated to myself. ‘What other rhyme is there besides “mother dear”? “Mother near”? “Mother here”? Oh, it’s all right, and better than Karl Ivanych’s stuff at any rate!’
I copied out the last line. Then I read my entire composition out loud in the bedroom with feeling and gestures. There were lines that didn’t scan at all, but I didn’t dwell on them, since the last line struck me even more forcefully and unpleasantly. I sat down on the bed and started to brood.
‘Why did I write “like our mother dear”? She isn’t here, so it wasn’t necessary to mention her at all. Certainly, I love Grandmother and respect her, but even so it’s not the same. Why did I write that? Why did I lie? Even if it’s only a poem, it still wasn’t necessary.’
At that moment the tailor came in with our new short jackets.
‘Well, so be it!’ I said in exasperation, sticking the poem under a pillow in vexation and running off to try on the Moscow clothes.
They turned out to be superb: the short brown jackets with bronze buttons were made to fit snugly, unlike in the country where they had been cut with room for growing, and the black trousers were also tight – it was wonderful how well they outlined your muscles and lay on your boots.
‘I finally have trousers with foot straps – real ones!’ I mused, beside myself with joy as I examined my legs from every side. Even though I felt awkward and confined in the new clothes, I kept it from everyone and said that, on the contrary, they were very comfortable, and that if there was any defect, it was that they were a trifle loose. After that I combed my heavily pomaded hair in front of the mirror a long time. But however hard I tried, I couldn’t smooth down the cowlicks on top. As soon as I stopped pressing on them with the brush to test their obedience, they popped back up and stuck out in various directions, imparting a ridiculous expression to my face.
Karl Ivanych was getting dressed in the other room, and a blue tailcoat and some white articles had already been brought for him through the classroom. I heard the voice of one of Grandmother’s chambermaids in the doorway leading downstairs. I went to see what she wanted. She was holding a stiffly starched shirtfront and said that she had brought it for Karl Ivanych and hadn’t slept all night in order to get it washed and ready in time. I told her that I would give it to him and asked if Grandmother was up yet.
‘Well, of course she is, sir! My lady has already had her coffee and the archpriest has come. Don’t you look smart!’ she added with a smile, inspecting my new clothes.
That remark made me blush, but I twirled on one foot, snapped my fingers, and hopped, intending by that to give her a sense of just how smart I really was.
When I brought Karl Ivanych the shirtfront, he no longer needed it. He had put on another and was leaning over the little mirror on his desk and holding the magnificent bow of his cravat in both hands to see if his cleanly shaven chin moved freely above and around it. After straightening our clothes and asking Nikolay to do the same for him, he took us down to see Grandmother. It makes me laugh to recall how much the three of us reeked of pomade as we made our way downstairs.
Karl Ivanych was holding a little box of his own manufacture, Volodya had his drawing and I had my poem, and each of us carried on the tip of his tongue the greeting with which he would present his gift. Karl Ivanych opened the door to the salon just as the clergyman was putting on his vestments and intoning the first words of the office.39
Grandmother was already in the salon, bent over the back of a chair by the wall and devoutly praying, with Papa standing beside her. Noticing our hurried concealment behind our backs of the gifts we had brought and our effort to remain inconspicuously by the door, he turned towards us and smiled. The whole effect of surprise that we had been counting on was lost.
As we were about to go over to the cross, I was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming, stupefying shyness, and realizing that I would never have the courage to present my gift, I hid behind Karl Ivanych, who greeted Grandmother in the choicest language, transferred the box from his right hand to his left, held it out to her, and then withdrew a few steps to let Volodya take his turn. Grandmother seemed to be delighted with the box, on which golden edging had been glued, and she expressed her gratitude with a most affectionate smile. It was obvious, however, that she didn’t know what to do with it, and probably for that reason suggested to Papa that he look at the marvellous skill with which it had been made.
After satisfying his curiosity, Papa handed the box to the archpriest, who appeared to be quite taken with it. He shook his head, while gazing first at the box and then at the craftsman who had been able to make such a beautiful thing. Volodya presented his Turk and also received the most flattering praise from every side. Then came my turn, and Grandmother gazed at me with an encouraging smile.
Anyone who has experienced shyness knows that the feeling increases in direct proportion to its duration, and that resolve decreases in the same proportion; that is, the longer the condition lasts, the more insurmountable it becomes and the weaker the resolve that remains.
My shyness reached its uttermost limit and my last courage and resolve left me just as Karl Ivanych and Volodya were presenting their gifts: I felt the blood rush from my heart to my head, my face change from one colour to another, and large beads of sweat appear on my forehead and nose. My ears burned, my whole body trembled and perspired, and I rocked from one foot to the other, while continuing to stand where I was.
‘Well, show us what you have, Nikolenka. Is it a box or a drawing?’ Papa said. There was nothing to be done, so with a trembling hand I held out the fateful, now crumpled scroll, but in silence, since my voice, too, had completely refused to serve me. I was overwhelmed by the thought that instead of the expected drawing, my worthless verses would now be read in everyone’s hearing, along with the words ‘like our mother dear’, which would clearly prove that I had never loved her and had forgotten her. How can I convey my sufferings when Grandmother began to read my poem out loud and, unable to make sense of a line, paused in the middle to glance at Papa with a smile that seemed mocking to me; or when she articulated differently than I meant; or when, from weak eyesight, she handed the paper to Papa without finishing and asked him to read the poem to her again from the start? I thought she did that because she was tired of reading such poor and crookedly written verses and wanted Papa to read the last line himself, with its glaring proof of my insensitivity. I expected that he would rap me on the nose with the poem and say, ‘Don’t forget your mother, you wretched boy. Take that!’ although nothing like that happened. On the contrary, after the poem had been read, Grandmother said, ‘Charmant!’ and kissed me on the forehead.
The box, the drawing and the poem were placed beside two batiste handkerchiefs and a snuffbox with a portrait of maman that were already lying on the little extension table of the Voltaire armchair Grandmother always sat in.
‘Princess Varvara Ilinishna,’ announced one of the two enormous footmen who rode behind Grandmother in her coach.
Grandmother was absorbed in looking at the portrait set into the tortoiseshell snuffbox and didn’t answer.
‘May I show her in, your highness?’ the footman repeated.
SEVENTEEN
Princess Kornakova
‘Yes, do,’ Grandmother replied, settling into her armchair.
The princess was a woman of about forty-five, small, frail, thin and bilious, with unpleasant little grey-green eyes, whose expression was conspicuously at odds with the unnaturally ingratiating shape of her little mouth. Light-red hair was visible under her velvet hat with its ostrich plume, and her eyebrows and eyelashes seemed even lighter and redder against the unhealthy pallor of her face. Despite that, and thanks to her relaxed movements, tiny hands and the spareness o
f all her features, her general appearance still had something noble and energetic about it.
The princess talked a lot and belonged in her volubility to the category of people who always speak as if they’ve been contradicted, even if no one has said anything. She would first raise her voice, gradually lower it, and then suddenly speak out again with renewed energy, while gazing at those not taking part in the conversation, as if trying in that way to enlist their support.
Although the princess kissed Grandmother’s hand and continually called her ma bonne tante,40 I could tell that Grandmother was displeased with her. She raised her eyebrows particularly high as she listened to the princess’s story about why Prince Mikhailo was simply unable to come to congratulate Grandmother himself, despite his very great wish to do so, and then replying to the princess’s French in Russian, she said, drawing out her words, ‘I’m very grateful to you, my dear, for being so attentive, and that Prince Mikhailo hasn’t come, well, what is there to say about it? He always has such a lot of things to do, and, if the truth be told, what pleasure is there for him in the company of an old woman?’
And without giving the princess a chance to object, she continued, ‘And how are your children, my dear?’
‘Well, thank goodness, ma tante, they’re growing and studying and up to their usual tricks, especially Étienne, the oldest, who’s becoming such a scamp that there’s no peace with him. On the other hand, he’s capable, un garçon qui promet.41 Can you imagine, mon cousin?’ she went on, addressing Papa, since Grandmother, not at all interested in the princess’s children but wishing to boast of her own grandsons, had carefully taken my poem out from under the box and begun to unroll it, ‘can you imagine what he did a few days ago?’
And the princess, leaning towards Papa, started to tell him something with great animation. Finishing her story, which I didn’t hear, she immediately laughed and then said with an enquiring look at Papa, ‘What sort of boy is that, mon cousin? He deserved a thrashing, but it was such a clever and amusing prank that I forgave him, mon cousin.’
And the princess, directing her gaze back at Grandmother, continued to smile without saying anything more.
‘Do you actually beat your children, my dear?’ Grandmother asked, significantly raising her eyebrows and giving particular emphasis to the word ‘beat’.
‘Ah, ma bonne tante,’ the princess answered in a sweet little voice with a quick glance at Papa, ‘I know your opinion on the matter, but allow me in this one thing to disagree with you. However much I’ve thought about it, however much I’ve read and consulted with others on the subject, my experience still convinces me of the need for fear in influencing children. To make anything out of a child, you need fear … Isn’t that right, mon cousin? And what, je vous demande un peu,42 do children fear more than the rod?’
As she said that, she looked enquiringly at us, too, and I’ll admit it made me quite uncomfortable.
‘Whatever you say, a boy of twelve or even fourteen is still a child. Girls are a different story.’
‘It’s a good thing I’m not her son,’ I thought.
‘Yes, that’s very fine, my dear,’ Grandmother said, rolling up my poem and putting it back under the box, as if, after that last remark, considering the princess unworthy of hearing such a work, ‘that’s all very fine, but tell me, please, how, after that, you can expect refined feelings from your children.’
And regarding that argument as irrefutable, Grandmother added, in order to end the conversation, ‘But, of course, we all have our own views on the subject.’
The princess didn’t answer, but merely smiled indulgently, expressing thereby her tolerance of those strange prejudices in someone for whom she had such respect.
‘Oh, but do introduce me to your young people,’ she said, looking at us with an amiable smile.
We stood up and, after gazing into the princess’s face, had no idea what else we should do to acknowledge the introduction.
‘Well, kiss the princess’s hand,’ Papa said.
‘I hope you will love your old aunt,’ she said, kissing Volodya on the head. ‘Although I’m a distant relation, I go more by connections of friendship than degrees of kinship,’ she added, mainly to Grandmother, although Grandmother continued to be displeased with her and replied, ‘Does kinship really mean anything these days, my dear?’
‘This one of mine will be a young man of the world,’ Papa said, indicating Volodya, ‘and this one’s a poet,’ he added just as I was kissing the princess’s thin little hand and imagining with exceptional vividness a birch rod in it, and beneath the rod a bench, and so on and so forth.
‘Which one?’ the princess asked, holding on to my hand.
‘This little one with the cowlicks,’ Papa said with a merry smile.
‘What have my cowlicks done to him? Is there really nothing else to talk about?’ I thought and withdrew to a corner.
I had the strangest notions about beauty and even considered Karl Ivanvych the handsomest man in the world. But I knew quite well that I wasn’t good-looking myself, and wasn’t at all mistaken about it, and therefore every hint about my appearance was a painful affront.
I remember very well how once at dinner – I was six at the time – they were talking about my looks and maman was trying to find something good in my face, and said that I had clever eyes and a pleasant smile, but yielding in the end to my father’s arguments and her own eyesight, she was forced to admit I was homely. Afterwards, as I was thanking her for dinner, she stroked my cheek and said, ‘Remember, Nikolenka, no one will love you for your face, so you must try to be a good and clever boy.’
Those words convinced me not only that I was no beauty, but also that I would certainly be a good and clever boy.
Despite that, there were often moments when I was overwhelmed with despair. I imagined that there could be no happiness on earth for someone with the broad nose, thick lips and tiny grey eyes I had. I asked God to perform a miracle and turn me into a handsome man, and I would have exchanged all that I had then and all that I might have in the future for a handsome face.
EIGHTEEN
Prince Ivan Ivanych
After the princess had listened to my poem and showered its author with praise, Grandmother relented, started to speak French to her, stopped using the formal pronoun and the phrase ‘my dear’ and invited her to come back that evening with her children, which the princess agreed to do, and then, after sitting a little while longer, she left.
So many guests arrived with greetings that morning that there was never a moment when several carriages weren’t parked at once in the yard by the entrance.
‘Bonjour, chère cousine,’ said one of the guests, upon entering the room and kissing Grandmother’s hand.
He was a tall man of about seventy in a military tunic with large epaulettes and a big white cross visible from under its collar, and a calm, forthright expression on his face. I was struck by the freedom and simplicity of his movements. Although his only remaining hair was a sparse crescent at the back of his head, and the position of his upper lip clearly indicated a scarcity of teeth, his face was still remarkably handsome.
Prince Ivan Ivanych had at a very young age made a brilliant career at the end of the last century, thanks to his noble character, handsome appearance, remarkable valour, distinguished and powerful family, but especially good luck. He remained in the service, and his ambition was very quickly satisfied to such a degree that there was nothing left for him to desire in that regard. From early youth he had conducted himself as if he were preparing to assume the brilliant place in society to which fate eventually assigned him. Thus, although he had, like everyone, encountered setbacks, disappointments and distress in his brilliant and rather vainglorious life, he never once changed either his always calm character or his mode of thought or his basic rules of religion and morality, and he enjoyed universal respect not so much for his brilliant position a
s for his firmness and consistency. He wasn’t a man of great intelligence, but thanks to his position, which permitted him to regard the petty aggravations of life from above, his mode of thought was a lofty one. He was kind and sensitive, yet cold and even aloof in his manner of address. That came from the need to protect himself from the constant importunity and flattery of those who merely wanted to take advantage of his influence, since from his high position he could be useful to many. His coldness, however, was softened by the gracious courtesy of a man of ‘very high society’. He was well educated and well read, but his education ended with what he had acquired in his youth – at the end of the last century, that is. He had read everything remarkable written in France in the eighteenth century in the areas of philosophy and rhetoric, and had a sound knowledge of all the best works of French literature, so that he could and often did cite passages from Racine, Corneille, Boileau, Molière and Fénelon.43 He had a brilliant knowledge of mythology and had with profit studied in French translation the ancient monuments of epic poetry, and he had an adequate knowledge of history, gleaned from Ségur,44 but no understanding at all of mathematics beyond arithmetic, nor of physics, nor of contemporary literature. He could in conversation maintain a dignified silence or offer a few general remarks on Goethe, Schiller and Byron,45 but he had never read them. Despite that French classical education, of which so few exemplars survive today, his conversation was simple, the simplicity both concealing his ignorance of certain things and displaying toleration and a pleasant tone. He was a great foe of eccentricity of every kind, calling it a ruse of the vulgar. Society was essential to him wherever he resided, and whether in Moscow or abroad he always lived in the same accessible way and on certain days was at home to the whole city. His standing was such that an invitation from him could serve as an entrée to any drawing room, and such, too, that many a young and pretty lady readily offered the prince her rosy cheek, which he kissed as if with paternal feeling, while other, seemingly quite important and respectable people experienced indescribable joy on being admitted to the prince’s company.
