Childhood, Boyhood, Youth

by Leo Tolstoy

  both before and after the funeral I never ceased to cry and to look

  miserable, yet I feel conscience-stricken when I recall that grief

  of mine, seeing that always present in it there was an element of

  conceit--of a desire to show that I was more grieved than any one else,

  of an interest which I took in observing the effect, produced upon

  others by my tears, and of an idle curiosity leading me to remark

  Mimi's bonnet and the faces of all present. The mere circumstance that

  I despised myself for not feeling grief to the exclusion of everything

  else, and that I endeavoured to conceal the fact, shows that my sadness

  was insincere and unnatural. I took a delight in feeling that I was

  unhappy, and in trying to feel more so. Consequently this egotistic

  consciousness completely annulled any element of sincerity in my woe.

  That night I slept calmly and soundly (as is usual after any great

  emotion), and awoke with my tears dried and my nerves restored. At ten

  o'clock we were summoned to attend the pre-funeral requiem.

  The room was full of weeping servants and peasants who had come to bid

  farewell to their late mistress. During the service I myself wept

  a great deal, made frequent signs of the cross, and performed many

  genuflections, but I did not pray with, my soul, and felt, if anything,

  almost indifferent. My thoughts were chiefly centred upon the new coat

  which I was wearing (a garment which was tight and uncomfortable) and

  upon how to avoid soiling my trousers at the knees. Also I took the most

  minute notice of all present.

  Papa stood at the head of the coffin. He was as white as snow, and

  only with difficulty restrained his tears. His tall figure in its black

  frockcoat, his pale, expressive face, the graceful, assured manner in

  which, as usual, he made the sign of the cross or bowed until he touched

  the floor with his hand [A custom of the Greek funeral rite.] or took

  the candle from the priest or went to the coffin--all were exceedingly

  effective; yet for some reason or another I felt a grudge against him

  for that very ability to appear effective at such a moment. Mimi stood

  leaning against the wall as though scarcely able to support herself. Her

  dress was all awry and covered with feathers, and her cap cocked to one

  side, while her eyes were red with weeping, her legs trembling under

  her, and she sobbed incessantly in a heartrending manner as ever and

  again she buried her face in her handkerchief or her hands. I imagine

  that she did this to check her continual sobbing without being seen by

  the spectators. I remember, too, her telling Papa, the evening before,

  that Mamma's death had come upon her as a blow from which she could

  never hope to recover; that with Mamma she had lost everything; but that

  "the angel," as she called my mother, had not forgotten her when at the

  point of death, since she had declared her wish to render her (Mimi's)

  and Katenka's fortunes secure for ever. Mimi had shed bitter tears

  while relating this, and very likely her sorrow, if not wholly pure and

  disinterested, was in the main sincere. Lubotshka, in black garments

  and suffused with tears, stood with her head bowed upon her breast. She

  rarely looked at the coffin, yet whenever she did so her face expressed

  a sort of childish fear. Katenka stood near her mother, and, despite

  her lengthened face, looked as lovely as ever. Woloda's frank nature

  was frank also in grief. He stood looking grave and as though he were

  staring at some object with fixed eyes. Then suddenly his lips would

  begin to quiver, and he would hastily make the sign of the cross, and

  bend his head again.

  Such of those present as were strangers I found intolerable. In fact,

  the phrases of condolence with which they addressed Papa (such, for

  instance, as that "she is better off now" "she was too good for this

  world," and so on) awakened in me something like fury. What right had

  they to weep over or to talk about her? Some of them, in referring to

  ourselves, called us "orphans"--just as though it were not a matter of

  common knowledge that children who have lost their mother are known as

  orphans! Probably (I thought) they liked to be the first to give us that

  name, just as some people find pleasure in being the first to address a

  newly-married girl as "Madame."

  In a far corner of the room, and almost hidden by the open door, of the

  dining-room, stood a grey old woman with bent knees. With hands clasped

  together and eyes lifted to heaven, she prayed only--not wept. Her soul

  was in the presence of God, and she was asking Him soon to reunite her

  to her whom she had loved beyond all beings on this earth, and whom she

  steadfastly believed that she would very soon meet again.

  "There stands one who SINCERELY loved her," I thought to myself, and

  felt ashamed.

  The requiem was over. They uncovered the face of the deceased, and all

  present except ourselves went to the coffin to give her the kiss of

  farewell.

  One of the last to take leave of her departed mistress was a peasant

  woman who was holding by the hand a pretty little girl of five whom she

  had brought with her, God knows for what reason. Just at a moment when

  I chanced to drop my wet handkerchief and was stooping to pick it up

  again, a loud, piercing scream startled me, and filled me with such

  terror that, were I to live a hundred years more, I should never forget

  it. Even now the recollection always sends a cold shudder through my

  frame. I raised my head. Standing on the chair near the coffin was the

  peasant woman, while struggling and fighting in her arms was the

  little girl, and it was this same poor child who had screamed with such

  dreadful, desperate frenzy as, straining her terrified face away, she

  still, continued to gaze with dilated eyes at the face of the corpse.

  I too screamed in a voice perhaps more dreadful still, and ran headlong

  from the room.

  Only now did I understand the source of the strong, oppressive smell

  which, mingling with the scent of the incense, filled the chamber, while

  the thought that the face which, but a few days ago, had been full of

  freshness and beauty--the face which I loved more than anything else in

  all the world--was now capable of inspiring horror at length revealed to

  me, as though for the first time, the terrible truth, and filled my soul

  with despair.

  XXVIII -- SAD RECOLLECTIONS

  Mamma was no longer with us, but our life went on as usual. We went

  to bed and got up at the same times and in the same rooms; breakfast,

  luncheon, and supper continued to be at their usual hours; everything

  remained standing in its accustomed place; nothing in the house or in

  our mode of life was altered: only, she was not there.

  Yet it seemed to me as though such a misfortune ought to have changed

  everything. Our old mode of life appeared like an insult to her memory.

  It recalled too vividly her presence.

  The day before the funeral I felt as though I should like to rest a

  little after luncheon, and accordingly went to Natalia Savishna's room

&n
bsp; with the intention of installing myself comfortably under the warm, soft

  down of the quilt on her bed. When I entered I found Natalia herself

  lying on the bed and apparently asleep, but, on hearing my footsteps,

  she raised herself up, removed the handkerchief which had been

  protecting her face from the flies, and, adjusting her cap, sat forward

  on the edge of the bed. Since it frequently happened that I came to lie

  down in her room, she guessed my errand at once, and said:

  "So you have come to rest here a little, have you? Lie down, then, my

  dearest."

  "Oh, but what is the matter with you, Natalia Savishna?" I exclaimed

  as I forced her back again. "I did not come for that. No, you are tired

  yourself, so you LIE down."

  "I am quite rested now, darling," she said (though I knew that it was

  many a night since she had closed her eyes). "Yes, I am indeed, and have

  no wish to sleep again," she added with a deep sigh.

  I felt as though I wanted to speak to her of our misfortune, since I

  knew her sincerity and love, and thought that it would be a consolation

  to me to weep with her.

  "Natalia Savishna," I said after a pause, as I seated myself upon the

  bed, "who would ever have thought of this?"

  The old woman looked at me with astonishment, for she did not quite

  understand my question.

  "Yes, who would ever have thought of it?" I repeated.

  "Ah, my darling," she said with a glance of tender compassion, "it is

  not only 'Who would ever have thought of it?' but 'Who, even now, would

  ever believe it?' I am old, and my bones should long ago have gone to

  rest rather than that I should have lived to see the old master, your

  Grandpapa, of blessed memory, and Prince Nicola Michaelovitch, and his

  two brothers, and your sister Amenka all buried before me, though all

  younger than myself--and now my darling, to my never-ending sorrow, gone

  home before me! Yet it has been God's will. He took her away because she

  was worthy to be taken, and because He has need of the good ones."

  This simple thought seemed to me a consolation, and I pressed closer to

  Natalia. She laid her hands upon my head as she looked upward with eyes

  expressive of a deep, but resigned, sorrow. In her soul was a sure and

  certain hope that God would not long separate her from the one upon whom

  the whole strength of her love had for many years been concentrated.

  "Yes, my dear," she went on, "it is a long time now since I used to

  nurse and fondle her, and she used to call me Natasha. She used to come

  jumping upon me, and caressing and kissing me, and say, 'MY Nashik, MY

  darling, MY ducky,' and I used to answer jokingly, 'Well, my love, I

  don't believe that you DO love me. You will be a grown-up young

  lady soon, and going away to be married, and will leave your Nashik

  forgotten.' Then she would grow thoughtful and say, 'I think I had

  better not marry if my Nashik cannot go with me, for I mean never to

  leave her.' Yet, alas! She has left me now! Who was there in the world

  she did not love? Yes, my dearest, it must never be POSSIBLE for you to

  forget your Mamma. She was not a being of earth--she was an angel from

  Heaven. When her soul has entered the heavenly kingdom she will continue

  to love you and to be proud of you even there."

  "But why do you say 'when her soul has entered the heavenly kingdom'?" I

  asked. "I believe it is there now."

  "No, my dearest," replied Natalia as she lowered her voice and pressed

  herself yet closer to me, "her soul is still here," and she pointed

  upwards. She spoke in a whisper, but with such an intensity of

  conviction that I too involuntarily raised my eyes and looked at the

  ceiling, as though expecting to see something there. "Before the souls

  of the just enter Paradise they have to undergo forty trials for forty

  days, and during that time they hover around their earthly home." [A

  Russian popular legend.]

  She went on speaking for some time in this strain--speaking with the

  same simplicity and conviction as though she were relating common things

  which she herself had witnessed, and to doubt which could never enter

  into any one's head. I listened almost breathlessly, and though I did

  not understand all she said, I never for a moment doubted her word.

  "Yes, my darling, she is here now, and perhaps looking at us and

  listening to what we are saying," concluded Natalia. Raising her head,

  she remained silent for a while. At length she wiped away the tears

  which were streaming from her eyes, looked me straight in the face, and

  said in a voice trembling with emotion:

  "Ah, it is through many trials that God is leading me to Him. Why,

  indeed, am I still here? Whom have I to live for? Whom have I to love?"

  "Do you not love US, then?" I asked sadly, and half-choking with my

  tears.

  "Yes, God knows that I love you, my darling; but to love any one as I

  loved HER--that I cannot do."

  She could say no more, but turned her head aside and wept bitterly. As

  for me, I no longer thought of going to sleep, but sat silently with her

  and mingled my tears with hers.

  Presently Foka entered the room, but, on seeing our emotion and not

  wishing to disturb us, stopped short at the door.

  "Do you want anything, my good Foka?" asked Natalia as she wiped away

  her tears.

  "If you please, half-a-pound of currants, four pounds of sugar, and

  three pounds of rice for the kutia." [Cakes partaken of by the mourners

  at a Russian funeral.]

  "Yes, in one moment," said Natalia as she took a pinch of snuff and

  hastened to her drawers. All traces of the grief, aroused by our

  conversation disappeared on, the instant that she had duties to fulfil,

  for she looked upon those duties as of paramount importance.

  "But why FOUR pounds?" she objected as she weighed the sugar on a

  steelyard. "Three and a half would be sufficient," and she withdrew a

  few lumps. "How is it, too, that, though I weighed out eight pounds of

  rice yesterday, more is wanted now? No offence to you, Foka, but I am

  not going to waste rice like that. I suppose Vanka is glad that there

  is confusion in the house just now, for he thinks that nothing will be

  looked after, but I am not going to have any careless extravagance with

  my master's goods. Did one ever hear of such a thing? Eight pounds!"

  "Well, I have nothing to do with it. He says it is all gone, that's

  all."

  "Hm, hm! Well, there it is. Let him take it."

  I was struck by the sudden transition from the touching sensibility

  with which she had just been speaking to me to this petty reckoning and

  captiousness. Yet, thinking it over afterwards, I recognised that it was

  merely because, in spite of what was lying on her heart, she retained

  the habit of duty, and that it was the strength of that habit which

  enabled her to pursue her functions as of old. Her grief was too strong

  and too true to require any pretence of being unable to fulfil trivial

  tasks, nor would she have understood that any one could so pretend.

  Vanity is a sentiment so entirely at variance with genuine
grief, yet

  a sentiment so inherent in human nature, that even the most poignant

  sorrow does not always drive it wholly forth. Vanity mingled with grief

  shows itself in a desire to be recognised as unhappy or resigned;

  and this ignoble desire--an aspiration which, for all that we may

  not acknowledge it is rarely absent, even in cases of the utmost

  affliction--takes off greatly from the force, the dignity, and the

  sincerity of grief. Natalia Savishna had been so sorely smitten by her

  misfortune that not a single wish of her own remained in her soul--she

  went on living purely by habit.

  Having handed over the provisions to Foka, and reminded him of the

  refreshments which must be ready for the priests, she took up her

  knitting and seated herself by my side again. The conversation reverted

  to the old topic, and we once more mourned and shed tears together.

  These talks with Natalia I repeated every day, for her quiet tears

  and words of devotion brought me relief and comfort. Soon, however, a

  parting came. Three days after the funeral we returned to Moscow, and I

  never saw her again.

  Grandmamma received the sad tidings only on our return to her house, and

  her grief was extraordinary. At first we were not allowed to see her,

  since for a whole week she was out of her mind, and the doctors were

  afraid for her life. Not only did she decline all medicine whatsoever,

  but she refused to speak to anybody or to take nourishment, and never

  closed her eyes in sleep. Sometimes, as she sat alone in the arm-chair in

  her room, she would begin laughing and crying at the same time, with a

  sort of tearless grief, or else relapse into convulsions, and scream out

  dreadful, incoherent words in a horrible voice. It was the first dire