I TOOK some sheets of paper, and tried, first of all, to make a list of
my tasks and duties for the coming year. The paper needed ruling, but,
as I could not find the ruler, I had to use a Latin dictionary instead.
The result was that, when I had drawn the pen along the edge of the
dictionary and removed the latter, I found that, in place of a line, I
had only made an oblong smudge on the paper, since the dictionary was
not long enough to reach across it, and the pen had slipped round the
soft, yielding corner of the book. Thereupon I took another piece of
paper, and, by carefully manipulating the dictionary, contrived to
rule what at least RESEMBLED lines. Dividing my duties into three
sections--my duties to myself, my duties to my neighbour, and my duties
to God--I started to indite a list of the first of those sections, but
they seemed to me so numerous, and therefore requiring to be divided
into so many species and subdivisions, that I thought I had better first
of all write down the heading of “Rules of My Life” before proceeding to
their detailed inscription. Accordingly, I proceeded to write “Rules of
My Life” on the outside of the six sheets of paper which I had made into
a sort of folio, but the words came out in such a crooked and uneven
scrawl that for long I sat debating the question, “Shall I write
them again?”--for long, sat in agonised contemplation of the ragged
handwriting and disfigured title-page. Why was it that all the beauty
and clarity which my soul then contained came out so misshapenly
on paper (as in life itself) just when I was wishing to apply those
qualities to what I was thinking at the moment?
“The priest is here, so please come downstairs and hear his directions,”
said Nicola as he entered.
Hurriedly concealing my folio under the table-cloth, I looked at myself
in the mirror, combed my hair upwards (I imagined this to give me a
pensive air), and descended to the divannaia, [Room with divans, or
ante-room] where the table stood covered with a cloth and had an ikon
and candles placed upon it. Papa entered just as I did, but by another
door: whereupon the priest--a grey-headed old monk with a severe,
elderly face--blessed him, and Papa kissed his small, squat, wizened
hand. I did the same.
“Go and call Woldemar,” said Papa. “Where is he? Wait a minute, though.
Perhaps he is preparing for the Communion at the University?”
“No, he is with the Prince,” said Katenka, and glanced at Lubotshka.
Suddenly the latter blushed for some reason or another, and then
frowned. Finally, pretending that she was not well, she left the room,
and I followed her. In the drawing-room she halted, and began to pencil
something fresh on her paper of peccadilloes.
“Well, what new sin have you gone and committed?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied with another blush. All at once we heard
Dimitri’s voice raised in the hall as he took his leave of Woloda.
“It seems to me you are always experiencing some new temptation,” said
Katenka, who had entered the room behind us, and now stood looking at
Lubotshka.
What was the matter with my sister I could not conceive, but she was
now so agitated that the tears were starting from her eyes. Finally her
confusion grew uncontrollable, and vented itself in rage against both
herself and Katenka, who appeared to be teasing her.
“Any one can see that you are a FOREIGNER!” she cried (nothing offended
Katenka so much as to be called by that term, which is why Lubotshka
used it). “Just because I have the secret of which you know,” she went
on, with anger ringing through her tone, “you purposely go and upset me!
Please do understand that it is no joking matter.”
“Do you know what she has gone and written on her paper, Nicolinka?”
cried Katenka, much infuriated by the term “foreigner.” “She has written
down that--”
“Oh, I never could have believed that you could be so cruel!” exclaimed
Lubotshka, now bursting into open sobbing as she moved away from us.
“You chose that moment on purpose! You spend your whole time in trying
to make me sin! I’ll never go to YOU again for sympathy and advice!”