Volodia Ivanovitch's house stood close to the village street, so that
as Elena looked from her windows she could see the long stretch of
white road--the snow piled up in great walls on either side--the two
rows of straggling, half-finished log huts, ending with the ruined
Church, and the new posting-house.
In the distance, the flat surface of the frozen lake, the dark green
of the pine forest, and the wide stretches of level country; broken
here and there by the tops of the scattered wooden fences.
Up the street the sledges ran evenly, the horses jangling the bells on
their great arched collars, the drivers in their leather fur-lined
coats, cracking their whips and shouting.
Now and then a woman, in a thick pelisse, a bright-coloured
handkerchief on her head, would come by; dragging a load of wood or
carrying a child in her arms.
The air was stilly cold, with a sparkling clearness; the sky as blue
and brilliant as midsummer.
Elena felt cheered by the exhilarating brightness. She was young, and
gradually she rose from the state of indifference into which she had
fallen, and began to take her old interest in all that was going on
about her.
"I want to ask you something, Uncle Volodia," she said one day, as
they sat round the _samivar_,[C] for she had begged that they might
have at least one meal together, in the sitting-room.
[C] Tea-urn.
Maria was rather constrained on these occasions, seeming oppressed
with the feeling that she must sit exactly in the centre of her chair.
She spread a large clean handkerchief out over her knees, to catch any
crumbs that might be wandering, and fixed her eyes on the children
with respectful solemnity.
Volodia, on the contrary, always came in smiling genially, in his old
homespun blouse and high boots; and was ready for a game with Daria,
or a romp with Boris, the moment the tea things had been carried away
by his wife.
"What is it, Elena Andreïevna?" he asked. "Nothing very serious, I
hope?"
"Not very, Uncle Volodia. It's only that I want to learn something--I
want to feel I can _do_ something when our money has gone, for I know
it won't last very long."
"Why trouble your head about business, Elena Andreïevna? You know your
things sold for a great deal, and it is all put away in the wooden
honey-box, in the clothes chest. It will last till you're an old
woman!"
"But I would like to _feel_ I was earning some money, Uncle Volodia. I
think I might learn to make paper flowers. Don't you think so, dear
Uncle Volodia? You know I began while mamma was with us; the lady in
Mourum taught me. I wish very much to go on with it."
Uncle Volodia pondered. It might be an amusement for the poor girl,
and no one need know of the crazy notion of selling them.
"If you like, _Matoushka_. Do just as you like," he said.
So it was decided that Elena should be driven over to Mourum on the
next market day.
Volodia had undertaken, in the intervals of shop-keeping, to teach
little Daria how to count; with the elaborate arrangement of small
coloured balls, on a wire frame like a gridiron, with which he added
up his own sums--instead of pencil and paper.
They sat down side by side with the utmost gravity. Old Volodia with
the frame in one hand, Daria on a low stool, her curly golden head
bent forward over the balls, as she moved them up and down, with a
pucker on her forehead.
"Two and one's five, and three's seven, and four's twelve, and
six's----"
"Oh, Daria Andreïevna! You're not thinking about what you're doing!"
"Oh, really I am, Uncle Volodia; but those tiresome little yellow
balls keep getting in the way."
And then the lesson began all over again, until Daria sprang up with a
laugh, and shaking out her black frock, declared she had a pain in her
neck, and must run about a little!
"What a child it is!" cried Volodia admiringly. "If she lives to be a
hundred, she'll never learn the multiplication table!"