Mamma was sitting in the drawing-room and making tea. In one hand she
was holding the tea-pot, while with the other one she was drawing water
from the urn and letting it drip into the tray. Yet though she appeared
to be noticing what she doing, in reality she noted neither this fact
nor our entry.
However vivid be one’s recollection of the past, any attempt to recall
the features of a beloved being shows them to one’s vision as through
a mist of tears--dim and blurred. Those tears are the tears of the
imagination. When I try to recall Mamma as she was then, I see, true,
her brown eyes, expressive always of love and kindness, the small mole
on her neck below where the small hairs grow, her white embroidered
collar, and the delicate, fresh hand which so often caressed me,
and which I so often kissed; but her general appearance escapes me
altogether.
To the left of the sofa stood an English piano, at which my dark-haired
sister Lubotshka was sitting and playing with manifest effort (for
her hands were rosy from a recent washing in cold water) Clementi’s
“Etudes.” Then eleven years old, she was dressed in a short cotton frock
and white lace-frilled trousers, and could take her octaves only in
arpeggio. Beside her was sitting Maria Ivanovna, in a cap adorned
with pink ribbons and a blue shawl. Her face was red and cross, and it
assumed an expression even more severe when Karl Ivanitch entered the
room. Looking angrily at him without answering his bow, she went on
beating time with her foot and counting, “One, two, three--one, two,
three,” more loudly and commandingly than ever.
Karl Ivanitch paid no attention to this rudeness, but went, as usual,
with German politeness to kiss Mamma’s hand. She drew herself up, shook
her head as though by the movement to chase away sad thoughts from her,
and gave Karl her hand, kissing him on his wrinkled temple as he bent
his head in salutation.
“I thank you, dear Karl Ivanitch,” she said in German, and then, still
using the same language asked him how we (the children) had slept.
Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and the added noise of the piano now
prevented him from hearing anything at all. He moved nearer to the sofa,
and, leaning one hand upon the table and lifting his cap above his
head, said with, a smile which in those days always seemed to me the
perfection of politeness: “You, will excuse me, will you not, Natalia
Nicolaevna?”
The reason for this was that, to avoid catching cold, Karl never took
off his red cap, but invariably asked permission, on entering the
drawing-room, to retain it on his head.
“Yes, pray replace it, Karl Ivanitch,” said Mamma, bending towards him
and raising her voice, “But I asked you whether the children had slept
well?”
Still he did not hear, but, covering his bald head again with the red
cap, went on smiling more than ever.
“Stop a moment, Mimi,” said Mamma (now smiling also) to Maria Ivanovna.
“It is impossible to hear anything.”
How beautiful Mamma’s face was when she smiled! It made her so
infinitely more charming, and everything around her seemed to grow
brighter! If in the more painful moments of my life I could have seen
that smile before my eyes, I should never have known what grief is. In
my opinion, it is in the smile of a face that the essence of what we
call beauty lies. If the smile heightens the charm of the face, then the
face is a beautiful one. If the smile does not alter the face, then the
face is an ordinary one. But if the smile spoils the face, then the face
is an ugly one indeed.
Mamma took my head between her hands, bent it gently backwards, looked
at me gravely, and said: “You have been crying this morning?”
I did not answer. She kissed my eyes, and said again in German: “Why did
you cry?”
When talking to us with particular intimacy she always used this
language, which she knew to perfection.
“I cried about a dream, Mamma” I replied, remembering the invented
vision, and trembling involuntarily at the recollection.
Karl Ivanitch confirmed my words, but said nothing as to the subject of
the dream. Then, after a little conversation on the weather, in which
Mimi also took part, Mamma laid some lumps of sugar on the tray for
one or two of the more privileged servants, and crossed over to her
embroidery frame, which stood near one of the windows.
“Go to Papa now, children,” she said, “and ask him to come to me before
he goes to the home farm.”
Then the music, the counting, and the wrathful looks from Mimi began
again, and we went off to see Papa. Passing through the room which had
been known ever since Grandpapa’s time as “the pantry,” we entered the
study.