“Bonjour, notre bonne Marie.”
And as soon as she saw or heard them, she would spring to life, and at once, not heeding the old women, make efforts to raise herself on one elbow, nod her head to them, thank them. They brought her sweets as before, but she hardly ate anything. Because of them, I assure you, she died almost happy. Because of them she forgot her black misfortune, as if she had accepted forgiveness from them, for to the very end she considered herself a great sinner. Like little birds they beat their wings at her windows and called to her each morning:
“Nous t‘aimons, Marie.”
She died very soon after that. I had thought she would live much longer. On the day that preceded her death, before sunset, I went to see her; I think she recognized me, and I pressed her hand for the last time; how it had withered away! And then suddenly in the morning they came and told me that Marie had died. Now there was no holding the children back: they decked her coffin with flowers and put a garland on her head. Now that she was dead, the pastor at the church did not pour shame on her, and indeed there were very few people at the funeral, only a few who looked in out of curiosity; but when the coffin had to be carried, the children all rushed together to carry it themselves. As they could not manage it alone, they helped, running after the coffin, and crying. Ever since then, the children have constantly honoured Marie’s little grave; they deck it with flowers every year, have planted it round with roses. But that funeral marked the beginning of the worst of my persecution by the whole village because of the children. Its main instigators were the pastor and the schoolteacher. The children were firmly forbidden even to meet me, and Schneider even pledged to see to this. But we saw one another none the less, and communicated by means of signs. They would send me little notes they had written. Later on it all settled down, but even at the time it was all right: because of this persecution, I came even closer to the children. In my last year I even almost made it up with Thibaud and the pastor.
But Schneider talked to me a lot and argued with me about my harmful “system” with the children. What kind of system did I have? At last, Schneider expressed to me a certain strange thought he had had - this was right before my departure - he told me he was quite convinced that I myself was a complete child, a child, that is, in every sense, that only in my face and stature did I resemble an adult, but that in development, soul, character and, perhaps, even intelligence I was not an adult, and thus I would remain, even were I to live to the age of sixty. I laughed a great deal: he’s not right, of course, because what sort of little boy am I? Only one thing is true, however, and that is that I am indeed not fond of being with adults, with people, with grown-ups - and have long noticed this - I’m not fond of it, because I don’t know how to be with them. No matter what they say to me, no matter how kind they are to me, for some reason I always find it awkward to be with them, and I’m dreadfully glad when I can get away to my companions, and my companions have always been children, but not because I myself was a child, but because I was simply drawn to children. When, right at the beginning of my life in the village - that was when I used to go off to be melancholy on my own in the mountains - when, wandering alone, I sometimes began to meet them, especially at noon, when that whole noisy crowd was let out of school, running with their little satchels and their slates, with shouting, laughter and games - my entire soul would suddenly begin to strive towards them. I don’t know, but I began to feel something exceedingly powerful in every encounter I had with them. I used to stop and laugh with happiness, as I looked at their little darting legs eternally running, at the boys and girls running together, at the laughter and tears (because many of them managed to fight, burst into tears, make it up again, and start another game while they were running home from school), and then I would forget all my melancholy. And later, throughout the whole of those three years, I could never understand how people could be melancholy, or why they felt that way. The whole of my fortunes settled on them. I never even dreamed that I would leave the village, and it never entered my mind that I would ever come here, to Russia. I thought I would be there for ever, but in the end I saw that Schneider could not go on paying for my keep, but then something turned up, something apparently so important that Schneider himself began to press me to go and wrote a letter of reply on my behalf. I shall look into it, and talk it over with someone. It may be that my fortunes will alter entirely, but that is not the point and not the main thing. The main thing is that my entire life has already altered. I left many things there, too many. They have all vanished. I sat in the train and thought: “Now I’m going out among people; it may be that I don’t know anything, but a new life has begun.”
1
I decided that I would discharge my task honestly and firmly. I might find it boring and awkward to be among people. I made it my top priority to be polite and candid with everyone; after all, no one can demand more of me than that. Perhaps here too I would be considered a child - then let it be so! Everyone regards me as an idiot for some reason. At one time I really was so ill that I did resemble an idiot; but what kind of idiot am I now, when I myself am aware of the fact that people consider me an idiot? I go in and think: ‘Very well, they regard me as an idiot, but I’m intelligent, and they don’t realize it ...’ I often have that thought. It was only when, in Berlin, I received some little letters from them they had managed to write to me that I realized how much I loved them. It was very painful to get that first letter! How sad they were when they saw me off! They had started saying goodbye to me a month earlier:
“Léon s’en va, Léon s‘en va pour toujours!”
Every evening we gathered by the waterfall, and talked all the time about our parting. Sometimes we had just as much fun as we had before; except that, as we went our separate ways for the night, they began to give me tight and ardent hugs, which they had not done before. Some of them used to run to see me in secret, one at a time, simply in order to hug and kiss me in private, not in front of everyone. When I was already setting out on my journey they all, the whole flock of them, accompanied me to the railway station. The station was about a verst away from our village. They tried not to cry, but many of them could not help themselves and sobbed out loud, especially the girls. We were hurrying not to miss the train, but first one and then another would suddenly rush towards me in the middle of the road, embrace me with his little arms and kiss me, holding up the whole crowd only for that; but although we were in a hurry, they would all stop and wait for him to say his farewell. When I got into the carriage and the train moved off, they all shouted “hurrah!” to me and stood there for a long time, until it had completely gone. And I looked, too ... You know, when I came in here just now and beheld your nice faces - I study faces closely now - and heard your first words, I felt a weight lift from my soul for the first time since then. I was already thinking just now that perhaps I really was one of the fortunate ones: I mean, I know that it isn’t easy to find people whom one likes straight away, but I met you as soon as I got off the train. I’m well aware that everyone finds it embarrassing to talk about their feelings, and yet here I am talking to you about them, and with you I don’t feel embarrassed. I’m an unsociable person, and it may be that it will be a long time before I come and visit you. But don’t take that as an unkind thought: I didn’t say it because I don’t value you; and please don’t think that I’ve taken offence at anything, either. You asked me about your faces, and what I could see in them. I will tell you that with great pleasure. You, Adelaida Ivanovna, have a happy face, the most sympathetic face of the three. In addition to the fact that you are very pretty, when one looks at you, one says: “She has a face like that of a kind sister.” Your approach is simple and cheerful, but you are quickly able to understand someone’s heart. That’s my impression of your face. Your face, Alexandra Ivanovna, is also beautiful and very nice, but perhaps you have some secret sadness; your soul is without doubt most kind, but you are not cheerful. You have a certain nuance in your face; it resembles that of the Holbein Madonna in Dresden.
2
Well, that’s w
hat I think of your face; am I a good diviner? After all, you yourselves consider me a diviner. But of your face, Lizaveta Prokofyevna,’ he said, turning to the general’s wife suddenly, ‘of your face I don’t merely think, I am quite certain that you are a perfect child, in everything, everything, in all that is good and all that is bad, in spite of the fact that you are the age you are. You’re not angry with me for putting it like that? After all, you know the respect I have for children! And don’t go thinking that I’ve said all these candid things about your faces out of naivety; oh no, not at all! Perhaps I have a motive of my own, too.’
7
When the prince fell silent they all looked at him cheerfully, even Aglaya, but especially Lizaveta Prokofyevna.
‘There, they’ve given you an examination!’ she exclaimed. ‘Well, dear ladies, you thought you would make him a protégé, like some poor little thing, but he scarcely deigned to choose you, even adding the proviso that he’ll only come and see you now and then. Now it’s our turn to look foolish, and I’m glad; and Ivan Fyodorovich looks most foolish of all. Bravo, Prince, we were told to subject you to an examination just now. And what you said about my face was all quite true: I am a child, I know that. I was aware of it even before you told me; you really did express my own thoughts in a single word. I consider your character entirely like my own, and am very glad; like two drops of water. Only you’re a man and I’m a woman and have never been in Switzerland; that’s the only difference.’
‘Don’t be too hasty,
Maman,’
exclaimed Aglaya. ‘The prince says that in all his confessions he had a special motive and was speaking with some hidden design.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the others laughed.
‘Do not mock him, my dears, he may be more cunning than all three of you put together. You’ll see. The only thing, Prince, is why didn’t you say anything about Aglaya? Aglaya is waiting, and I am waiting.’
‘I can’t say anything just now; I’ll say it later.’
‘Why? She is striking, is she not?’
‘Oh yes, indeed; you are extremely beautiful, Aglaya Ivanovna. You are so pretty that one is afraid to look at you.’
‘Is that all? What about her qualities?’ the general’s wife insisted.
‘Beauty is difficult to judge; I’m not ready yet. Beauty is a riddle.’
‘That means you’ve set Aglaya a riddle,’ said Adelaida. ‘Solve it, Aglaya. But she’s pretty, Prince, she’s pretty, isn’t she?’
‘Extremely!’ the prince replied warmly, glancing at Aglaya with animation. ‘Almost like Nastasya Filippovna, though her face is quite different! ...’
They all exchanged looks in surprise.
‘Like who-o-o?’ the general’s wife said slowly. ‘Like Nastasya Filippovna? Where did you see Nastasya Filippovna? Which Nastasya Filippovna?’
‘Gavrila Ardalionovich was showing Ivan Fyodorovich a portrait of her just now.’
‘What, he brought Ivan Fyodorovich a portrait?’
‘To show it. Nastasya Filippovna made a present of her portrait to Gavrila Ardalionovich today, and he brought it to show.’
‘I want to see it!’ the general’s wife leaped to her feet. ‘Where is this portrait? If she gave it to him, it must be in his study, and, of course, he’s still in there. On Wednesdays he always comes in to work and he never leaves before four. Summon Gavrila Ardalionovich at once! No, I’m not exactly dying with eagerness to see him. Do me a favour, Prince, dear, go into his study, get the portrait from him and bring it here. Tell him it’s so we can have a look at it. Please.’
‘He’s nice, but a bit simple-minded,’ said Adelaida, when the prince had gone out.
‘Yes, rather too much so,’ Alexandra confirmed. ‘So much that it’s even slightly ridiculous.’
Neither the one nor the other seemed to be expressing all that was in their thoughts.
‘Though he got out of that part about our faces very well,’ said Aglaya. ‘He flattered everyone, even
Maman.’
‘No witticisms, please!’ exclaimed the general’s wife. ‘It wasn’t he who did the flattering, but I who was flattered.’
‘You think he was trying to get out of it?’ asked Adelaida.
‘I don’t think he’s so simple-minded.’
‘Oh, get along with you!’ the general’s wife said, losing her temper. ‘And if you ask me, you’re more ridiculous than he is. He’s simple-minded, but he has all his wits about him, in the most noble sense of the word, of course. Just as I do.’
‘It was bad of me to let it slip about the portrait, of course,’ the prince mused to himself, going through to the study and feeling a certain pang of conscience. ‘But... perhaps I did well to let it slip ...’ A strange idea, though it was not yet quite clear, was beginning to flit through his head.
Gavrila Ardalionovich was still sitting in the study, immersed in his papers. It must have been true that he did not draw his salary from the joint-stock company for nothing. He was dreadfully embarrassed when the prince asked for the portrait and told him how they had found out about it.
‘E-e-ch! And why did you have to blab about it,’ he exclaimed in angry vexation. ‘You don’t know anything ... Idiot!’ he muttered to himself.
‘I’m sorry, I did it quite without thinking; it seemed apropos. I said that Aglaya was almost as pretty as Nastasya Filippovna.’
Ganya asked him to recount the matter in more detail; the prince did so. Ganya looked at him mockingly again.
‘You’ve got Nastasya Filippovna on the brain ...’ he muttered, but did not finish his sentence, and fell to brooding.
He was visibly anxious. The prince reminded him about the portrait.
‘Listen, Prince,’ Ganya said suddenly, as though an unexpected thought had struck him. ‘I have an enormous favour to ask of you ... But I really don’t know ...’