Boyhood
Boyhood-5
What a pitiful spring of moral activity is the human intellect! My faulty
reason could not define the impenetrable. Consequently it shattered one
fruitless conviction after another—convictions which, happily for my
after life, I never lacked the courage to abandon as soon as they proved
inadequate. From all this weary mental struggle I derived only a certain
pliancy of mind, a weakening of the will, a habit of perpetual moral
analysis, and a diminution both of freshness of sentiment and of clearness
of thought. Usually abstract thinking develops man’s capacity for
apprehending the bent of his mind at certain moments and laying it to
heart, but my inclination for abstract thought developed my consciousness
in such a way that often when I began to consider even the simplest
matter, I would lose myself in a labyrinthine analysis of my own thoughts
concerning the matter in question. That is to say, I no longer thought of
the matter itself, but only of what I was thinking about it. If I had then
asked myself, “Of what am I thinking?” the true answer would have been, “I
am thinking of what I am thinking;” and if I had further asked myself,
“What, then, are the thoughts of which I am thinking?” I should have had
to reply, “They are attempts to think of what I am thinking concerning my
own thoughts”—and so on. Reason, with me, had to yield to excess of
reason. Every philosophical discovery which I made so flattered my conceit
that I often imagined myself to be a great man discovering new truths for
the benefit of humanity. Consequently, I looked down with proud dignity
upon my fellow-mortals. Yet, strange to state, no sooner did I come in
contact with those fellow-mortals than I became filled with a stupid
shyness of them, and, the higher I happened to be standing in my own
opinion, the less did I feel capable of making others perceive my
consciousness of my own dignity, since I could not rid myself of a sense
of diffidence concerning even the simplest of my words and acts.
XX. WOLODA
THE further I advance in the recital of this period of my life, the more
difficult and onerous does the task become. Too rarely do I find among the
reminiscences of that time any moments full of the ardent feeling of
sincerity which so often and so cheeringly illumined my childhood. Gladly
would I pass in haste over my lonely boyhood, the sooner to arrive at the
happy time when once again a tender, sincere, and noble friendship marked
with a gleam of light at once the termination of that period and the
beginning of a phase of my youth which was full of the charm of poetry.
Therefore, I will not pursue my recollections from hour to hour, but only
throw a cursory glance at the most prominent of them, from the time to
which I have now carried my tale to the moment of my first contact with
the exceptional personality that was fated to exercise such a decisive
influence upon my character and ideas.
Woloda was about to enter the University. Tutors came to give him lessons
independently of myself, and I listened with envy and involuntary respect
as he drew boldly on the blackboard with white chalk and talked about
“functions,” “sines,” and so forth—all of which seemed to me terms
pertaining to unattainable wisdom. At length, one Sunday before luncheon
all the tutors—and among them two professors—assembled in
Grandmamma’s room, and in the presence of Papa and some friends put Woloda
through a rehearsal of his University examination—in which, to
Grandmamma’s delight, he gave evidence of no ordinary amount of knowledge.
Questions on different subjects were also put to me, but on all of them I
showed complete ignorance, while the fact that the professors manifestly
endeavoured to conceal that ignorance from Grandmamma only confused me the
more. Yet, after all, I was only fifteen, and so had a year before me in
which to prepare for the examinations. Woloda now came downstairs for
luncheon only, and spent whole days and evenings over his studies in his
own room—to which he kept, not from necessity, but because he
preferred its seclusion. He was very ambitious, and meant to pass the
examinations, not by halves, but with flying colours.
The first day arrived. Woloda was wearing a new blue frockcoat with brass
buttons, a gold watch, and shiny boots. At the door stood Papa’s phaeton,
which Nicola duly opened; and presently, when Woloda and St. Jerome set
out for the University, the girls—particularly Katenka—could
be seen gazing with beaming faces from the window at Woloda’s pleasing
figure as it sat in the carriage. Papa said several times, “God go with
him!” and Grandmamma, who also had dragged herself to the window,
continued to make the sign of the cross as long as the phaeton was
visible, as well as to murmur something to herself.
When Woloda returned, every one eagerly crowded round him. “How many
marks? Were they good ones?” “Yes.” But his happy face was an answer in
itself. He had received five marks-the maximum! The next day, he sped on
his way with the same good wishes and the same anxiety for his success,
and was welcomed home with the same eagerness and joy.
This lasted for nine days. On the tenth day there was to be the last and
most difficult examination of all—the one in divinity.
We all stood at the window, and watched for him with greater impatience
than ever. Two o’clock, and yet no Woloda.
“Here they come, Papa! Here they come!” suddenly screamed Lubotshka as she
peered through the window.
Sure enough the phaeton was driving up with St. Jerome and Woloda—the
latter no longer in his grey cap and blue frockcoat, but in the uniform of
a student of the University, with its embroidered blue collar,
three-cornered hat, and gilded sword.
“Ah! If only SHE had been alive now!” exclaimed Grandmamma on seeing
Woloda in this dress, and swooned away.
Woloda enters the anteroom with a beaming face, and embraces myself,
Lubotshka, Mimi, and Katenka—the latter blushing to her ears. He
hardly knows himself for joy. And how smart he looks in that uniform! How
well the blue collar suits his budding, dark moustache! What a tall,
elegant figure is his, and what a distinguished walk!
On that memorable day we all lunched together in Grandmamma’s room. Every
face expressed delight, and with the dessert which followed the meal the
servants, with grave but gratified faces, brought in bottles of champagne.
Grandmamma, for the first time since Mamma’s death, drank a full glass of
the wine to Woloda’s health, and wept for joy as she looked at him.
Henceforth Woloda drove his own turn-out, invited his own friends, smoked,
and went to balls. On one occasion, I even saw him sharing a couple of
bottles of champagne with some guests in his room, and the whole company
drinking a toast, with each glass, to some mysterious being, and then
quarrelling as to who should have the bottom of the bottle!
Nevertheless he always lunched at home, and after the meal would stretch
himself on a sofa and talk confidentially to Katenka: yet from what I
overheard (while pretending, of course, to pay no attention) I gathered
that they were only talking of the heroes and heroines of novels which
they had read, or else of jealousy and love, and so on. Never could I
understand what they found so attractive in these conversations, nor why
they smiled so happily and discussed things with such animation.
Altogether I could see that, in addition to the friendship natural to
persons who had been companions from childhood, there existed between
Woloda and Katenka a relation which differentiated them from us, and
united them mysteriously to one another.
XXI. KATENKA AND LUBOTSHKA
Katenka was now sixteen years old—quite a grown-up girl; and
although at that age the angular figures, the bashfulness, and the
gaucherie peculiar to girls passing from childhood to youth usually
replace the comely freshness and graceful, half-developed bloom of
childhood, she had in no way altered. Still the blue eyes with their merry
glance were hers, the well-shaped nose with firm nostrils and almost
forming a line with the forehead, the little mouth with its charming
smile, the dimples in the rosy cheeks, and the small white hands. To her,
the epithet of “girl,” pure and simple, was pre-eminently applicable, for
in her the only new features were a new and “young-lady-like” arrangement
of her thick flaxen hair and a youthful bosom—the latter an addition
which at once caused her great joy and made her very bashful.
Although Lubotshka and she had grown up together and received the same
education, they were totally unlike one another. Lubotshka was not tall,
and the rickets from which she had suffered had shaped her feet in goose
fashion and made her figure very bad. The only pretty feature in her face
was her eyes, which were indeed wonderful, being large and black, and
instinct with such an extremely pleasing expression of mingled gravity and
naivete that she was bound to attract attention. In everything she was
simple and natural, so that, whereas Katenka always looked as though she
were trying to be like some one else, Lubotshka looked people straight in
the face, and sometimes fixed them so long with her splendid black eyes
that she got blamed for doing what was thought to be improper. Katenka, on
the contrary, always cast her eyelids down, blinked, and pretended that
she was short-sighted, though I knew very well that her sight was
excellent. Lubotshka hated being shown off before strangers, and when a
visitor offered to kiss her she invariably grew cross, and said that she
hated “affection”; whereas, when strangers were present, Katenka was
always particularly endearing to Mimi, and loved to walk about the room
arm in arm with another girl. Likewise, though Lubotshka was a terrible
giggler, and sometimes ran about the room in convulsions of gesticulating
laughter, Katenka always covered her mouth with her hands or her
pocket-handkerchief when she wanted to laugh. Lubotshka, again, loved to
have grown-up men to talk to, and said that some day she meant to marry a
hussar, but Katenka always pretended that all men were horrid, and that
she never meant to marry any one of them, while as soon as a male visitor
addressed her she changed completely, as though she were nervous of
something. Likewise, Lubotshka was continually at loggerheads with Mimi
because the latter wanted her to have her stays so tight that she could
not breathe or eat or drink in comfort, while Katenka, on the contrary,
would often insert her finger into her waistband to show how loose it was,
and always ate very little. Lubotshka liked to draw heads; Katenka only
flowers and butterflies. The former could play Field’s concertos and
Beethoven’s sonatas excellently, whereas the latter indulged in variations
and waltzes, retarded the time, and used the pedals continuously—not
to mention the fact that, before she began, she invariably struck three
chords in arpeggio.
Nevertheless, in those days I thought Katenka much the grander person of
the two, and liked her the best.
XXII. PAPA
Papa had been in a particularly good humour ever since Woloda had passed
into the University, and came much oftener to dine with Grandmamma.
However, I knew from Nicola that he had won a great deal lately.
Occasionally, he would come and sit with us in the evening before going to
the club. He used to sit down to the piano and bid us group ourselves
around him, after which he would beat time with his thin boots (he
detested heels, and never wore them), and make us sing gipsy songs. At
such times you should have seen the quaint enthusiasm of his beloved
Lubotshka, who adored him!
Sometimes, again, he would come to the schoolroom and listen with a grave
face as I said my lessons; yet by the few words which he would let drop
when correcting me, I could see that he knew even less about the subject
than I did. Not infrequently, too, he would wink at us and make secret
signs when Grandmamma was beginning to scold us and find fault with us all
round. “So much for us children!” he would say. On the whole, however, the
impossible pinnacle upon which my childish imagination had placed him had
undergone a certain abasement. I still kissed his large white hand with a
certain feeling of love and respect, but I also allowed myself to think
about him and to criticise his behaviour until involuntarily thoughts
occurred to me which alarmed me by their presence. Never shall I forget
one incident in particular which awakened thoughts of this kind, and
caused me intense astonishment. Late one evening, he entered the
drawing-room in his black dress-coat and white waistcoat, to take Woloda
(who was still dressing in his bedroom) to a ball. Grandmamma was also in
her bedroom, but had given orders that, before setting out, Woloda was to
come and say goodbye to her (it was her invariable custom to inspect him
before he went to a ball, and to bless him and direct him as to his
behaviour). The room where we were was lighted by a solitary lamp. Mimi
and Katenka were walking up and down, and Lubotshka was playing Field’s
Second Concerto (Mamma’s favourite piece) at the piano. Never was there
such a family likeness as between Mamma and my sister—not so much in
the face or the stature as in the hands, the walk, the voice, the
favourite expressions, and, above all, the way of playing the piano and
the whole demeanour at the instrument. Lubotshka always arranged her dress
when sitting down just as Mamma had done, as well as turned the leaves
like her, tapped her fingers angrily and said “Dear me!” whenever a
difficult passage did not go smoothly, and, in particular, played with the
delicacy and exquisite purity of touch which in those days caused the
execution of Field’s music to be known characteristically as “jeu perle”
and to lie beyond comparison with the humbug of our modern virtuosi.
Papa entered the room with short, soft steps, and approached Lubotshka. On
seeing him she stopped playing.
“No, go on, Luba, go on,” he said as he forced her to sit down again. She
went on playing, while Papa, his head on his hand, sat near her for a
while. Then suddenly he gave his shoulders a shrug, and, rising, began to
pace the room. Every time that he approached the piano he halted for a
moment and looked fixedly at Lubotshka. By his walk and his every
movement, I could see that he was greatly agitated. Once, when he stopped
behind Lubotshka, he kissed her black hair, and then, wheeling quickly
round, resumed his pacing. The piece finished, Lubotshka went up to him
and said, “Was it well played?” whereupon, without answering, he took her
head in his two hands, and kissed her forehead and eyes with such
tenderness as I had never before seen him display.
“Why, you are crying!” cried Lubotshka suddenly as she ceased to toy with
his watch-chain and stared at him with her great black eyes. “Pardon me,
darling Papa! I had quite forgotten that it was dear Mamma’s piece which I
was playing.”
“No, no, my love; play it often,” he said in a voice trembling with
emotion. “Ah, if you only knew how much good it does me to share your
tears!”
He kissed her again, and then, mastering his feelings and shrugging his
shoulders, went to the door leading to the corridor which ran past
Woloda’s room.
“Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?” he cried, halting in the middle of
the passage. Just then Masha came along.
“Why, you look prettier every day,” he said to her. She blushed and passed
on.
“Waldemar, shall you be ready soon?” he cried again, with a cough and a
shake of his shoulders, just as Masha slipped away and he first caught
sight of me.
I loved Papa, but the intellect is independent of the heart, and often
gives birth to thoughts which offend and are harsh and incomprehensible to
the feelings. And it was thoughts of this kind that, for all I strove to
put them away, arose at that moment in my mind.
XXIII. GRANDMAMMA
Grandmamma was growing weaker every day. Her bell, Gasha’s grumbling
voice, and the slamming of doors in her room were sounds of constant
occurrence, and she no longer received us sitting in the Voltairian
arm-chair in her boudoir, but lying on the bed in her bedroom, supported
on lace-trimmed cushions. One day when she greeted us, I noticed a
yellowish-white swelling on her hand, and smelt the same oppressive odour
which I had smelt five years ago in Mamma’s room. The doctor came three
times a day, and there had been more than one consultation. Yet the
character of her haughty, ceremonious bearing towards all who lived with
her, and particularly towards Papa, never changed in the least. She went
on emphasising certain words, raising her eyebrows, and saying “my dear,”
just as she had always done.
Then for a few days we did not see her at all, and one morning St. Jerome
proposed to me that Woloda and I should take Katenka and Lubotshka for a
drive during the hours generally allotted to study. Although I observed
that the street was lined with straw under the windows of Grandmamma’s
room, and that some men in blue stockings [Undertaker’s men.] were
standing at our gate, the reason never dawned upon me why we were being
sent out at that unusual hour. Throughout the drive Lubotshka and I were
in that particularly merry mood when the least trifle, the least word or
movement, sets one off laughing.
A pedlar went trotting across the road with a tray, and we laughed. Some
ragged cabmen, brandishing their reins and driving at full speed, overtook
our sledge, and we laughed again. Next, Philip’s whip got caught in the
side of the vehicle, and the way in which he said, “Bother the thing!” as
he drove to disentangle it almost killed us with mirth. Mimi looked
displeased, and said that only silly people laughed for no reason at all,
but Lubotshka—her face purple with suppressed merriment—needed
but to give me a sly glance, and we again burst out into such Homeric
laughter, when our eyes met, that the tears rushed into them and we could
not stop our paroxysms, although they nearly choked us. Hardly, again, had
we desisted a little when I looked at Lubotshka once more, and gave vent
to one of the slang words which we then affected among ourselves—words
which always called forth hilarity; and in a moment we were laughing
again.
Just as we reached home, I was opening my mouth to make a splendid grimace
at Lubotshka when my eye fell upon a black coffin-cover which was leaning
against the gate—and my mouth remained fixed in its gaping position.
“Your Grandmamma is dead,” said St. Jerome as he met us. His face was very
pale.
Throughout the whole time that Grandmamma’s body was in the house I was
oppressed with the fear of death, for the corpse served as a forcible and
disagreeable reminder that I too must die some day—a feeling which
people often mistake for grief. I had no sincere regret for Grandmamma,
nor, I think, had any one else, since, although the house was full of
sympathising callers, nobody seemed to mourn for her from their hearts
except one mourner whose genuine grief made a great impression upon me,
seeing that the mourner in question was—Gasha! She shut herself up
in the garret, tore her hair and refused all consolation, saying that, now
that her mistress was dead, she only wished to die herself.
I again assert that, in matters of feeling, it is the unexpected effects
that constitute the most reliable signs of sincerity.
Though Grandmamma was no longer with us, reminiscences and gossip about
her long went on in the house. Such gossip referred mostly to her will,
which she had made shortly before her death, and of which, as yet, no one
knew the contents except her bosom friend, Prince Ivan Ivanovitch. I could
hear the servants talking excitedly together, and making innumerable
conjectures as to the amount left and the probable beneficiaries: nor can
I deny that the idea that we ourselves were probably the latter greatly
pleased me.
Six weeks later, Nicola—who acted as regular news-agent to the house—informed
me that Grandmamma had left the whole of her fortune to Lubotshka, with,
as her trustee until her majority, not Papa, but Prince Ivan Ivanovitch!
XXIV. MYSELF
Only a few months remained before I was to matriculate for the University,
yet I was making such good progress that I felt no apprehensions, and even
took a pleasure in my studies. I kept in good heart, and learnt my lessons
fluently and intelligently. The faculty I had selected was the
mathematical one—probably, to tell the truth, because the terms
“tangent,” “differentials,” “integrals,” and so forth, pleased my fancy.
Though stout and broad-shouldered, I was shorter than Woloda, while my
ugliness of face still remained and tormented me as much as ever. By way
of compensation, I tried to appear original. Yet one thing comforted me,
namely, that Papa had said that I had “an INTELLIGENT face.” I quite
believed him.
St. Jerome was not only satisfied with me, but actually had taken to
praising me. Consequently, I had now ceased to hate him. In fact, when,
one day, he said that, with my “capacities” and my “intellect,” it would
be shameful for me not to accomplish this, that, or the other thing, I
believe I almost liked him.
I had long ago given up keeping observation on the maidservants’ room, for
I was now ashamed to hide behind doors. Likewise, I confess that the
knowledge of Masha’s love for Basil had greatly cooled my ardour for her,
and that my passion underwent a final cure by their marriage—a
consummation to which I myself contributed by, at Basil’s request, asking
Papa’s consent to the union.
When the newly-married couple brought trays of cakes and sweetmeats to
Papa as a thank-offering, and Masha, in a cap with blue ribbons, kissed
each of us on the shoulder in token of her gratitude, I merely noticed the
scent of the rose pomade on her hair, but felt no other sensation.
In general, I was beginning to get the better of my youthful defects, with
the exception of the principal one—the one of which I shall often
again have to speak in relating my life’s history—namely, the
tendency to abstract thought.
XXV. WOLODA’S FRIENDS
Although, when in the society of Woloda’s friends, I had to play a part
that hurt my pride, I liked sitting in his room when he had visitors, and
silently watching all they did. The two who came most frequently to see
him were a military adjutant called Dubkoff and a student named Prince
Nechludoff. Dubkoff was a little dark-haired, highly-strung man who,
though short of stature and no longer in his first youth, had a pleasing
and invariably cheerful air. His was one of those limited natures which
are agreeable through their very limitations; natures which cannot regard
matters from every point of view, but which are nevertheless attracted by
everything. Usually the reasoning of such persons is false and one-sided,
yet always genuine and taking; wherefore their narrow egotism seems both
amiable and excusable. There were two other reasons why Dubkoff had charms
for Woloda and myself—namely, the fact that he was of military
appearance, and, secondly (and principally), the fact that he was of a
certain age—an age with which young people are apt to associate that
quality of “gentlemanliness” which is so highly esteemed at their time of
life. However, he was in very truth un homme comme il faut. The only thing
which I did not like about it all was that, in his presence, Woloda always
seemed ashamed of my innocent behaviour, and still more so of my
youthfulness. As for Prince Nechludoff, he was in no way handsome, since
neither his small grey eyes, his low, projecting forehead, nor his
disproportionately long hands and feet could be called good features. The
only good points about him were his unusually tall stature, his delicate
colouring, and his splendid teeth. Nevertheless, his face was of such an
original, energetic character (owing to his narrow, sparkling eyes and
ever-changing expression—now stern, now childlike, now smiling
indeterminately) that it was impossible to help noticing it. As a rule he
was very shy, and would blush to the ears at the smallest trifle, but it
was a shyness altogether different from mine, seeing that, the more he
blushed, the more determined-looking he grew, as though he were vexed at
his own weakness.
Although he was on very good terms with Woloda and Dubkoff, it was clearly
chance which had united them thus, since their tastes were entirely
dissimilar. Woloda and Dubkoff seemed to be afraid of anything like
serious consideration or emotion, whereas Nechludoff was beyond all things
an enthusiast, and would often, despite their sarcastic remarks, plunge
into dissertations on philosophical matters or matters of feeling. Again,
the two former liked talking about the fair objects of their adoration
(these were always numerous, and always shared by the friends in common),
whereas Nechludoff invariably grew annoyed when taxed with his love for a
certain red-haired lady.
Again, Woloda and Dubkoff often permitted themselves to criticise their
relatives, and to find amusement in so doing, but Nechludoff flew into a
tremendous rage when on one occasion they referred to some weak points in
the character of an aunt of his whom he adored. Finally, after supper
Woloda and Dubkoff would usually go off to some place whither Nechludoff
would not accompany them; wherefore they called him “a dainty girl.”
The very first time that I ever saw Prince Nechludoff I was struck with
his exterior and conversation. Yet, though I could discern a great
similarity between his disposition and my own (or perhaps it was because I
COULD so discern it), the impression which he produced upon me at first
was anything but agreeable. I liked neither his quick glance, his hard
voice, his proud bearing, nor (least of all) the utter indifference with
which he treated me. Often, when conversing, I burned to contradict him,
to punish his pride by confuting him, to show him that I was clever in
spite of his disdainful neglect of my presence. But I was invariably
prevented from doing so by my shyness.
XXVI. DISCUSSIONS
Woloda was lying reading a French novel on the sofa when I paid my usual
visit to his room after my evening lessons. He looked up at me for a
moment from his book, and then went on reading. This perfectly simple and
natural movement, however, offended me. I conceived that the glance
implied a question why I had come and a wish to hide his thoughts from me
(I may say that at that period a tendency to attach a meaning to the most
insignificant of acts formed a prominent feature in my character). So I
went to the table and also took up a book to read. Yet, even before I had
actually begun reading, the idea struck me how ridiculous it was that,
although we had never seen one another all day, we should have not a word
to exchange.
“Are you going to stay in to-night, Woloda?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Oh, because—” Seeing that the conversation did not promise to be a
success, I took up my book again, and began to read. Yet it was a strange
thing that, though we sometimes passed whole hours together without
speaking when we were alone, the mere presence of a third—sometimes
of a taciturn and wholly uninteresting person—sufficed to plunge us
into the most varied and engrossing of discussions. The truth was that we
knew one another too well, and to know a person either too well or too
little acts as a bar to intimacy.
“Is Woloda at home?” came in Dubkoff’s voice from the ante-room.
“Yes!” shouted Woloda, springing up and throwing aside his book.
Dubkoff and Nechludoff entered.
“Are you coming to the theatre, Woloda?”
“No, I have no time,” he replied with a blush.
“Oh, never mind that. Come along.”
“But I haven’t got a ticket.”
“Tickets, as many as you like, at the entrance.”
“Very well, then; I’ll be back in a minute,” said Woloda evasively as he
left the room. I knew very well that he wanted to go, but that he had
declined because he had no money, and had now gone to borrow five roubles
of one of the servants—to be repaid when he got his next allowance.
“How do you do, DIPLOMAT?” said Dubkoff to me as he shook me by the hand.
Woloda’s friends had called me by that nickname since the day when
Grandmamma had said at luncheon that Woloda must go into the army, but
that she would like to see me in the diplomatic service, dressed in a
black frock-coat, and with my hair arranged a la coq (the two essential
requirements, in her opinion, of a DIPLOMAT).
“Where has Woloda gone to?” asked Nechludoff.
“I don’t know,” I replied, blushing to think that nevertheless they had
probably guessed his errand.
“I suppose he has no money? Yes, I can see I am right, O diplomatist,” he
added, taking my smile as an answer in the affirmative. “Well, I have
none, either. Have you any, Dubkoff?”
“I’ll see,” replied Dubkoff, feeling for his pocket, and rummaging
gingerly about with his squat little fingers among his small change. “Yes,
here are five copecks-twenty, but that’s all,” he concluded with a comic
gesture of his hand.
At this point Woloda re-entered.
“Are we going?”
“No.”
“What an odd fellow you are!” said Nechludoff. “Why don’t you say that you
have no money? Here, take my ticket.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“He can go into his cousin’s box,” said Dubkoff.
“No, I’m not going at all,” replied Nechludoff.
“Why?”
“Because I hate sitting in a box.”
“And for what reason?”
“I don’t know. Somehow I feel uncomfortable there.”
“Always the same! I can’t understand a fellow feeling uncomfortable when
he is sitting with people who are fond of him. It is unnatural, mon cher.”
“But what else is there to be done si je suis tant timide? You never
blushed in your life, but I do at the least trifle,” and he blushed at
that moment.
“Do you know what that nervousness of yours proceeds from?” said Dubkoff
in a protecting sort of tone, “D’un exces d’amour propre, mon cher.”
“What do you mean by ‘exces d’amour propre’?” asked Nechludoff, highly
offended. “On the contrary, I am shy just because I have TOO LITTLE amour
propre. I always feel as though I were being tiresome and disagreeable,
and therefore—”
“Well, get ready, Woloda,” interrupted Dubkoff, tapping my brother on the
shoulder and handing him his cloak. “Ignaz, get your master ready.”
“Therefore,” continued Nechludoff, “it often happens with me that—”
But Dubkoff was not listening. “Tra-la-la-la,” and he hummed a popular
air.
“Oh, but I’m not going to let you off,” went on Nechludoff. “I mean to
prove to you that my shyness is not the result of conceit.”
“You can prove it as we go along.”
“But I have told you that I am NOT going.”
“Well, then, stay here and prove it to the DIPLOMAT, and he can tell us
all about it when we return.”
“Yes, that’s what I WILL do,” said Nechludoff with boyish obstinacy, “so
hurry up with your return.”
“Well, do you think I am egotistic?” he continued, seating himself beside
me.
True, I had a definite opinion on the subject, but I felt so taken aback
by this unexpected question that at first I could make no reply.
“Yes, I DO think so,” I said at length in a faltering voice, and colouring
at the thought that at last the moment had come when I could show him that
I was clever. “I think that EVERYBODY is egotistic, and that everything we
do is done out of egotism.”