both before and after the funeral I never ceased to cry and to look
miserable, yet I feel conscience-stricken when I recall that grief
of mine, seeing that always present in it there was an element of
conceit--of a desire to show that I was more grieved than any one else,
of an interest which I took in observing the effect, produced upon
others by my tears, and of an idle curiosity leading me to remark
Mimi's bonnet and the faces of all present. The mere circumstance that
I despised myself for not feeling grief to the exclusion of everything
else, and that I endeavoured to conceal the fact, shows that my sadness
was insincere and unnatural. I took a delight in feeling that I was
unhappy, and in trying to feel more so. Consequently this egotistic
consciousness completely annulled any element of sincerity in my woe.
That night I slept calmly and soundly (as is usual after any great
emotion), and awoke with my tears dried and my nerves restored. At ten
o'clock we were summoned to attend the pre-funeral requiem.
The room was full of weeping servants and peasants who had come to bid
farewell to their late mistress. During the service I myself wept
a great deal, made frequent signs of the cross, and performed many
genuflections, but I did not pray with, my soul, and felt, if anything,
almost indifferent. My thoughts were chiefly centred upon the new coat
which I was wearing (a garment which was tight and uncomfortable) and
upon how to avoid soiling my trousers at the knees. Also I took the most
minute notice of all present.
Papa stood at the head of the coffin. He was as white as snow, and
only with difficulty restrained his tears. His tall figure in its black
frockcoat, his pale, expressive face, the graceful, assured manner in
which, as usual, he made the sign of the cross or bowed until he touched
the floor with his hand [A custom of the Greek funeral rite.] or took
the candle from the priest or went to the coffin--all were exceedingly
effective; yet for some reason or another I felt a grudge against him
for that very ability to appear effective at such a moment. Mimi stood
leaning against the wall as though scarcely able to support herself. Her
dress was all awry and covered with feathers, and her cap cocked to one
side, while her eyes were red with weeping, her legs trembling under
her, and she sobbed incessantly in a heartrending manner as ever and
again she buried her face in her handkerchief or her hands. I imagine
that she did this to check her continual sobbing without being seen by
the spectators. I remember, too, her telling Papa, the evening before,
that Mamma's death had come upon her as a blow from which she could
never hope to recover; that with Mamma she had lost everything; but that
"the angel," as she called my mother, had not forgotten her when at the
point of death, since she had declared her wish to render her (Mimi's)
and Katenka's fortunes secure for ever. Mimi had shed bitter tears
while relating this, and very likely her sorrow, if not wholly pure and
disinterested, was in the main sincere. Lubotshka, in black garments
and suffused with tears, stood with her head bowed upon her breast. She
rarely looked at the coffin, yet whenever she did so her face expressed
a sort of childish fear. Katenka stood near her mother, and, despite
her lengthened face, looked as lovely as ever. Woloda's frank nature
was frank also in grief. He stood looking grave and as though he were
staring at some object with fixed eyes. Then suddenly his lips would
begin to quiver, and he would hastily make the sign of the cross, and
bend his head again.
Such of those present as were strangers I found intolerable. In fact,
the phrases of condolence with which they addressed Papa (such, for
instance, as that "she is better off now" "she was too good for this
world," and so on) awakened in me something like fury. What right had
they to weep over or to talk about her? Some of them, in referring to
ourselves, called us "orphans"--just as though it were not a matter of
common knowledge that children who have lost their mother are known as
orphans! Probably (I thought) they liked to be the first to give us that
newly-married girl as "Madame."
In a far corner of the room, and almost hidden by the open door, of the
dining-room, stood a grey old woman with bent knees. With hands clasped
together and eyes lifted to heaven, she prayed only--not wept. Her soul
was in the presence of God, and she was asking Him soon to reunite her
to her whom she had loved beyond all beings on this earth, and whom she
steadfastly believed that she would very soon meet again.
"There stands one who SINCERELY loved her," I thought to myself, and
felt ashamed.
The requiem was over. They uncovered the face of the deceased, and all
present except ourselves went to the coffin to give her the kiss of
farewell.
One of the last to take leave of her departed mistress was a peasant
woman who was holding by the hand a pretty little girl of five whom she
had brought with her, God knows for what reason. Just at a moment when
I chanced to drop my wet handkerchief and was stooping to pick it up
again, a loud, piercing scream startled me, and filled me with such
terror that, were I to live a hundred years more, I should never forget
it. Even now the recollection always sends a cold shudder through my
frame. I raised my head. Standing on the chair near the coffin was the
peasant woman, while struggling and fighting in her arms was the
little girl, and it was this same poor child who had screamed with such
dreadful, desperate frenzy as, straining her terrified face away, she
still, continued to gaze with dilated eyes at the face of the corpse.
I too screamed in a voice perhaps more dreadful still, and ran headlong
from the room.
Only now did I understand the source of the strong, oppressive smell
which, mingling with the scent of the incense, filled the chamber, while
the thought that the face which, but a few days ago, had been full of
freshness and beauty--the face which I loved more than anything else in
all the world--was now capable of inspiring horror at length revealed to
me, as though for the first time, the terrible truth, and filled my soul
with despair.
XXVIII -- SAD RECOLLECTIONS
Mamma was no longer with us, but our life went on as usual. We went
to bed and got up at the same times and in the same rooms; breakfast,
luncheon, and supper continued to be at their usual hours; everything
remained standing in its accustomed place; nothing in the house or in
our mode of life was altered: only, she was not there.
Yet it seemed to me as though such a misfortune ought to have changed
everything. Our old mode of life appeared like an insult to her memory.
It recalled too vividly her presence.
The day before the funeral I felt as though I should like to rest a
little after luncheon, and accordingly went to Natalia Savishna's room
&n
bsp; with the intention of installing myself comfortably under the warm, soft
down of the quilt on her bed. When I entered I found Natalia herself
lying on the bed and apparently asleep, but, on hearing my footsteps,
she raised herself up, removed the handkerchief which had been
protecting her face from the flies, and, adjusting her cap, sat forward
on the edge of the bed. Since it frequently happened that I came to lie
down in her room, she guessed my errand at once, and said:
"So you have come to rest here a little, have you? Lie down, then, my
dearest."
"Oh, but what is the matter with you, Natalia Savishna?" I exclaimed
as I forced her back again. "I did not come for that. No, you are tired
yourself, so you LIE down."
"I am quite rested now, darling," she said (though I knew that it was
many a night since she had closed her eyes). "Yes, I am indeed, and have
no wish to sleep again," she added with a deep sigh.
I felt as though I wanted to speak to her of our misfortune, since I
knew her sincerity and love, and thought that it would be a consolation
to me to weep with her.
"Natalia Savishna," I said after a pause, as I seated myself upon the
bed, "who would ever have thought of this?"
The old woman looked at me with astonishment, for she did not quite
understand my question.
"Yes, who would ever have thought of it?" I repeated.
"Ah, my darling," she said with a glance of tender compassion, "it is
not only 'Who would ever have thought of it?' but 'Who, even now, would
ever believe it?' I am old, and my bones should long ago have gone to
rest rather than that I should have lived to see the old master, your
Grandpapa, of blessed memory, and Prince Nicola Michaelovitch, and his
two brothers, and your sister Amenka all buried before me, though all
younger than myself--and now my darling, to my never-ending sorrow, gone
home before me! Yet it has been God's will. He took her away because she
was worthy to be taken, and because He has need of the good ones."
This simple thought seemed to me a consolation, and I pressed closer to
Natalia. She laid her hands upon my head as she looked upward with eyes
expressive of a deep, but resigned, sorrow. In her soul was a sure and
certain hope that God would not long separate her from the one upon whom
the whole strength of her love had for many years been concentrated.
"Yes, my dear," she went on, "it is a long time now since I used to
nurse and fondle her, and she used to call me Natasha. She used to come
jumping upon me, and caressing and kissing me, and say, 'MY Nashik, MY
darling, MY ducky,' and I used to answer jokingly, 'Well, my love, I
don't believe that you DO love me. You will be a grown-up young
lady soon, and going away to be married, and will leave your Nashik
forgotten.' Then she would grow thoughtful and say, 'I think I had
better not marry if my Nashik cannot go with me, for I mean never to
leave her.' Yet, alas! She has left me now! Who was there in the world
she did not love? Yes, my dearest, it must never be POSSIBLE for you to
forget your Mamma. She was not a being of earth--she was an angel from
Heaven. When her soul has entered the heavenly kingdom she will continue
to love you and to be proud of you even there."
"But why do you say 'when her soul has entered the heavenly kingdom'?" I
asked. "I believe it is there now."
"No, my dearest," replied Natalia as she lowered her voice and pressed
herself yet closer to me, "her soul is still here," and she pointed
upwards. She spoke in a whisper, but with such an intensity of
conviction that I too involuntarily raised my eyes and looked at the
ceiling, as though expecting to see something there. "Before the souls
of the just enter Paradise they have to undergo forty trials for forty
days, and during that time they hover around their earthly home." [A
Russian popular legend.]
She went on speaking for some time in this strain--speaking with the
same simplicity and conviction as though she were relating common things
which she herself had witnessed, and to doubt which could never enter
into any one's head. I listened almost breathlessly, and though I did
not understand all she said, I never for a moment doubted her word.
"Yes, my darling, she is here now, and perhaps looking at us and
listening to what we are saying," concluded Natalia. Raising her head,
she remained silent for a while. At length she wiped away the tears
which were streaming from her eyes, looked me straight in the face, and
said in a voice trembling with emotion:
"Ah, it is through many trials that God is leading me to Him. Why,
indeed, am I still here? Whom have I to live for? Whom have I to love?"
"Do you not love US, then?" I asked sadly, and half-choking with my
tears.
"Yes, God knows that I love you, my darling; but to love any one as I
loved HER--that I cannot do."
She could say no more, but turned her head aside and wept bitterly. As
for me, I no longer thought of going to sleep, but sat silently with her
and mingled my tears with hers.
Presently Foka entered the room, but, on seeing our emotion and not
wishing to disturb us, stopped short at the door.
"Do you want anything, my good Foka?" asked Natalia as she wiped away
her tears.
"If you please, half-a-pound of currants, four pounds of sugar, and
three pounds of rice for the kutia." [Cakes partaken of by the mourners
at a Russian funeral.]
"Yes, in one moment," said Natalia as she took a pinch of snuff and
hastened to her drawers. All traces of the grief, aroused by our
conversation disappeared on, the instant that she had duties to fulfil,
for she looked upon those duties as of paramount importance.
"But why FOUR pounds?" she objected as she weighed the sugar on a
steelyard. "Three and a half would be sufficient," and she withdrew a
few lumps. "How is it, too, that, though I weighed out eight pounds of
rice yesterday, more is wanted now? No offence to you, Foka, but I am
not going to waste rice like that. I suppose Vanka is glad that there
is confusion in the house just now, for he thinks that nothing will be
looked after, but I am not going to have any careless extravagance with
my master's goods. Did one ever hear of such a thing? Eight pounds!"
"Well, I have nothing to do with it. He says it is all gone, that's
all."
"Hm, hm! Well, there it is. Let him take it."
I was struck by the sudden transition from the touching sensibility
with which she had just been speaking to me to this petty reckoning and
captiousness. Yet, thinking it over afterwards, I recognised that it was
merely because, in spite of what was lying on her heart, she retained
the habit of duty, and that it was the strength of that habit which
enabled her to pursue her functions as of old. Her grief was too strong
and too true to require any pretence of being unable to fulfil trivial
tasks, nor would she have understood that any one could so pretend.
Vanity is a sentiment so entirely at variance with genuine
grief, yet
a sentiment so inherent in human nature, that even the most poignant
sorrow does not always drive it wholly forth. Vanity mingled with grief
shows itself in a desire to be recognised as unhappy or resigned;
and this ignoble desire--an aspiration which, for all that we may
not acknowledge it is rarely absent, even in cases of the utmost
affliction--takes off greatly from the force, the dignity, and the
sincerity of grief. Natalia Savishna had been so sorely smitten by her
misfortune that not a single wish of her own remained in her soul--she
went on living purely by habit.
Having handed over the provisions to Foka, and reminded him of the
refreshments which must be ready for the priests, she took up her
knitting and seated herself by my side again. The conversation reverted
to the old topic, and we once more mourned and shed tears together.
These talks with Natalia I repeated every day, for her quiet tears
and words of devotion brought me relief and comfort. Soon, however, a
parting came. Three days after the funeral we returned to Moscow, and I
never saw her again.
Grandmamma received the sad tidings only on our return to her house, and
her grief was extraordinary. At first we were not allowed to see her,
since for a whole week she was out of her mind, and the doctors were
afraid for her life. Not only did she decline all medicine whatsoever,
but she refused to speak to anybody or to take nourishment, and never
closed her eyes in sleep. Sometimes, as she sat alone in the arm-chair in
her room, she would begin laughing and crying at the same time, with a
sort of tearless grief, or else relapse into convulsions, and scream out
dreadful, incoherent words in a horrible voice. It was the first dire