the old Slavonic Church dialect. Though disconnected, his prayers were
very touching. He prayed for all his benefactors (so he called every one
who had received him hospitably), with, among them, Mamma and ourselves.
Next he prayed for himself, and besought God to forgive him his sins,
at the same time repeating, "God forgive also my enemies!" Then, moaning
with the effort, he rose from his knees--only to fall to the floor again
and repeat his phrases afresh. At last he regained his feet, despite
the weight of the chains, which rattled loudly whenever they struck the
floor.
Woloda pinched me rudely in the leg, but I took no notice of that
(except that I involuntarily touched the place with my hand), as I
observed with a feeling of childish astonishment, pity, and respect
the words and gestures of Grisha. Instead of the laughter and amusement
which I had expected on entering the store-room, I felt my heart beating
and overcome.
Grisha continued for some time in this state of religious ecstasy as he
improvised prayers and repeated again and yet again, "Lord, have mercy
upon me!" Each time that he said, "Pardon me, Lord, and teach me to
do what Thou wouldst have done," he pronounced the words with added
earnestness and emphasis, as though he expected an immediate answer to
his petition, and then fell to sobbing and moaning once more. Finally,
he went down on his knees again, folded his arms upon his breast, and
remained silent. I ventured to put my head round the door (holding my
breath as I did so), but Grisha still made no movement except for the
heavy sighs which heaved his breast. In the moonlight I could see a tear
glistening on the white patch of his blind eye.
"Yes, Thy will be done!" he exclaimed suddenly, with an expression which
I cannot describe, as, prostrating himself with his forehead on the
floor, he fell to sobbing like a child.
Much sand has run out since then, many recollections of the past have
faded from my memory or become blurred in indistinct visions, and poor
Grisha himself has long since reached the end of his pilgrimage; but the
impression which he produced upon me, and the feelings which he aroused
in my breast, will never leave my mind. O truly Christian Grisha, your
faith was so strong that you could feel the actual presence of God; your
love so great that the words fell of themselves from your lips. You had
no reason to prove them, for you did so with your earnest praises of His
majesty as you fell to the ground speechless and in tears!
Nevertheless the sense of awe with which I had listened to Grisha could
not last for ever. I had now satisfied my curiosity, and, being cramped
with sitting in one position so long, desired to join in the tittering
and fun which I could hear going on in the dark store-room behind me.
Some one took my hand and whispered, "Whose hand is this?" Despite the
darkness, I knew by the touch and the low voice in my ear that it was
Katenka. I took her by the arm, but she withdrew it, and, in doing so,
pushed a cane chair which was standing near. Grisha lifted his head
looked quietly about him, and, muttering a prayer, rose and made the
sign of the cross towards each of the four corners of the room.
XIII -- NATALIA SAVISHNA
In days gone by there used to run about the seignorial courtyard of the
country-house at Chabarovska a girl called Natashka. She always wore a
cotton dress, went barefooted, and was rosy, plump, and gay. It was at
the request and entreaties of her father, the clarionet player Savi,
that my grandfather had "taken her upstairs"--that is to say, made
her one of his wife's female servants. As chamber-maid, Natashka so
distinguished herself by her zeal and amiable temper that when Mamma
arrived as a baby and required a nurse Natashka was honoured with the
charge of her. In this new office the girl earned still further praises
and rewards for her activity, trustworthiness, and devotion to her young
mistress. Soon, however, the powdered head and buckled shoes of the
young and active footman Foka (who had frequent opportunities of
courting her, since they were in the same service) captivated her
unsophisticated, but loving, heart. At last she ventured to go and ask
my grandfather if she might marry Foka, but her master took the request
in bad part, flew into a passion, and punished poor Natashka by exiling
her to a farm which he owned in a remote quarter of the Steppes. At
length, when she had been gone six months and nobody could be found to
replace her, she was recalled to her former duties. Returned, and with
her dress in rags, she fell at Grandpapa's feet, and besought him to
restore her his favour and kindness, and to forget the folly of which
she had been guilty--folly which, she assured him, should never recur
again. And she kept her word.
From that time forth she called herself, not Natashka, but Natalia
Savishna, and took to wearing a cap. All the love in her heart was now
bestowed upon her young charge. When Mamma had a governess appointed
for her education, Natalia was awarded the keys as housekeeper, and
henceforth had the linen and provisions under her care. These new duties
she fulfilled with equal fidelity and zeal. She lived only for her
master's advantage. Everything in which she could detect fraud,
extravagance, or waste she endeavoured to remedy to the best of her
power. When Mamma married and wished in some way to reward Natalia
Savishna for her twenty years of care and labour, she sent for her and,
voicing in the tenderest terms her attachment and love, presented
her with a stamped charter of her (Natalia's) freedom, [It will be
remembered that this was in the days of serfdom] telling her at the same
time that, whether she continued to serve in the household or not, she
should always receive an annual pension of 300 roubles. Natalia listened
in silence to this. Then, taking the document in her hands and regarding
it with a frown, she muttered something between her teeth, and darted
from the room, slamming the door behind her. Not understanding the
reason for such strange conduct, Mamma followed her presently to her
room, and found her sitting with streaming eyes on her trunk, crushing
her pocket-handkerchief between her fingers, and looking mournfully
at the remains of the document, which was lying torn to pieces on the
floor.
"What is the matter, dear Natalia Savishna?" said Mamma, taking her
hand.
"Nothing, ma'am," she replied; "only--only I must have displeased you
somehow, since you wish to dismiss me from the house. Well, I will go."
She withdrew her hand and, with difficulty restraining her tears, rose
to leave the room, but Mamma stopped her, and they wept a while in one
another's arms.
Ever since I can remember anything I can remember Natalia Savishna and
her love and tenderness; yet only now have I learnt to appreciate them
at their full value. In early days it never occurred to me to think what
a rare and wonderful being this old domestic was. Not only did she never
talk, but she seemed never even to think, of herself. Her whole life
was compounded of love and self-sacrifice. Yet so used was I to her
affection and singleness of heart that I could not picture things
otherwise. I never thought of thanking her, or of asking myself, "Is she
also happy? Is she also contented?" Often on some pretext or another I