“Thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest!” said Lebedeff,
with flashing eyes. “And only you, prince, could have found so very
appropriate an expression. I honour you for it, prince. Very well, that’s
settled; I shall find the purse now and not tomorrow. Here, I find it and take
it out before your eyes! And the money is all right. Take it, prince, and keep
it till tomorrow, will you? Tomorrow or next day I’ll take it back again. I
think, prince, that the night after its disappearance it was buried under a
bush in the garden. So I believe—what do you think of that?”
“Well, take care you don’t tell him to his face that you have found the
purse. Simply let him see that it is no longer in the lining of your coat, and
form his own conclusions.”
“Do you think so? Had I not just better tell him I have found it, and
pretend I never guessed where it was?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said the prince, thoughtfully; “it’s too late for that
—that would be dangerous now. No, no! Better say nothing about it. Be
nice with him, you know, but don’t show him—oh, you know well enough
—”
“I know, prince, of course I know, but I’m afraid I shall not carry it out;
for to do so one needs a heart like your own. He is so very irritable just
now, and so proud. At one moment he will embrace me, and the next he
flies out at me and sneers at me, and then I stick the lining forward on
purpose. Well, au revoir, prince, I see I am keeping you, and boring you,
too, interfering with your most interesting private reflections.”
“Now, do be careful! Secrecy, as before!”
“Oh, silence isn’t the word! Softly, softly!”
But in spite of this conclusion to the episode, the prince remained as
puzzled as ever, if not more so. He awaited next morning’s interview with
the general most impatiently.
IV.
The time appointed was twelve o’clock, and the prince, returning home
unexpectedly late, found the general waiting for him. At the first glance, he
saw that the latter was displeased, perhaps because he had been kept
waiting. The prince apologized, and quickly took a seat. He seemed
strangely timid before the general this morning, for some reason, and felt as
though his visitor were some piece of china which he was afraid of
breaking.
On scrutinizing him, the prince soon saw that the general was quite a
different man from what he had been the day before; he looked like one
who had come to some momentous resolve. His calmness, however, was
more apparent than real. He was courteous, but there was a suggestion of
injured innocence in his manner.
“I’ve brought your book back,” he began, indicating a book lying on the
table. “Much obliged to you for lending it to me.”
“Ah, yes. Well, did you read it, general? It’s curious, isn’t it?” said the
prince, delighted to be able to open up conversation upon an outside
subject.
“Curious enough, yes, but crude, and of course dreadful nonsense;
probably the man lies in every other sentence.”
The general spoke with considerable confidence, and dragged his words
out with a conceited drawl.
“Oh, but it’s only the simple tale of an old soldier who saw the French
enter Moscow. Some of his remarks were wonderfully interesting. Remarks
of an eye-witness are always valuable, whoever he be, don’t you think so?”
“Had I been the publisher I should not have printed it. As to the evidence
of eye-witnesses, in these days people prefer impudent lies to the stories of
men of worth and long service. I know of some notes of the year 1812,
which—I have determined, prince, to leave this house, Mr. Lebedeff’s
house.”
The general looked significantly at his host.
“Of course you have your own lodging at Pavlofsk at—at your
daughter’s house,” began the prince, quite at a loss what to say. He
suddenly recollected that the general had come for advice on a most
important matter, affecting his destiny.
“At my wife’s; in other words, at my own place, my daughter’s house.”
“I beg your pardon, I—”
“I leave Lebedeff’s house, my dear prince, because I have quarrelled with
this person. I broke with him last night, and am very sorry that I did not do
so before. I expect respect, prince, even from those to whom I give my
heart, so to speak. Prince, I have often given away my heart, and am nearly
always deceived. This person was quite unworthy of the gift.”
“There is much that might be improved in him,” said the prince,
moderately, “but he has some qualities which—though amid them one
cannot but discern a cunning nature—reveal what is often a diverting
intellect.”
The prince’s tone was so natural and respectful that the general could not
possibly suspect him of any insincerity.
“Oh, that he possesses good traits, I was the first to show, when I very
nearly made him a present of my friendship. I am not dependent upon his
hospitality, and upon his house; I have my own family. I do not attempt to
justify my own weakness. I have drunk with this man, and perhaps I deplore
the fact now, but I did not take him up for the sake of drink alone (excuse
the crudeness of the expression, prince); I did not make friends with him for
that alone. I was attracted by his good qualities; but when the fellow
declares that he was a child in 1812, and had his left leg cut off, and buried
in the Vagarkoff cemetery, in Moscow, such a cock-and-bull story amounts
to disrespect, my dear sir, to—to impudent exaggeration.”
“Oh, he was very likely joking; he said it for fun.”
“I quite understand you. You mean that an innocent lie for the sake of a
good joke is harmless, and does not offend the human heart. Some people
lie, if you like to put it so, out of pure friendship, in order to amuse their
fellows; but when a man makes use of extravagance in order to show his
disrespect and to make clear how the intimacy bores him, it is time for a
man of honour to break off the said intimacy, and to teach the offender his
place.”
The general flushed with indignation as he spoke.
“Oh, but Lebedeff cannot have been in Moscow in 1812. He is much too
young; it is all nonsense.”
“Very well, but even if we admit that he was alive in 1812, can one
believe that a French chasseur pointed a cannon at him for a lark, and shot
his left leg off? He says he picked his own leg up and took it away and
buried it in the cemetery. He swore he had a stone put up over it with the
inscription: ‘Here lies the leg of Collegiate Secretary Lebedeff,’ and on the
other side, ‘Rest, beloved ashes, till the morn of joy,’ and that he has a
service read over it every year (which is simply sacrilege), and goes to
Moscow once a year on purpose. He invites me to Moscow in order to
prove his assertion, and show me his leg’s tomb, and the very cannon that
shot him; he says it’s the eleventh from the gate of the Kremlin, an old-
fashioned falconet taken from the French afterwards.”
“And, meanwhile both his legs are still on his body,” said the prince,
laughing. “I assure you, it is only an innocent joke, and you need not be
angry about it.”
“Excuse me—wait a minute—he says that the leg we see is a wooden
one, made by Tchernosvitoff.”
“They do say one can dance with those!”
“Quite so, quite so; and he swears that his wife never found out that one
of his legs was wooden all the while they were married. When I showed
him the ridiculousness of all this, he said, ‘Well, if you were one of
Napoleon’s pages in 1812, you might let me bury my leg in the Moscow
cemetery.’”
“Why, did you say—” began the prince, and paused in confusion.
The general gazed at his host disdainfully.
“Oh, go on,” he said, “finish your sentence, by all means. Say how odd it
appears to you that a man fallen to such a depth of humiliation as I, can ever
have been the actual eye-witness of great events. Go on, I don’t mind! Has
he found time to tell you scandal about me?”
“No, I’ve heard nothing of this from Lebedeff, if you mean Lebedeff.”
“H’m; I thought differently. You see, we were talking over this period of
history. I was criticizing a current report of something which then
happened, and having been myself an eye-witness of the occurrence—you
are smiling, prince—you are looking at my face as if—”
“Oh no! not at all—I—”
“I am rather young-looking, I know; but I am actually older than I appear
to be. I was ten or eleven in the year 1812. I don’t know my age exactly, but
it has always been a weakness of mine to make it out less than it really is.”
“I assure you, general, I do not in the least doubt your statement. One of
our living autobiographers states that when he was a small baby in Moscow
in 1812 the French soldiers fed him with bread.”
“Well, there you see!” said the general, condescendingly. “There is
nothing whatever unusual about my tale. Truth very often appears to be
impossible. I was a page—it sounds strange, I dare say. Had I been fifteen
years old I should probably have been terribly frightened when the French
arrived, as my mother was (who had been too slow about clearing out of
Moscow); but as I was only just ten I was not in the least alarmed, and
rushed through the crowd to the very door of the palace when Napoleon
alighted from his horse.”
“Undoubtedly, at ten years old you would not have felt the sense of fear,
as you say,” blurted out the prince, horribly uncomfortable in the sensation
that he was just about to blush.
“Of course; and it all happened so easily and naturally. And yet, were a
novelist to describe the episode, he would put in all kinds of impossible and
incredible details.”
“Oh,” cried the prince, “I have often thought that! Why, I know of a
murder, for the sake of a watch. It’s in all the papers now. But if some writer
had invented it, all the critics would have jumped down his throat and said
the thing was too improbable for anything. And yet you read it in the paper,
and you can’t help thinking that out of these strange disclosures is to be
gained the full knowledge of Russian life and character. You said that well,
general; it is so true,” concluded the prince, warmly, delighted to have
found a refuge from the fiery blushes which had covered his face.
“Yes, it’s quite true, isn’t it?” cried the general, his eyes sparkling with
gratification. “A small boy, a child, would naturally realize no danger; he
would shove his way through the crowds to see the shine and glitter of the
uniforms, and especially the great man of whom everyone was speaking, for
at that time all the world had been talking of no one but this man for some
years past. The world was full of his name; I—so to speak—drew it in with
my mother’s milk. Napoleon, passing a couple of paces from me, caught
sight of me accidentally. I was very well dressed, and being all alone, in that
crowd, as you will easily imagine…”
“Oh, of course! Naturally the sight impressed him, and proved to him
that not all the aristocracy had left Moscow; that at least some nobles and
their children had remained behind.”
“Just so! just so! He wanted to win over the aristocracy! When his eagle
eye fell on me, mine probably flashed back in response. ‘Voilà un garçon
bien éveillé! Qui est ton père?’ I immediately replied, almost panting with
excitement, ‘A general, who died on the battle-fields of his country!’ ‘Le fils
d’un boyard et d’un brave, pardessus le marché. J’aime les boyards.
M’aimes-tu, petit?’
“To this keen question I replied as keenly, ‘The Russian heart can
recognize a great man even in the bitter enemy of his country.’ At least, I
don’t remember the exact words, you know, but the idea was as I say.
Napoleon was struck; he thought a minute and then said to his suite: ‘I like
that boy’s pride; if all Russians think like this child, then—’ he didn’t finish,
but went on and entered the palace. I instantly mixed with his suite, and
followed him. I was already in high favour. I remember when he came into
the first hall, the emperor stopped before a portrait of the Empress
Katherine, and after a thoughtful glance remarked, ‘That was a great
woman,’ and passed on.
“Well, in a couple of days I was known all over the palace and the
Kremlin as ‘le petit boyard.’ I only went home to sleep. They were nearly
out of their minds about me at home. A couple of days after this,
Napoleon’s page, De Bazancour, died; he had not been able to stand the
trials of the campaign. Napoleon remembered me; I was taken away
without explanation; the dead page’s uniform was tried on me, and when I
was taken before the emperor, dressed in it, he nodded his head to me, and I
was told that I was appointed to the vacant post of page.
“Well, I was glad enough, for I had long felt the greatest sympathy for
this man; and then the pretty uniform and all that—only a child, you know
—and so on. It was a dark green dress coat with gold buttons—red facings,
white trousers, and a white silk waistcoat—silk stockings, shoes with
buckles, and top-boots if I were riding out with his majesty or with the
suite.
“Though the position of all of us at that time was not particularly
brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all round, yet the etiquette at court
was strictly preserved, and the more strictly in proportion to the growth of
the forebodings of disaster.”
“Quite so, quite so, of course!” murmured the poor prince, who didn’t
know where to look. “Your memoirs would be most interesting.”
The general was, of course, repeating what he had told Lebedeff the night
before, and thus brought it out glibly enough, but here he looked
suspiciously at the prince out of the corners of his eyes.
“My memoirs!” he began, with redoubled pride and dignity. “Write my
memoirs? The idea has not tempted me. And yet, if you please, my memoirs
have long been written, but they shall not see the light until dust returns to
dust. Then, I doubt not, they will be translated into all languages, not of
course on account of their actual literary merit, but because of the great
events of which I was the actual witness, though but a child at the time. As
a child, I was able to penetrate into the secrecy of the great man’s private
room. At nights I have heard the groans and wailings of this ‘giant in
distress.’ He could feel no shame in weeping before such a mere child as I
was, though I understood even then that the reason for his suffering was the
silence of the Emperor Alexander.”
“Yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with proposals of
peace, had he not?” put in the prince.
“We did not know the details of his proposals, but he wrote letter after
letter, all day and every day. He was dreadfully agitated. Sometimes at night
I would throw myself upon his breast with tears (Oh, how I loved that
man!). ‘Ask forgiveness, Oh, ask forgiveness of the Emperor Alexander!’ I
would cry. I should have said, of course, ‘Make peace with Alexander,’ but
as a child I expressed my idea in the naive way recorded. ‘Oh, my child,’ he
would say (he loved to talk to me and seemed to forget my tender years),
‘Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss Alexander’s feet, but I hate and abominate
the King of Prussia and the Austrian Emperor, and—and—but you know
nothing of politics, my child.’ He would pull up, remembering whom he
was speaking to, but his eyes would sparkle for a long while after this. Well
now, if I were to describe all this, and I have seen greater events than these,
all these critical gentlemen of the press and political parties—Oh, no
thanks! I’m their very humble servant, but no thanks!”
“Quite so—parties—you are very right,” said the prince. “I was reading a
book about Napoleon and the Waterloo campaign only the other day, by
Charasse, in which the author does not attempt to conceal his joy at
Napoleon’s discomfiture at every page. Well now, I don’t like that; it smells
of ‘party,’ you know. You are quite right. And were you much occupied with
your service under Napoleon?”
The general was in ecstasies, for the prince’s remarks, made, as they
evidently were, in all seriousness and simplicity, quite dissipated the last
relics of his suspicion.
“I know Charasse’s book! Oh! I was so angry with his work! I wrote to
him and said—I forget what, at this moment. You ask whether I was very
busy under the Emperor? Oh no! I was called ‘page,’ but hardly took my
duty seriously. Besides, Napoleon very soon lost hope of conciliating the
Russians, and he would have forgotten all about me had he not loved me—
for personal reasons—I don’t mind saying so now. My heart was greatly
drawn to him, too. My duties were light. I merely had to be at the palace
occasionally to escort the Emperor out riding, and that was about all. I rode
very fairly well. He used to have a ride before dinner, and his suite on those
occasions were generally Davoust, myself, and Roustan.”
“Constant?” said the prince, suddenly, and quite involuntarily.
“No; Constant was away then, taking a letter to the Empress Josephine.
Instead of him there were always a couple of orderlies—and that was all,
excepting, of course, the generals and marshals whom Napoleon always
took with him for the inspection of various localities, and for the sake of
consultation generally. I remember there was one—Davoust—nearly
always with him—a big man with spectacles. They used to argue and
quarrel sometimes. Once they were in the Emperor’s study together—just
those two and myself—I was unobserved—and they argued, and the
Emperor seemed to be agreeing to something under protest. Suddenly his
eye fell on me and an idea seemed to flash across him.
“‘Child,’ he said, abruptly. ‘If I were to recognize the Russian orthodox
religion and emancipate the serfs, do you think Russia would come over to
me?’”
“‘Never!’ I cried, indignantly.”
“The Emperor was much struck.”
“‘In the flashing eyes of this patriotic child I read and accept the fiat of
the Russian people. Enough, Davoust, it is mere phantasy on our part.
Come, let’s hear your other project.’”
“Yes, but that was a great idea,” said the prince, clearly interested. “You
ascribe it to Davoust, do you?”
“Well, at all events, they were consulting together at the time. Of course
it was the idea of an eagle, and must have originated with Napoleon; but the
other project was good too—it was the ‘Conseil du lion!’ as Napoleon
called it. This project consisted in a proposal to occupy the Kremlin with
the whole army; to arm and fortify it scientifically, to kill as many horses as
could be got, and salt their flesh, and spend the winter there; and in spring
to fight their way out. Napoleon liked the idea—it attracted him. We rode
round the Kremlin walls every day, and Napoleon used to give orders where
they were to be patched, where built up, where pulled down and so on. All
was decided at last. They were alone together—those two and myself.
“Napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms. I could not take
my eyes off his face—my heart beat loudly and painfully.
“‘I’m off,’ said Davoust. ‘Where to?’ asked Napoleon.
“‘To salt horse-flesh,’ said Davoust. Napoleon shuddered—his fate was
being decided.
“‘Child,’ he addressed me suddenly, ‘what do you think of our plan?’ Of
course he only applied to me as a sort of toss-up, you know. I turned to
Davoust and addressed my reply to him. I said, as though inspired:
“‘Escape, general! Go home!—’
“The project was abandoned; Davoust shrugged his shoulders and went
out, whispering to himself—‘Bah, il devient superstitieux!’ Next morning
the order to retreat was given.”
“All this is most interesting,” said the prince, very softly, “if it really was
so—that is, I mean—” he hastened to correct himself.
“Oh, my dear prince,” cried the general, who was now so intoxicated
with his own narrative that he probably could not have pulled up at the most
patent indiscretion. “You say, ‘if it really was so!’ There was more—much
more, I assure you! These are merely a few little political acts. I tell you I
was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow and groanings of the great man,
and of that no one can speak but myself. Towards the end he wept no more,
though he continued to emit an occasional groan; but his face grew more
overcast day by day, as though Eternity were wrapping its gloomy mantle
about him. Occasionally we passed whole hours of silence together at night,
Roustan snoring in the next room—that fellow slept like a pig. ‘But he’s
loyal to me and my dynasty,’ said Napoleon of him.
“Sometimes it was very painful to me, and once he caught me with tears
in my eyes. He looked at me kindly. ‘You are sorry for me,’ he said, ‘you,
my child, and perhaps one other child—my son, the King of Rome—may
grieve for me. All the rest hate me; and my brothers are the first to betray
me in misfortune.’ I sobbed and threw myself into his arms. He could not
resist me—he burst into tears, and our tears mingled as we folded each
other in a close embrace.
“‘Write, oh, write a letter to the Empress Josephine!’ I cried, sobbing.
Napoleon started, reflected, and said, ‘You remind me of a third heart which
loves me. Thank you, my friend;’ and then and there he sat down and wrote
that letter to Josephine, with which Constant was sent off next day.”
“You did a good action,” said the prince, “for in the midst of his angry
feelings you insinuated a kind thought into his heart.”
“Just so, prince, just so. How well you bring out that fact! Because your
own heart is good!” cried the ecstatic old gentleman, and, strangely enough,
real tears glistened in his eyes. “Yes, prince, it was a wonderful spectacle.
And, do you know, I all but went off to Paris, and should assuredly have
shared his solitary exile with him; but, alas, our destinies were otherwise
ordered! We parted, he to his island, where I am sure he thought of the
weeping child who had embraced him so affectionately at parting in
Moscow; and I was sent off to the cadet corps, where I found nothing but
roughness and harsh discipline. Alas, my happy days were done!”
“‘I do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and, therefore, I will not
ask you to go with me,’ he said, the morning of his departure, ‘but I should
like to do something for you.’ He was mounting his horse as he spoke.
‘Write something in my sister’s album for me,’ I said rather timidly, for he
was in a state of great dejection at the moment. He turned, called for a pen,
took the album. ‘How old is your sister?’ he asked, holding the pen in his
hand. ‘Three years old,’ I said. ‘Ah, petite fille alors!’ and he wrote in the
album:
“‘Ne mentez jamais! NAPOLÉON (votre ami sincère).’
“Such advice, and at such a moment, you must allow, prince, was—”
“Yes, quite so; very remarkable.”
“This page of the album, framed in gold, hung on the wall of my sister’s
drawing-room all her life, in the most conspicuous place, till the day of her
death; where it is now, I really don’t know. Heavens! it’s two o’clock! How
I have kept you, prince! It is really most unpardonable of me.”
The general rose.
“Oh, not in the least,” said the prince. “On the contrary, I have been so
much interested, I’m really very much obliged to you.”
“Prince,” said the general, pressing his hand, and looking at him with
flashing eyes, and an expression as though he were under the influence of a
sudden thought which had come upon him with stunning force. “Prince, you
are so kind, so simple-minded, that sometimes I really feel sorry for you! I
gaze at you with a feeling of real affection. Oh, Heaven bless you! May
your life blossom and fructify in love. Mine is over. Forgive me, forgive
me!”
He left the room quickly, covering his face with his hands.
The prince could not doubt the sincerity of his agitation. He understood,
too, that the old man had left the room intoxicated with his own success.
The general belonged to that class of liars, who, in spite of their transports
of lying, invariably suspect that they are not believed. On this occasion,
when he recovered from his exaltation, he would probably suspect
Muishkin of pitying him, and feel insulted.
“Have I been acting rightly in allowing him to develop such vast
resources of imagination?” the prince asked himself. But his answer was a
fit of violent laughter which lasted ten whole minutes. He tried to reproach
himself for the laughing fit, but eventually concluded that he needn’t do so,
since in spite of it he was truly sorry for the old man. The same evening he
received a strange letter, short but decided. The general informed him that
they must part for ever; that he was grateful, but that even from him he
could not accept “signs of sympathy which were humiliating to the dignity
of a man already miserable enough.”
When the prince heard that the old man had gone to Nina Alexandrovna,
though, he felt almost easy on his account.
We have seen, however, that the general paid a visit to Lizabetha
Prokofievna and caused trouble there, the final upshot being that he
frightened Mrs. Epanchin, and angered her by bitter hints as to his son
Gania.
He had been turned out in disgrace, eventually, and this was the cause of
his bad night and quarrelsome day, which ended in his sudden departure
into the street in a condition approaching insanity, as recorded before.
Colia did not understand the position. He tried severity with his father, as
they stood in the street after the latter had cursed the household, hoping to
bring him round that way.
“Well, where are we to go to now, father?” he asked. “You don’t want to
go to the prince’s; you have quarrelled with Lebedeff; you have no money; I
never have any; and here we are in the middle of the road, in a nice sort of
mess.”
“Better to be of a mess than in a mess! I remember making a joke
something like that at the mess in eighteen hundred and forty—forty—I
forget. ‘Where is my youth, where is my golden youth?’ Who was it said
that, Colia?”
“It was Gogol, in Dead Souls, father,” cried Colia, glancing at him in
some alarm.
“‘Dead Souls,’ yes, of course, dead. When I die, Colia, you must engrave
on my tomb:
“‘Here lies a Dead Soul,
Shame pursues me.’
“Who said that, Colia?”
“I don’t know, father.”
“There was no Eropegoff? Eroshka Eropegoff?” he cried, suddenly,
stopping in the road in a frenzy. “No Eropegoff! And my own son to say it!
Eropegoff was in the place of a brother to me for eleven months. I fought a
duel for him. He was married afterwards, and then killed on the field of
battle. The bullet struck the cross on my breast and glanced off straight into
his temple. ‘I’ll never forget you,’ he cried, and expired. I served my
country well and honestly, Colia, but shame, shame has pursued me! You
and Nina will come to my grave, Colia; poor Nina, I always used to call her
Nina in the old days, and how she loved…. Nina, Nina, oh, Nina. What have
I ever done to deserve your forgiveness and long-suffering? Oh, Colia, your
mother has an angelic spirit, an angelic spirit, Colia!”
“I know that, father. Look here, dear old father, come back home! Let’s
go back to mother. Look, she ran after us when we came out. What have
you stopped her for, just as though you didn’t take in what I said? Why are
you crying, father?”
Poor Colia cried himself, and kissed the old man’s hands
“You kiss my hands, mine?”
“Yes, yes, yours, yours! What is there to surprise anyone in that? Come,
come, you mustn’t go on like this, crying in the middle of the road; and you
a general too, a military man! Come, let’s go back.”
“God bless you, dear boy, for being respectful to a disgraced man. Yes, to
a poor disgraced old fellow, your father. You shall have such a son yourself;
le roi de Rome. Oh, curses on this house!”
“Come, come, what does all this mean?” cried Colia beside himself at
last. “What is it? What has happened to you? Why don’t you wish to come
back home? Why have you gone out of your mind, like this?”
“I’ll explain it, I’ll explain all to you. Don’t shout! You shall hear. Le roi
de Rome. Oh, I am sad, I am melancholy!
“‘Nurse, where is your tomb?’
“Who said that, Colia?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know who said it. Come home at once; come on!
I’ll punch Gania’s head myself, if you like—only come. Oh, where are you
off to again?” The general was dragging him away towards the door of a
house nearby. He sat down on the step, still holding Colia by the hand.
“Bend down—bend down your ear. I’ll tell you all—disgrace—bend
down, I’ll tell you in your ear.”
“What are you dreaming of?” said poor, frightened Colia, stooping down
towards the old man, all the same.
“Le roi de Rome,” whispered the general, trembling all over.
“What? What do you mean? What roi de Rome?”
“I—I,” the general continued to whisper, clinging more and more tightly
to the boy’s shoulder. “I—wish—to tell you—all—Maria—Maria Petrovna
—Su—Su—Su…….”
Colia broke loose, seized his father by the shoulders, and stared into his
eyes with frenzied gaze. The old man had grown livid—his lips were
shaking, convulsions were passing over his features. Suddenly he leant over
and began to sink slowly into Colia’s arms.
