in his study, looked at the governess as she made her report, and
laughed.

"Seryozha smoking . . ." he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I can
picture the little cherub with a cigarette in his mouth! Why, how
old is he?"

"Seven. You think it is not important, but at his age smoking is a
bad and pernicious habit, and bad habits ought to be eradicated in
the beginning."

"Perfectly true. And where does he get the tobacco?"

"He takes it from the drawer in your table."

"Yes? In that case, send him to me."

When the governess had gone out, Bykovsky sat down in an arm-chair
before his writing-table, shut his eyes, and fell to thinking. He
pictured his Seryozha with a huge cigar, a yard long, in the midst
of clouds of tobacco smoke, and this caricature made him smile; at
the same time, the grave, troubled face of the governess called up
memories of the long past, half-forgotten time when smoking aroused
in his teachers and parents a strange, not quite intelligible horror.
It really was horror. Children were mercilessly flogged and expelled
from school, and their lives were made a misery on account of
smoking, though not a single teacher or father knew exactly what
was the harm or sinfulness of smoking. Even very intelligent people
did not scruple to wage war on a vice which they did not understand.
Yevgeny Petrovitch remembered the head-master of the high school,