"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
would leave my lessons and run to her room, where, sitting down, I
would begin to muse aloud as though she were not there. She was forever
mending something, or tidying the shelves which lined her room,
or marking linen, so that she took no heed of the nonsense which I
talked--how that I meant to become a general, to marry a beautiful
woman, to buy a chestnut horse, to, build myself a house of glass, to
invite Karl Ivanitch's relatives to come and visit me from Saxony, and
so forth; to all of which she would only reply, "Yes, my love, yes."
Then, on my rising, and preparing to go, she would open a blue trunk
which had pasted on the inside of its lid a coloured picture of a hussar
which had once adorned a pomade bottle and a sketch made by Woloda, and