before luncheon. Sometimes, when Karl was correcting our exercises, I
would look out of that window and see Mamma's dark hair and the backs
of some persons with her, and hear the murmur of their talking and
laughter. Then I would feel vexed that I could not be there too, and
think to myself, "When am I going to be grown up, and to have no more
lessons, but sit with the people whom I love instead of with these
horrid dialogues in my hand?" Then my anger would change to sadness, and
I would fall into such a reverie that I never heard Karl when he scolded
me for my mistakes.

At last, on the morning of which I am speaking, Karl Ivanitch took
off his dressing-gown, put on his blue frockcoat with its creased and
crumpled shoulders, adjusted his tie before the looking-glass, and took
us down to greet Mamma.




II -- MAMMA

Mamma was sitting in the drawing-room and making tea. In one hand she
was holding the tea-pot, while with the other one she was drawing water
from the urn and letting it drip into the tray. Yet though she appeared
to be noticing what she doing, in reality she noted neither this fact
nor our entry.

However vivid be one's recollection of the past, any attempt to recall
the features of a beloved being shows them to one's vision as through
a mist of tears--dim and blurred. Those tears are the tears of the
imagination. When I try to recall Mamma as she was then, I see, true,