her brown eyes, expressive always of love and kindness, the small mole
on her neck below where the small hairs grow, her white embroidered
collar, and the delicate, fresh hand which so often caressed me,
and which I so often kissed; but her general appearance escapes me
altogether.

To the left of the sofa stood an English piano, at which my dark-haired
sister Lubotshka was sitting and playing with manifest effort (for
her hands were rosy from a recent washing in cold water) Clementi's
"Etudes." Then eleven years old, she was dressed in a short cotton frock
and white lace-frilled trousers, and could take her octaves only in
arpeggio. Beside her was sitting Maria Ivanovna, in a cap adorned
with pink ribbons and a blue shawl, Her face was red and cross, and it
assumed an expression even more severe when Karl Ivanitch entered the
room. Looking angrily at him without answering his bow, she went on
beating time with her foot and counting, "One, two, three--one, two,
three," more loudly and commandingly than ever.

Karl Ivanitch paid no attention to this rudeness, but went, as usual,
with German politeness to kiss Mamma's hand, She drew herself up, shook
her head as though by the movement to chase away sad thoughts from her,
and gave Karl her hand, kissing him on his wrinkled temple as he bent
his head in salutation.

"I thank you, dear Karl Ivanitch," she said in German, and then, still
using the same language asked him how we (the children) had slept.
Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and the added noise of the piano now
prevented him from hearing anything at all. He moved nearer to the sofa,
and, leaning one hand upon the table and lifting his cap above his
head, said with, a smile which in those days always seemed to me the