resignation and constant, uncomplaining meekness; with the same dumb
submissiveness she looked at Glafira, and just as Anna Pavlovna kissed
her husband's hand on her deathbed, she kissed Glafira's, commending to
her, to Glafira, her only son. So ended the earthly existence of this
good and gentle creature, torn, God knows why, like an uprooted tree
from its natural soil and at once thrown down with its roots in the air;
she had faded and passed away leaving no trace, and no one mourned for
her. Malanya Sergyevna's maids pitied her, and so did even Piotr
Andreitch. The old man missed her silent presence. "Forgive me . . .
farewell, my meek one!" he whispered, as he took leave of her the last
time in church. He wept as he threw a handful of earth in the grave.

He did not survive her long, not more than five years. In the winter of
the year 1819, he died peacefully in Moscow, where he had moved with
Glafira and his grandson, and left instructions that he should be buried
beside Anna Pavlovna and "Malasha." Ivan Petrovitch was then in Paris
amusing himself; he had retired from service soon after 1815. When he
heard of his father's death he decided to return to Russia. It was
necessary to make arrangements for the management of the property.
Fedya, according to Glafira's letter, had reached his twelfth year, and
the time had come to set about his education in earnest.



Chapter X


Ivan Petrovitch returned to Russia an Anglomaniac. His short-cropped
hair, his starched shirt-front, his long-skirted pea-green overcoat with
its multitude of capes, the sour expression of his face, something