She knows more about everything than anybody else. She
knows that one must wash every day, that one must eat soup at
dinner, that one must talk French, learn not to crawl about on
all fours, not to put one's elbows on the table; and if she says
that one is not to go out walking because it is just going to
rain, she is sure to be right, and one must do as she says.

Papa is the cleverest man in the world. He always knows
everything. There is no being naughty with HIM. When he
is up in his study "working," one is not allowed to make a noise,
and nobody may go into his room. What he does when he is at
"work," none of us know. Later on, when I had learned to read, I
was told that papa was a "writer."

This was how I learned. I was very pleased with some lines
of poetry one day, and asked my mother who wrote them. She told
me they were written by Pushkin, and Pushkin was a great writer.
I was vexed at my father not being one, too. Then my mother said
that my father was also a well-known writer, and I was very glad
indeed.

At the dinner-table papa sits opposite mama and has his own
round silver spoon. When old Natalia Petrovna, who
lives on the floor below with great-aunt Tatyana
Alexandrovna, pours herself out a glass of kvass, he picks
it up and drinks it right off, then says, "Oh, I'm so sorry,
Natalia Petrovna; I made a mistake!" We all laugh
delightedly, and it seems odd that papa is not in the least
afraid of Natalia Petrovna. When there is jelly
for pudding, papa says it is good for gluing paper boxes; we run