Then piteous sobs were all that we could hear… He rose to his knees, folded his hands on his breast and was silent.

I poked my head softly round the door and held my breath. Grisha was not moving; heavy sighs escaped his chest; a tear…. stood in the dim pupil of his blind eye which was lit up by the moon.

‘Thy will be done!’ he exclaimed suddenly in an inimitable tone, sank with his forehead on the floor and sobbed like a child.

Much water has flowed under the bridges since then, many memories of the past have lost their meaning for me and become dim recollections; even the pilgrim Grisha has long ago completed his last journey; but the impression he made on me and the feeling he evoked will never fade from my memory.

O truly Christian Grisha! Your faith was so strong that you felt the nearness of God; your love was so great that the words poured from your lips of themselves – you did not measure them with your reason… And what lofty praise you brought to glorify His majesty when, finding no words, you fell weeping to the floor!…

The emotion with which I listened to Grisha could not last long; in the first place because my curiosity was satisfied, and, secondly, because I had pins and needles in my legs from sitting in one position for so long, and I wanted to join in the general whispering and commotion I heard behind me in the dark garret. Someone caught my hand and asked in a whisper: ‘Whose hand is it?’ It was quite dark in the attic but I knew at once by the touch and by the voice whispering just above my ear that it was Katya.

Quite without premeditation I took hold of her bare elbow and pressed my lips on her arm. Katya must have been surprised and she drew away her arm: in doing so she pushed against a broken chair which stood in the garret. Grisha raised his head, looked slowly round and murmuring a prayer made the sign of the cross towards each of the four corners of the room. Talking in whispers, we scampered from the garret.

13 • NATALYA SAVISHNA

In the middle of the last century a plump red-cheeked girl called Natasha, wearing a coarse linen frock, used to run barefoot but gay about the homesteads of the village of Khabarovka. In return for the faithful services of her father, the clarinet-player Savva, and at his request my grandfather took her ‘upstairs’ – that is to say, made her one of my grandmother’s female servants. As a maid Natasha distinguished herself by her gentleness and zeal. When mamma was born and a nursemaid was required this duty was entrusted to Natasha. In her new post the girl earned both praises and rewards for her loyalty and devotion to her young mistress. However, the powdered head, the stockings and the buckled shoes of the smart young footman Foka, whose work brought him in constant contact with Natasha, captivated her unsophisticated but loving heart. She even ventured to go herself and ask my grandfather’s permission to marry Foka. Grandpapa regarded this wish of hers as a sign of ingratitude towards himself, flew into a passion and to punish her banished poor Natasha to a cattle-farm on a property of his in the steppes. Six months later though, as no one had been found to fill her place, Natasha was brought back to the estate and reinstated in her former position. Returning in her coarse linen dress from her exile, she went to grandpapa, fell at his feet and begged him to restore her to favour and affection and to forget the folly that had possessed her and which, she swore, would never occur again. And she was true to her word.

From that day Natasha became Natalya Savishna and wore a cap like a married woman. All the store of love in her heart she transferred to her young lady.

When it was time for mamma to have a governess instead of a nursemaid Natalya Savishna was given the keys of the store-room and all the household linen and provisions were placed in her charge. These new duties she fulfilled with the same zeal and love. She put her whole life into care for her master’s property, trying her utmost to remedy the waste, damage and pilfering which she saw everywhere.

On the day mamma married, wishing in some way to show her gratitude to Natalya Savishna for twenty years’ service and devotion, she sent for her and expressing in the most flattering terms her affection and appreciation presented her with a certificate which bore a government stamp and declared that Natalya Savishna was a free woman.1 My mother added that whether Natalya Savishna continued to serve in our house or not she should always have a pension of 300 roubles a year. Natalya Savishna heard all this in silence, then took the document, looked at it angrily, muttered something between her teeth and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Not understanding the reason for such strange behaviour, mamma presently followed her to her room. She was sitting on her trunk with tear-stained eyes, twisting her handkerchief in her fingers and staring at the torn fragments of her deed of emancipation scattered on the floor in front of her.

‘Dearest Natalya Savishna, what is the matter?’ asked mamma, taking her hand.

‘Nothing, ma’am,’ Natalya Savishna replied. ‘I must have displeased you somehow, that you are turning me out of the house… Well, I am going.’

She pulled her hand away and hardly able to restrain her tears rose to go. Mamma stopped her, embraced her and they both began to cry.

Ever since I can remember anything I remember Natalya Savishna and her love and tenderness; but only now have I learnt to appreciate their worth – it never occurred to me at the time to think what a rare and wonderful creature that old woman was. Not only did she never speak but it seems that she never even thought of herself: her whole life was compounded of love and self-sacrifice. I was so used to her disinterested tender affection for us that I could not imagine things otherwise. I was not in the least grateful to her and never asked myself whether she were happy and content.

Sometimes on the imperative plea of necessity I would escape from lessons to her room, to sit and dream aloud, not in the least embarrassed by her presence. She was always busy, either knitting a stocking or rummaging in the chests which filled her room, or making a list of the linen, while she listened to all the nonsense I uttered – about how when I became a general I would marry a great beauty and buy a chestnut horse, build myself a crystal house and send for Karl Ivanych’s relations from Saxony; and so on. She would keep saying, ‘Yes, my dear, yes.’ Usually when I got up to go she would open a blue chest, inside the lid of which – I can see them now – were pasted a coloured sketch of a hussar, a picture off a pomade-box and one of Volodya’s drawings, and take out an aromatic pastille, which she would light and wave about, observing:

‘This, my dear, is still one of the Ochakov pastilles.