Chapter 28 - Page 2

Yes, everything was unchanged, except that
everything had become smaller and lower, and I myself taller,
heavier, and more filled out. Yet, even as I was, the old house
received me back into its arms, and aroused in me with every
board, every window, every step of the stairs, and every sound
the shadows of forms, feelings, and events of the happy but
irrevocable past. When we entered our old night nursery, all my
childish fears lurked once more in the darkness of the corners
and doorway. When we passed into the drawing-room, I could feel
the old calm motherly love diffusing itself from every object in
the apartment. In the breakfast-room, the noisy, careless
merriment of childhood seemed merely to be waiting to wake to
life again. In the divannaia (whither Foka first conducted us,
and where he had prepared our beds) everything--mirror, screen,
old wooden ikon, the lumps on the walls covered with white paper--
seemed to speak of suffering and of death and of what would never
come back to us again.

We got into bed, and Foka, bidding us good-night, retired.

"It was in this room that Mamma died, was it not?" said Woloda.

I made no reply, but pretended to be asleep. If I had said
anything I should have burst into tears. On awaking next morning,
I beheld Papa sitting on Woloda's bed in his dressing gown and
slippers and smoking a cigar. Leaping up with a merry hoist of
the shoulders, he came over to me, slapped me on the back with
his great hand, and presented me his cheek to press my lips to.

"Well done, DIPLOMAT!" he said in his most kindly jesting tone as
he looked at me with his small bright eyes. "Woloda tells me you
have passed the examinations well for a youngster, and that is a
splendid thing. Unless you start and play the fool, I shall have
another fine little fellow in you. Thanks, my dear boy. Well, we
will have a grand time of it here now, and in the winter,
perhaps, we shall move to St. Petersburg. I only wish the hunting
was not over yet, or I could have given you some amusement in
THAT way. Can you shoot, Woldemar? However, whether there is any
game or not, I will take you out some day. Next winter, if God
pleases, we will move to St. Petersburg, and you shall meet
people, and make friends, for you are now my two young grown-ups.
I have been telling Woldemar that you are just starting on your
careers, whereas my day is ended. You are old enough now to walk
by yourselves, but, whenever you wish to confide in me, pray do
so, for I am no longer your nurse, but your friend. At least, I
will be your friend and comrade and adviser as much as I can and
more than that I cannot do. How does that fall in with your
philosophy, eh, Koko? Well or ill,