Youth | Page 6

was only later, when she
one day informed me in conversation that the only thing a girl was
allowed to indulge in was coquetry--coquetry of the eyes, I mean--that I
understood those strange contortions of her features which to every one
else had seemed a matter for no surprise at all. Lubotshka also had
begun to wear what was almost a long dress--a dress which almost
concealed her goose-shaped feet; yet she still remained as ready a
weeper as ever. She dreamed now of marrying, not a hussar, but a
singer or an instrumentalist, and accordingly applied herself to her
music with greater diligence than ever. St. Jerome, who knew that he

was going to remain with us only until my examinations were over, and
so had obtained for himself a new post in the family of some count or
another, now looked with contempt upon the members of our
household. He stayed indoors very little, took to smoking cigarettes
(then all the rage), and was for ever whistling lively tunes on the edge
of a card. Mimi daily grew more and more despondent, as though, now
that we were beginning to grow up, she looked for nothing good from
any one or anything.
When, on the day of which I am speaking, I went in to luncheon I
found only Mimi, Katenka, Lubotshka, and St. Jerome in the
dining-room. Papa was away, and Woloda in his own room, doing
some preparation work for his examinations in company with a party of
his comrades: wherefore he had requested that lunch should be sent to
him there. Of late, Mimi had usually taken the head of the table, and as
none of us had any respect for her, luncheon had lost most of its
refinement and charm. That is to say, the meal was no longer what it
had been in Mamma's or our grandmother's time, namely, a kind of rite
which brought all the family together at a given hour and divided the
day into two halves. We allowed ourselves to come in as late as the
second course, to drink wine in tumblers (St. Jerome himself set us the
example), to roll about on our chairs, to depart without saying grace,
and so on. In fact, luncheon had ceased to be a family ceremony. In the
old days at Petrovskoe, every one had been used to wash and dress for
the meal, and then to repair to the drawing-room as the appointed hour
(two o'clock) drew near, and pass the time of waiting in lively
conversation. Just as the clock in the servants' hall was beginning to
whirr before striking the hour, Foka would enter with noiseless
footsteps, and, throwing his napkin over his arm and assuming a
dignified, rather severe expression, would say in loud, measured tones:
"Luncheon is ready!" Thereupon, with pleased, cheerful faces, we
would form a procession--the elders going first and the juniors
following, and, with much rustling of starched petticoats and subdued
creaking of boots and shoes--would proceed to the dining-room, where,
still talking in undertones, the company would seat themselves in their
accustomed places. Or, again, at Moscow, we would all of us be
standing before the table ready-laid in the hall, talking quietly among

ourselves as we waited for our grandmother, whom the butler, Gabriel,
had gone to acquaint with the fact that luncheon was ready. Suddenly
the door would open, there would come the faint swish of a dress and
the sound of footsteps, and our grandmother--dressed in a mob-cap
trimmed with a quaint old lilac bow, and wearing either a smile or a
severe expression on her face according as the state of her health
inclined her--would issue from her room. Gabriel would hasten to
precede her to her arm-chair, the other chairs would make a scraping
sound, and, with a feeling as though a cold shiver (the precursor of
appetite) were running down one's back, one would seize upon one's
damp, starched napkin, nibble a morsel or two of bread, and, rubbing
one's hands softly under the table, gaze with eager, radiant impatience
at the steaming plates of soup which the butler was beginning to
dispense in order of ranks and ages or according to the favour of our
grandmother.
On the present occasion, however, I was conscious of neither
excitement nor pleasure when I went in to luncheon. Even the mingled
chatter of Mimi, the girls, and St. Jerome about the horrible boots of
our Russian tutor, the pleated dresses worn by the young Princesses
Kornakoff, and so forth (chatter which at any other time would have
filled me with a sincerity of contempt which I should have been at no
pains to conceal--at all events so far as Lubotshka and Katenka were
concerned), failed to shake the benevolent frame