PUNIN AND BABURIN

PIOTR PETROVITCH'S STORY

... I am old and ill now, and my thoughts brood oftenest upon death,

every day coming nearer; rarely I think of the past, rarely I turn the

eyes of my soul behind me. Only from time to time--in winter, as I sit

motionless before the glowing fire, in summer, as I pace with slow tread

along the shady avenue--I recall past years, events, faces; but it is

not on my mature years nor on my youth that my thoughts rest at such

times. They either carry me back to my earliest childhood, or to the

first years of boyhood. Now, for instance, I see myself in the country

with my stern and wrathful grandmother--I was only twelve--and two

figures rise up before my imagination....

But I will begin my story consecutively, and in proper order.

I

1830

The old footman Filippitch came in, on tiptoe, as usual, with a cravat

tied up in a rosette, with tightly compressed lips, 'lest his breath

should be smelt,' with a grey tuft of hair standing up in the very

middle of his forehead. He came in, bowed, and handed my grandmother on

an iron tray a large letter with an heraldic seal. My grandmother put on

her spectacles, read the letter through....

'Is he here?' she asked.

'What is my lady pleased ...' Filippitch began timidly.

'Imbecile! The man who brought the letter--is he here?'

'He is here, to be sure he is.... He is sitting in the counting-house.'

My grandmother rattled her amber rosary beads....

'Tell him to come to me.... And you, sir,' she turned to me, 'sit

still.'

As it was, I was sitting perfectly still in my corner, on the stool

assigned to me.

My grandmother kept me well in hand!

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