THE PRINCESS KORNAKOFF
"Yes, show her in," said Grandmamma, settling herself as far back
in her arm-chair as possible. The Princess was a woman of about
forty-five, small and delicate, with a shrivelled skin and
disagreeable, greyish-green eyes, the expression of which
contradicted the unnaturally suave look of the rest of her face.
Underneath her velvet bonnet, adorned with an ostrich feather,
was visible some reddish hair, while against the unhealthy colour
of her skin her eyebrows and eyelashes looked even lighter and
redder that they would other wise have done. Yet, for all that,
her animated movements, small hands, and peculiarly dry features
communicated something aristocratic and energetic to her general
appearance. She talked a great deal, and, to judge from her
eloquence, belonged to that class of persons who always speak as
though some one were contradicting them, even though no one else
may be saying a word. First she would raise her voice, then lower
it and then take on a fresh access of vivacity as she looked at
the persons present, but not participating in the conversation,
with an air of endeavouring to draw them into it.
Although the Princess kissed Grandmamma's hand and repeatedly
called her "my good Aunt," I could see that Grandmamma did not
care much about her, for she kept raising her eyebrows in a
peculiar way while listening to the Princess's excuses why
Prince Michael had been prevented from calling, and
congratulating Grandmamma "as he would like so-much to have
done." At length, however, she answered the Princess's French
with Russian, and with a sharp accentuation of certain words.
"I am much obliged to you for your kindness," she said. "As for
Prince Michael's absence, pray do not mention it. He has so much
else to do. Besides, what pleasure could he find in coming to see
an old woman like me?" Then, without allowing the Princess time
to reply, she went on: "How are your children my dear?"
"Well, thank God, Aunt, they grow and do their lessons and play--
particularly my eldest one, Etienne, who is so wild that it is
almost impossible to keep him in order. Still, he is a clever and
promising boy. Would you believe it, cousin" this last to Papa,
since Grandmamma altogether uninterested in the Princess's
children, had turned to us, taken my verses out from beneath the
presentation box, and unfolded them again), "would you believe
it, but one day not long ago--" and leaning over towards Papa, the
Princess related something or other with great vivacity. Then,
her tale concluded, she laughed, and, with a questioning look at
Papa, went on:
"What a boy, cousin! He ought to have been whipped, but the
trick was so spirited and amusing that I let him off." Then the
Princess looked at Grandmamma and laughed again.
"Ah! So you WHIP your children, do you" said Grandmamma, with a
significant lift of her eyebrows, and laying a peculiar stress on
the word "WHIP."
"Alas, my good Aunt," replied the Princess in a sort of tolerant
tone and with another glance at Papa, "I know your views on the
subject, but must beg to be allowed to differ with them. However
much I have thought over and read and talked about the matter, I
have always been forced to come to the conclusion that children
must be ruled through FEAR. To make something of a child, you
must make it FEAR something. Is it not so, cousin? And what,
pray, do children fear so much as a rod?"
As she spoke she seemed, to look inquiringly at Woloda and
myself, and I confess that I did not feel altogether comfortable.
"Whatever you may say," she went on, "a boy of twelve, or even
of fourteen, is still a child and should be whipped as such; but
with girls, perhaps, it is another matter."
"How lucky it is that I am not her son!" I thought to myself.
"Oh, very well," said Grandmamma, folding up my verses and
replacing them beneath the box (as though, after that exposition
of views, the Princess was unworthy of the honour of listening to
such a production). "Very well, my dear," she repeated "But
please tell me how, in return, you can look for any delicate
sensibility from your children?"
Evidently Grandmamma thought this argument unanswerable, for she
cut the subject short by adding:
"However, it is a point on which people must follow their own
opinions."
The Princess did not choose to reply, but smiled condescendingly,
and as though out of indulgence to the strange prejudices of a person
whom she only PRETENDED to revere.
"Oh, by the way, pray introduce me to your young people," she
went on presently as she threw us another gracious smile.
Thereupon we rose and stood looking at the Princess, without in
the least knowing what we ought to do to show that we were being
introduced.
"Kiss the Princess's hand," said Papa.
"Well, I hope you will love your old aunt," she said to Woloda,
kissing his hair, "even though we are not near relatives. But I
value friendship far more than I do degrees of relationship," she
added to Grandmamma, who nevertheless, remained hostile, and
replied:
"Eh, my dear? Is that what they think of relationships nowadays?"
"Here is my man of the world," put in Papa, indicating Woloda;
"and here is my poet," he added as I kissed the small, dry hand of
the Princess, with a vivid picture in my mind of that same hand
holding a rod and applying it vigorously.
"WHICH one is the poet?" asked the Princess.
"This little one," replied Papa, smiling; "the one with the
tuft of hair on his top-knot."
"Why need he bother about my tuft?" I thought to myself as I
retired into a corner. "Is there nothing else for him to talk
about?"
I had strange ideas on manly beauty. I considered Karl Ivanitch
one of the handsomest men in the world, and myself so ugly that I
had no need to deceive myself on that point. Therefore any remark
on the subject of my exterior offended me extremely. I well
remember how, one day after luncheon (I was then six years of
age), the talk fell upon my personal appearance, and how Mamma
tried to find good features in my face, and said that I had
clever eyes and a charming smile; how, nevertheless, when Papa
had examined me, and proved the contrary, she was obliged to
confess that I was ugly; and how, when the meal was over and I
went to pay her my respects, she said as she patted my cheek;
"You know, Nicolinka, nobody will ever love you for your face
alone, so you must try all the more to be a good and clever boy."
Although these words of hers confirmed in me my conviction that I
was not handsome, they also confirmed in me an ambition to be
just such a boy as she had indicated. Yet I had my moments of
despair at my ugliness, for I thought that no human being with
such a large nose, such thick lips, and such small grey eyes as
mine could ever hope to attain happiness on this earth. I used to
ask God to perform a miracle by changing me into a beauty, and
would have given all that I possessed, or ever hoped to possess,
to have a handsome face,
