Happy days of childhood that can never be recalled!  What memories I yet cherish of them.  I see Mamma just as plainly as when she so long since was talking to some one at the tea-table, while I, in my high chair, grew drowsy.  Presently she stroked my hair with her soft hand, saying, “Get up, my darling, it is time to go to bed.  Get up, my angel.”

I spring up and embrace her, and exclaim, “Dear, dear Mamma, how I love you!” With her sad and fascinating smile she places me on her knees, is silent awhile, and then speaks.  “So you love me very much?  Love me always and never forget me.  If you lose your Mamma, Nikolinka, you will not forget her?”

She kisses me still more lovingly, and I cry with tears of love and rapture flooding my face, “Oh, do not say that, my darling, my precious one.”  Will that freshness, that happy carelessness, that thirst for love which made life’s only requirements, ever return?  Where are those pure tears of tenderest emotion?  The angel of consolation came and wiped them away.  Do the memories alone abide?

About a month after we had removed to Moscow, Grandmamma received a visit from Princess Kornakova, a woman of forty-five, with disagreeable gray-green eyes, but sweetly curved lips, bright red hair, and insalubrious face.  In spite of these peculiarities her aspect was noble.  I took a dislike to her because I found from her talk that she was given to beating her own children, and thought that other people’s children, especially boys, needed to be whipped.

Another visitor was Prince Ivan Ivanitch, distinguished for his noble character, handsome person, splendid bravery and extraordinary good fortune.  He belonged to a powerful family, and lived in accordance with principles of the strictest religion and morality.  Though somewhat reserved and haughty, in demeanour, he was full of kindly feeling.  Prince Ivan Ivanitch was a highly cultured man of most versatile accomplishments.  Our Grandmamma was evidently delighted to see him, and his magnificent aspect and her liking for him inspired me with unbounded admiration and reverence.

He asked why Mamma had not come to Moscow.  “Ah,” was the reply, “she would have come if possible, but they have no income this year.”

“I do not understand,” replied the Prince.  “Her Khabarovka is a wonderful estate, and it must always bring in a fine revenue.”

“I will tell you,” said Grandmamma, sadly.  “It seems to me that all the pretexts are made simply to enable him to live a gay life here, while she, angel of goodness that she is, suspects nothing.  She believes him in everything.”

This conversation should not have been overheard by me, but, having overheard it, I crept out of the room.

On the 16th of April, nearly six months later, serious news came from Mamma.  She wrote to Papa that she had contracted a chill, which had caused a fever, that this was over, but had left her in such utter weakness that she would never rise from her bed again, although those about her were not aware of such a condition.  She wished him to come to her at once and to bring her two boys with him.  She prayed that God’s holy will might be done.