transferring his box from his right hand to his left, presented it to her.  Then he withdrew a few steps to make way for Woloda.  Grandmamma seemed highly pleased with the box (which was adorned with a gold border), and smiled in the most friendly manner in order to express her gratitude.  Yet it was evident that, she did not know where to set the box down, and this probably accounts for the fact that she handed it to Papa, at the same time bidding him observe how beautifully it was made.

His curiosity satisfied, Papa handed the box to the priest, who also seemed particularly delighted with it, and looked with astonishment, first at the article itself, and then at the artist who could make such wonderful things.  Then Woloda presented his Turk, and received a similarly flattering ovation on all sides.

It was my turn now, and Grandmamma turned to me with her kindest smile.  Those who have experienced what embarrassment is know that it is a feeling which grows in direct proportion to delay, while decision decreases in similar measure.  In other words the longer the condition lasts, the more invincible does it become, and the smaller does the power of decision come to be.

My last remnants of nerve and energy had forsaken me while Karl and Woloda had been offering their presents, and my shyness now reached its culminating point, I felt the blood rushing from my heart to my head, one blush succeeding another across my face, and drops of perspiration beginning to stand out on my brow and nose.  My ears were burning, I trembled from head to foot, and, though I kept changing from one foot to the other, I remained rooted where I stood.

“Well, Nicolinka, tell us what you have brought?” said Papa.  “Is it a box or a drawing?”

There was nothing else to be done.  With a trembling hand held out the folded, fatal paper, but my voiced failed me completely and I stood before Grandmamma in silence.  I could not get rid of the dreadful idea that, instead of a display of the expected drawing, some bad verses of mine were about to be read aloud before every one, and that the words “our Mother dear” would clearly prove that I had never loved, but had only forgotten, her.  How shall I express my sufferings when Grandmamma began to read my poetry aloud?—­when, unable to decipher it, she stopped half-way and looked at Papa with a smile (which I took to be one of ridicule)?—­when she did not pronounce it as I had meant it to be pronounced?—­and when her weak sight not allowing her to finish it, she handed the paper to Papa and requested him to read it all over again from the beginning?  I fancied that she must have done this last because she did not like to read such a lot of stupid, crookedly written stuff herself, yet wanted to point out to Papa my utter lack of feeling.  I expected him to slap me in the face with the verses and say, “You bad boy!  So you have forgotten your Mamma!  Take that for it!” Yet nothing of the sort happened.  On the contrary, when the whole had been read, Grandmamma said, “Charming!” and kissed me on the forehead.  Then our presents, together with two cambric pocket-handkerchiefs and a snuff-box engraved with Mamma’s portrait, were laid on the table attached to the great Voltairian arm-chair in which Grandmamma always sat.