“If you please, half-a-pound of currants, four pounds of sugar, and three pounds of rice for the kutia.” [Cakes partaken of by the mourners at a Russian funeral.]

“Yes, in one moment,” said Natalia as she took a pinch of snuff and hastened to her drawers.  All traces of the grief, aroused by our conversation disappeared on, the instant that she had duties to fulfil, for she looked upon those duties as of paramount importance.

“But why four pounds?” she objected as she weighed the sugar on a steelyard.  “Three and a half would be sufficient,” and she withdrew a few lumps.  “How is it, too, that, though I weighed out eight pounds of rice yesterday, more is wanted now?  No offence to you, Foka, but I am not going to waste rice like that.  I suppose Vanka is glad that there is confusion in the house just now, for he thinks that nothing will be looked after, but I am not going to have any careless extravagance with my master’s goods.  Did one ever hear of such a thing?  Eight pounds!”

“Well, I have nothing to do with it.  He says it is all gone, that’s all.”

“Hm, hm!  Well, there it is.  Let him take it.”

I was struck by the sudden transition from the touching sensibility with which she had just been speaking to me to this petty reckoning and captiousness.  Yet, thinking it over afterwards, I recognised that it was merely because, in spite of what was lying on her heart, she retained the habit of duty, and that it was the strength of that habit which enabled her to pursue her functions as of old.  Her grief was too strong and too true to require any pretence of being unable to fulfil trivial tasks, nor would she have understood that any one could so pretend.  Vanity is a sentiment so entirely at variance with genuine grief, yet a sentiment so inherent in human nature, that even the most poignant sorrow does not always drive it wholly forth.  Vanity mingled with grief shows itself in a desire to be recognised as unhappy or resigned; and this ignoble desire—­an aspiration which, for all that we may not acknowledge it is rarely absent, even in cases of the utmost affliction—­takes off greatly from the force, the dignity, and the sincerity of grief.  Natalia Savishna had been so sorely smitten by her misfortune that not a single wish of her own remained in her soul—­she went on living purely by habit.

Having handed over the provisions to Foka, and reminded him of the refreshments which must be ready for the priests, she took up her knitting and seated herself by my side again.  The conversation reverted to the old topic, and we once more mourned and shed tears together.  These talks with Natalia I repeated every day, for her quiet tears and words of devotion brought me relief and comfort.  Soon, however, a parting came.  Three days after the funeral we returned to Moscow, and I never saw her again.