Sergyevna from the very first hour was her slave.  And, indeed, how was she to contend against the masterful, haughty Glafira, submissive, constantly bewildered, timid, and weak in health as she was?  Not a day passed without Glafira reminding her of her former position, and commending her for not forgetting herself.  Malanya Sergyevna could have reconciled herself readily to these reminiscences and commendations, however they might be—­but Fedya was taken away from her, that was what crushed her.  On the pretext that she was not capable of undertaking his education, she was scarcely allowed to see him; Glafira set herself to that task; the child was put absolutely under her control.  Malanya Sergyevna began, in her distress, to beseech Ivan Petrovitch, in her letters, to return home soon.  Piotr Andreitch himself wanted to see his son, but Ivan Petrovitch did nothing but write.  He thanked his father on his wife’s account, and for the money sent him, promised to return quickly—­and did not come.  The year 1812 at last summoned him home from abroad.  When they met again, after six years’ absence, the father embraced his son, and not by a single word made allusion to their former differences; it was not a time for that now, all Russia was rising up against the enemy, and both of them felt that they had Russian blood in their veins.  Piotr Andreitch equipped a whole regiment of volunteers at his own expense.  But the war came to an end, the danger was over; Ivan Petrovitch began to be bored again, and again he felt drawn away to the distance, to the world in which he had grown up, and where he felt himself at home.  Malanya Sergyevna could not keep him; she meant too little to him.  Even her fondest hopes came to nothing; her husband considered that it was much more suitable to intrust Fedya’s education to Glafira.  Ivan Petrovitch’s poor wife could not bear this blow, she could not bear a second separation; in a few days, without a murmur, she quietly passed away.  All her life she had never been able to oppose anything, and she did not struggle against her illness.  When she could no longer speak, when the shadows of death were already on her face, her features expressed, as of old, bewildered resignation and constant, uncomplaining meekness; with the same dumb submissiveness she looked at Glafira, and just as Anna Pavlovna kissed her husband’s hand on her deathbed, she kissed Glafira’s, commending to her, to Glafira, her only son.  So ended the earthly existence of this good and gentle creature, torn, God knows why, like an uprooted tree from its natural soil and at once thrown down with its roots in the air; she had faded and passed away leaving no trace, and no one mourned for her.  Malanya Sergyevna’s maids pitied her, and so did even Piotr Andreitch.  The old man missed her silent presence.  “Forgive me . . . farewell, my meek one!” he whispered, as he took leave of her the last time in church.  He wept as he threw a handful of earth in the grave.