一八XX年八月十二日……也就是我過十歲生日，得到那麽珍奇的禮品以後的第三天，早晨七點鐘，卡爾·伊凡內奇用棍子上綁着糖紙做的蠅拍就在我的頭上面打蒼蠅，把我驚醒了。他打得那麽笨，不但碰着了挂在柞木床架上的我的守護神的聖像，而且讓死蒼蠅一直落到我的腦袋上。我從被子下面伸出鼻子，用手扶穩還在搖擺的聖像，把那衹死蒼蠅扔到地板上，用雖然睡意惺論、卻含着怒意的眼光看了卡爾·伊凡內奇一眼。他呢，身上穿着花布棉袍，腰裏束着同樣料子做的腰帶，頭上戴着紅毛綫織的帶纓小圓帽，腳上穿着山羊皮靴，繼續順着墻邊走來走去，瞅準蒼蠅，啪啪地打着。
“就算我小吧，”我想，“可是，他為什麽偏偏要驚動我呢？他為什麽不在沃洛佳的床邊打蒼蠅呢 ① ？您瞧，那邊有多少啊！不，沃洛佳比我大；我年紀最小，所以他就讓我吃苦頭。他一輩子淨琢磨着怎麽叫我不痛快。”我低聲說。“他明明看見，他把我弄醒了，嚇了我一跳，卻硬裝作沒有註意到的樣子……討厭的傢夥！連棉袍、小帽、帽纓，都討厭死了！”
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①沃洛佳：弗拉基米爾的小名。
當我心裏這樣惱恨卡爾·伊凡內奇的時候，他走到自己的床前，望了望挂在床頭、鑲着小玻璃珠的鐘座上的鐘，然後把蠅拍挂到小釘上，帶着一種顯然很愉快的心情嚮我們轉過身來。
“Auf，kinden，auf！……s’ist Zeit．Die Mutter ist schon imSaal！” ① 他用德國口音和顔悅色地喊道，然後朝我走過來，坐到我的床邊，從衣袋裏掏出鼻煙壺。我假裝在睡覺。卡爾·伊凡內奇先喚了一撮鼻煙，擦了擦鼻子，彈了彈手指，然後纔來收拾我。他一邊笑着，一邊開始搔我的腳後跟。“Nu，nun，Faule nzer！” ② 他說。
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①“Auf，kinden，auf！……s’ist Zeit Die Mutter ist schon im Saa！”：德語“起來，孩子們，起來……到時候了，媽媽已經在飯廳裏了。”
②“Nu，nun，Faulenzer！”：德語“喂，喂，懶骨頭。”
儘管我怕癢，我還是沒有從床上跳起來，也沒有理睬他，衹是把頭更往枕頭裏鑽．拚命踢蹬，竭力忍住不笑出來。
“他多善良，多喜歡我們，可是我卻把他想得那麽壞！”
我自己很難過，也替卡爾·伊凡內奇難過；我又想笑，又想哭，心裏很亂。
“Ach，lassen，Sie， ① 卡爾·伊凡內奇！”我眼淚汪汪地喊着，把頭從枕頭底下伸出來。
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①“Ach，lassen Sie”：德語“喂，別碰我。”
卡爾·伊凡內奇吃了一驚，放開我的腳，不安地問我到底是怎麽回事？是不是做了什麽噩夢？……他那慈祥的德國人的面孔、他那竭力要猜出我為什麽流淚的關註神情，更使我淚如雨下了：我很慚愧，而且不明白在一分鐘之前，我怎麽居然能不喜歡卡爾·伊凡內奇，認為他的棉袍、小帽和帽纓討厭呢？現在，恰好相反，我覺得這些東西都非常可愛，連帽纓都似乎成了他很善良的證明。我對他說，我哭，是因為我做了一個噩夢，夢見媽媽死了，人們擡着她去下葬。這完全是我憑空編造的，因為我一點也不記得夜裏做了什麽夢。但是，當卡爾·伊凡內奇被我的謊話所打動，開始安慰我、撫愛我的時候，我卻覺得自己真地做了那場噩夢，因此為另外的原因落起淚來了。
當卡爾·伊凡內奇離開我的時候，我從床上擡起身子，往自己的小腳上穿長統襪子，這時眼淚不怎麽流了，但是我所虛構的那場噩夢的陰鬱的想法，卻仍然縈繞在我的腦海裏。照料孩子的尼古拉進來了，他是一個身材矮小、愛好整潔的人，一嚮嚴肅認真，彬彬有禮，是卡爾·伊凡內奇的好朋友。他給我們送來衣服和鞋；給沃洛佳拿來的是靴子，給我拿來的卻是我至今還討厭的打着花結的鞋。我不好意思當着他的面哭泣；況且，朝陽愉快地從窗口射進來，沃洛佳又站在臉盆架前面，很滑稽地模仿瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜（姐姐的女家庭教師），笑得那麽開心，那麽響亮，連肩頭搭着毛巾、一手拿着肥皂、一手提着水壺的一本正經的尼古拉都笑着說：
“得了，費拉基米爾·彼得羅維奇，請洗臉吧。”
我十分快活了。
“Sind sie bald fertig？” ① 從教室裏傳來卡爾·伊凡內奇的聲
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①“Sind sie bald fereig？”：德語“你們快準備好了嗎？”
他的聲音嚴厲，已經沒有使我感動得落淚的音調了。在教室裏，卡爾·伊凡內奇完全是另外一個人了，他是老師。我應聲而來，連忙穿上衣服，洗好臉，手裏還拿着刷子，一邊撫平我的濕漉漉的頭髮，一邊走進教室。
卡爾·伊凡內奇鼻梁上架着眼鏡，手裏拿着一本書，坐在門窗之間他一嚮坐的地方。門左邊擺着兩個小書架：一個是我們孩子們的，另外一個是卡爾·伊凡內奇私人的。我們的書架上擺着各種各樣的書——有教科書，也有課外讀物。有些竪着，有些平放着，衹有兩大捲紅封面的《Histoire des voyages 》 ① 規規矩矩靠墻竪着，然後是長長的、厚厚的、大大小小的書籍，有的有封皮沒書，有的有書沒封皮。每當課間休息以前，卡爾·伊凡內奇就吩咐我們整理“圖書館”（卡爾·伊凡內奇誇大其詞地把這個小書架稱作“圖書館”）的時候，我們總是把一切東西往那裏亂塞。老師私人書架上的藏書，雖然册數沒有我們書架上的那麽多，種類卻五花八門。我還記得其中的三册：一本是沒有硬封皮的德文小册子，內容講在白菜地裏施肥的方法；一本是羊皮紙的、燒掉了一角的七年戰爭史；另一本是靜體力學全部教程。卡爾·伊凡內奇把大部分時間都消磨在讀書上，甚至因此損傷了視力；不過，除了這些書和《北方蜜蜂》雜志以外，他什麽都不看。
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①《Histoiredes voyages》：《遊記》（法語）
在卡爾·伊凡內奇的小書架上所有的東西中間，有一件東西最能使我想起他來。那就是一隻用紙板做的圓盤，它安着木腿，可以藉着木釘移動。圓盤上貼着一張漫畫，上面畫着一個貴婦和一個理發師。卡爾·伊凡內奇粘很得好，這個圓盤也是他自己設計的一做這個圓盤的目的是為了遮住大亮的光綫，保護自己的視力衰退的眼睛。
就是現在，我仿佛還能看見他的身影——高高的個兒，穿着棉袍，戴着紅色小帽，帽子下面露出稀疏的白發。他坐在一張小桌旁邊，桌上擺着那衹圓盤，圓盤上的理發師把陰影投射到他的臉上；卡爾·伊凡內奇一隻手拿着書，另一隻手搭在安樂椅的扶手上，面前放着一隻表盤上畫着獵人的鐘、一塊方格手帕、一個圓形的黑鼻煙壺、一隻緑色眼鏡盒和擺在小托盤裏的一把剪燭花的剪刀。這一切東西都那麽規規矩矩、整整齊齊地擺在各自的位置上，單憑着這種並井有條的秩序，就可以斷定卡爾·伊凡內奇心地純潔，心平氣和。
平常。當我在樓下大廳裏跑夠了的時候，我總是踮着腳悄悄地上樓，跑進教室，那時候我總是發現，卡爾·伊凡內奇正獨自一人坐在安樂椅上，神情安詳而莊嚴地閱讀他喜愛的一本什麽書。有時也遇到他不在讀書。這時他總把眼鏡低低地架在大鷹鈎鼻上，半睜半閉的藍眼睛裏含着一種特殊的表情，嘴唇憂鬱地微笑着。房間裏靜悄悄的，衹聽得見他的均勻呼吸聲和那塊畫着獵人的鐘嘀嗒作響。
他常常沒有發現我，我就站在門邊想：“可憐的，可憐的老頭兒！我們人多，我們玩呀，樂呀，可是他孤零零一個，沒有任何人安慰他。他說自己是孤兒，真是一點也不錯。他的身世多麽可怕呀！我記得他對尼古拉講過自己的身世。他的處境真是可怕呀！”我非常可憐他，因此常常走到他跟前，拉住他的一隻手說：“Lieb er卡爾·伊凡內奇 ① ！”他很喜歡我這麽對他說話。每當這種時刻，他總要撫摸我，顯然他深深地受了感動。
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①Lieber：親愛的（德語）
另一面墻上挂着幾幅地圖，差不多全是破的，不過，卡爾·伊凡內奇妙手回春，把它們都裱糊得好好的。第三面墻的正中間是通樓梯口的門，門的一邊挂着兩把尺，一把是我們的，刀痕纍纍；另外一把是嶄新的，是他私人的，他用它訓戒人的時候多，畫綫的時候少。門的另一邊挂着一塊黑板，上面用圓圈記着我們的大錯，用十字記着我們的小錯。黑板左邊，就是罰我們下跪的角落。
這個角落令我終生難忘！我記得那個爐門、記得爐門上的通風孔以及人們轉動它時，它發出的響聲。我常常在屋角跪的時間很長，跪得腰酸腿疼。這時候我心裏就想：“卡爾·伊凡內奇把我忘了。他大概是舒舒服眼地坐在安樂椅上讀他的流體靜力學，可是我呢？”為了讓他想起我，我就把爐門輕輕打開又關上，或者從墻上摳下一塊灰泥。但是，如果忽然有一塊大大的灰泥嘭的一聲掉到地板上，說真的，單是那份害怕就比任何懲罰都精心。我回頭望一望卡爾·伊凡內奇，他卻捧着一本書，兀自坐在那兒，好象什麽都沒有覺察似的。
屋子中間擺着一張桌子，桌上鋪着一塊破黑漆布，從漆布的許多窟窿裏有好多地方透出被鉛筆刀劃出道道的桌子的邊沿。桌子周圍擺着幾張沒有油漆過，但是由於使用了好久，已經磨得鋥亮的凳子。最後一面墻上有三扇小窗戶。窗外的景色是這樣：正前方有一條路，路上的每個坑窪、每顆石子、每道車轍，都是我久已熟悉和喜愛的；走過這條路，就是一個修剪過的菩提樹的林蔭路，路後有些地方隱隱約約露出用樹枝編成的籬笆；在林蔭路那邊，可以看見一片草地，草地的一邊是打𠔌場，另一邊是樹林。樹林深處，可以看到守林人的小木房。從窗口朝右邊眺望，可以看到一部分涼臺，午飯以前，大人們常常坐在那裏。當卡爾·伊凡內奇批改默寫捲子的時候，我常常朝那邊觀望，我可以看見媽媽的烏黑的頭髮和什麽人的脊背，也可以隱隱約約地聽到那裏的談笑聲。因為不能到那裏去，我心裏很生氣。我想：“我什麽時候才能長大，不再學習，永遠不再死念《會話課本》，而同我所喜歡的人坐在一起呢？”氣惱會變成悲傷，天知道我為什麽沉思，沉思些什麽，我想出了神，竟連卡爾·伊凡內奇因為我的錯誤而發起脾氣，我都沒有聽到。
卡爾·伊凡內奇脫下棉袍，穿上他那件肩頭墊得高高的、打着褶的藍色燕尾眼，照着鏡子理一理領帶，就領着我們下樓去嚮媽媽問安了。
On the 12th of August, 18-- (just three days after my tenth birthday, when I had been given such wonderful presents), I was awakened at seven o'clock in the morning by Karl Ivanitch slapping the wall close to my head with a fly-flap made of sugar paper and a stick. He did this so roughly that he hit the image of my patron saint suspended to the oaken back of my bed, and the dead fly fell down on my curls. I peeped out from under the coverlet, steadied the still shaking image with my hand, flicked the dead fly on to the floor, and gazed at Karl Ivanitch with sleepy, wrathful eyes. He, in a parti-coloured wadded dressing- gown fastened about the waist with a wide belt of the same material, a red knitted cap adorned with a tassel, and soft slippers of goat skin, went on walking round the walls and taking aim at, and slapping, flies.
"Suppose," I thought to myself," that I am only a small boy, yet why should he disturb me? Why does he not go killing flies around Woloda's bed? No; Woloda is older than I, and I am the youngest of the family, so he torments me. That is what he thinks of all day long--how to tease me. He knows very well that he has woken me up and frightened me, but he pretends not to notice it. Disgusting brute! And his dressing-gown and cap and tassel too-- they are all of them disgusting."
While I was thus inwardly venting my wrath upon Karl Ivanitch, he had passed to his own bedstead, looked at his watch (which hung suspended in a little shoe sewn with bugles), and deposited the fly-flap on a nail, then, evidently in the most cheerful mood possible, he turned round to us.
"Get up, children! It is quite time, and your mother is already in the drawing-room," he exclaimed in his strong German accent. Then he crossed over to me, sat down at my feet, and took his snuff-box out of his pocket. I pretended to be asleep. Karl Ivanitch sneezed, wiped his nose, flicked his fingers, and began amusing himself by teasing me and tickling my toes as he said with a smile, "Well, well, little lazy one!"
For all my dread of being tickled, I determined not to get out of bed or to answer him,. but hid my head deeper in the pillow, kicked out with all my strength, and strained every nerve to keep from laughing.
"How kind he is, and how fond of us!" I thought to myself, Yet to think that I could be hating him so just now!"
I felt angry, both with myself and with Karl Ivanitch, I wanted to laugh and to cry at the same time, for my nerves were all on edge.
"Leave me alone, Karl!" I exclaimed at length, with tears in my eyes, as I raised my head from beneath the bed-clothes.
Karl Ivanitch was taken aback, He left off tickling my feet, and asked me kindly what the matter was, Had I had a disagreeable dream? His good German face and the sympathy with which he sought to know the cause of my tears made them flow the faster. I felt conscience-stricken, and could not understand how, only a minute ago, I had been hating Karl, and thinking his dressing-gown and cap and tassel disgusting. On the contrary, they looked eminently lovable now. Even the tassel seemed another token of his goodness. I replied that I was crying because I had had a bad dream, and had seen Mamma dead and being buried. Of course it was a mere invention, since I did not remember having dreamt anything at all that night, but the truth was that Karl's sympathy as he tried to comfort and reassure me had gradually made me believe that I HAD dreamt such a horrible dream, and so weep the more-- though from a different cause to the one he imagined
When Karl Ivanitch had left me, I sat up in bed and proceeded to draw my stockings over my little feet. The tears had quite dried now, yet the mournful thought of the invented dream was still haunting me a little. Presently Uncle [This term is often applied by children to old servants in Russia] Nicola came in--a neat little man who was always grave, methodical, and respectful, as well as a great friend of Karl's, He brought with him our clothes and boots--at least, boots for Woloda, and for myself the old detestable, be-ribanded shoes. In his presence I felt ashamed to cry, and, moreover, the morning sun was shining so gaily through the window, and Woloda, standing at the washstand as he mimicked Maria Ivanovna (my sister's governess), was laughing so loud and so long, that even the serious Nicola--a towel over his shoulder, the soap in one hand, and the basin in the other--could not help smiling as he said, "Will you please let me wash you, Vladimir Petrovitch?" I had cheered up completely.
"Are you nearly ready?" came Karl's voice from the schoolroom. The tone of that voice sounded stern now, and had nothing in it of the kindness which had just touched me so much. In fact, in the schoolroom Karl was altogether a different man from what he was at other times. There he was the tutor. I washed and dressed myself hurriedly, and, a brush still in my hand as I smoothed my wet hair, answered to his call. Karl, with spectacles on nose and a book in his hand, was sitting, as usual, between the door and one of the windows. To the left of the door were two shelves-- one of them the children's (that is to say, ours), and the other one Karl's own. Upon ours were heaped all sorts of books--lesson books and play books--some standing up and some lying down. The only two standing decorously against the wall were two large volumes of a Histoire des Voyages, in red binding. On that shelf could be seen books thick and thin and books large and small, as well as covers without books and books without covers, since everything got crammed up together anyhow when play time arrived and we were told to put the "library" (as Karl called these shelves) in order The collection of books on his own shelf was, if not so numerous as ours, at least more varied. Three of them in particular I remember, namely, a German pamphlet (minus a cover) on Manuring Cabbages in Kitchen-Gardens, a History of the Seven Years' War (bound in parchment and burnt at one corner), and a Course of Hydrostatics. Though Karl passed so much of his time in reading that he had injured his sight by doing so, he never read anything beyond these books and The Northern Bee.
Another article on Karl's shelf I remember well. This was a round piece of cardboard fastened by a screw to a wooden stand, with a sort of comic picture of a lady and a hairdresser glued to the cardboard. Karl was very clever at fixing pieces of cardboard together, and had devised this contrivance for shielding his weak eyes from any very strong light.
I can see him before me now--the tall figure in its wadded dressing-gown and red cap (a few grey hairs visible beneath the latter) sitting beside the table; the screen with the hairdresser shading his face; one hand holding a book, and the other one resting on the arm of the chair. Before him lie his watch, with a huntsman painted on the dial, a check cotton handkerchief, a round black snuff-box, and a green spectacle- case, The neatness and orderliness of all these articles show clearly that Karl Ivanitch has a clear conscience and a quiet mind.
Sometimes, when tired of running about the salon downstairs, I would steal on tiptoe to the schoolroom and find Karl sitting alone in his armchair as, with a grave and quiet expression on his face, he perused one of his favourite books. Yet sometimes, also, there were moments when he was not reading, and when the spectacles had slipped down his large aquiline nose, and the blue, half-closed eyes and faintly smiling lips seemed to be gazing before them with a curious expression, All would be quiet in the room--not a sound being audible save his regular breathing and the ticking of the watch with the hunter painted on the dial. He would not see me, and I would stand at the door and think:
"Poor, poor old man! There are many of us, and we can play together and be happy, but he sits there all alone, and has nobody to be fond of him. Surely he speaks truth when he says that he is an orphan. And the story of his life, too--how terrible it is! I remember him telling it to Nicola, How dreadful to be in his position!" Then I would feel so sorry for him that I would go to him, and take his hand, and say, "Dear Karl Ivanitch!" and he would be visibly delighted whenever I spoke to him like this, and would look much brighter.
On the second wall of the schoolroom hung some maps--mostly torn, but glued together again by Karl's hand. On the third wall (in the middle of which stood the door) hung, on one side of the door, a couple of rulers (one of them ours--much bescratched, and the other one his--quite a new one), with, on the further side of the door, a blackboard on which our more serious faults were marked by circles and our lesser faults by crosses. To the left of the blackboard was the corner in which we had to kneel when naughty. How well I remember that corner--the shutter on the stove, the ventilator above it, and the noise which it made when turned! Sometimes I would be made to stay in that corner till my back and knees were aching all over, and I would think to myself. "Has Karl Ivanitch forgotten me? He goes on sitting quietly in his arm-chair and reading his Hydrostatics, while I--!" Then, to remind him of my presence, I would begin gently turning the ventilator round. Or scratching some plaster off the wall; but if by chance an extra large piece fell upon the floor, the fright of it was worse than any punishment. I would glance round at Karl, but he would still be sitting there quietly, book in hand, and pretending that he had noticed nothing.
In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a torn black oilcloth so much cut about with penknives that the edge of the table showed through. Round the table stood unpainted chairs which, through use, had attained a high degree of polish. The fourth and last wall contained three windows, from the first of which the view was as follows, Immediately beneath it there ran a high road on which every irregularity, every pebble, every rut was known and dear to me. Beside the road stretched a row of lime-trees, through which glimpses could be caught of a wattled fence, with a meadow with farm buildings on one side of it and a wood on the other--the whole bounded by the keeper's hut at the further end of the meadow, The next window to the right overlooked the part of the terrace where the "grownups" of the family used to sit before luncheon. Sometimes, when Karl was correcting our exercises, I would look out of that window and see Mamma's dark hair and the backs of some persons with her, and hear the murmur of their talking and laughter. Then I would feel vexed that I could not be there too, and think to myself, "When am I going to be grown up, and to have no more lessons, but sit with the people whom I love instead of with these horrid dialogues in my hand?" Then my anger would change to sadness, and I would fall into such a reverie that I never heard Karl when he scolded me for my mistakes.
At last, on the morning of which I am speaking, Karl Ivanitch took off his dressing-gown, put on his blue frockcoat with its creased and crumpled shoulders, adjusted his tie before the looking-glass, and took us down to greet Mamma.
“就算我小吧，”我想，“可是，他為什麽偏偏要驚動我呢？他為什麽不在沃洛佳的床邊打蒼蠅呢 ① ？您瞧，那邊有多少啊！不，沃洛佳比我大；我年紀最小，所以他就讓我吃苦頭。他一輩子淨琢磨着怎麽叫我不痛快。”我低聲說。“他明明看見，他把我弄醒了，嚇了我一跳，卻硬裝作沒有註意到的樣子……討厭的傢夥！連棉袍、小帽、帽纓，都討厭死了！”
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①沃洛佳：弗拉基米爾的小名。
當我心裏這樣惱恨卡爾·伊凡內奇的時候，他走到自己的床前，望了望挂在床頭、鑲着小玻璃珠的鐘座上的鐘，然後把蠅拍挂到小釘上，帶着一種顯然很愉快的心情嚮我們轉過身來。
“Auf，kinden，auf！……s’ist Zeit．Die Mutter ist schon imSaal！” ① 他用德國口音和顔悅色地喊道，然後朝我走過來，坐到我的床邊，從衣袋裏掏出鼻煙壺。我假裝在睡覺。卡爾·伊凡內奇先喚了一撮鼻煙，擦了擦鼻子，彈了彈手指，然後纔來收拾我。他一邊笑着，一邊開始搔我的腳後跟。“Nu，nun，Faule nzer！” ② 他說。
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①“Auf，kinden，auf！……s’ist Zeit Die Mutter ist schon im Saa！”：德語“起來，孩子們，起來……到時候了，媽媽已經在飯廳裏了。”
②“Nu，nun，Faulenzer！”：德語“喂，喂，懶骨頭。”
儘管我怕癢，我還是沒有從床上跳起來，也沒有理睬他，衹是把頭更往枕頭裏鑽．拚命踢蹬，竭力忍住不笑出來。
“他多善良，多喜歡我們，可是我卻把他想得那麽壞！”
我自己很難過，也替卡爾·伊凡內奇難過；我又想笑，又想哭，心裏很亂。
“Ach，lassen，Sie， ① 卡爾·伊凡內奇！”我眼淚汪汪地喊着，把頭從枕頭底下伸出來。
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①“Ach，lassen Sie”：德語“喂，別碰我。”
卡爾·伊凡內奇吃了一驚，放開我的腳，不安地問我到底是怎麽回事？是不是做了什麽噩夢？……他那慈祥的德國人的面孔、他那竭力要猜出我為什麽流淚的關註神情，更使我淚如雨下了：我很慚愧，而且不明白在一分鐘之前，我怎麽居然能不喜歡卡爾·伊凡內奇，認為他的棉袍、小帽和帽纓討厭呢？現在，恰好相反，我覺得這些東西都非常可愛，連帽纓都似乎成了他很善良的證明。我對他說，我哭，是因為我做了一個噩夢，夢見媽媽死了，人們擡着她去下葬。這完全是我憑空編造的，因為我一點也不記得夜裏做了什麽夢。但是，當卡爾·伊凡內奇被我的謊話所打動，開始安慰我、撫愛我的時候，我卻覺得自己真地做了那場噩夢，因此為另外的原因落起淚來了。
當卡爾·伊凡內奇離開我的時候，我從床上擡起身子，往自己的小腳上穿長統襪子，這時眼淚不怎麽流了，但是我所虛構的那場噩夢的陰鬱的想法，卻仍然縈繞在我的腦海裏。照料孩子的尼古拉進來了，他是一個身材矮小、愛好整潔的人，一嚮嚴肅認真，彬彬有禮，是卡爾·伊凡內奇的好朋友。他給我們送來衣服和鞋；給沃洛佳拿來的是靴子，給我拿來的卻是我至今還討厭的打着花結的鞋。我不好意思當着他的面哭泣；況且，朝陽愉快地從窗口射進來，沃洛佳又站在臉盆架前面，很滑稽地模仿瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜（姐姐的女家庭教師），笑得那麽開心，那麽響亮，連肩頭搭着毛巾、一手拿着肥皂、一手提着水壺的一本正經的尼古拉都笑着說：
“得了，費拉基米爾·彼得羅維奇，請洗臉吧。”
我十分快活了。
“Sind sie bald fertig？” ① 從教室裏傳來卡爾·伊凡內奇的聲
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①“Sind sie bald fereig？”：德語“你們快準備好了嗎？”
他的聲音嚴厲，已經沒有使我感動得落淚的音調了。在教室裏，卡爾·伊凡內奇完全是另外一個人了，他是老師。我應聲而來，連忙穿上衣服，洗好臉，手裏還拿着刷子，一邊撫平我的濕漉漉的頭髮，一邊走進教室。
卡爾·伊凡內奇鼻梁上架着眼鏡，手裏拿着一本書，坐在門窗之間他一嚮坐的地方。門左邊擺着兩個小書架：一個是我們孩子們的，另外一個是卡爾·伊凡內奇私人的。我們的書架上擺着各種各樣的書——有教科書，也有課外讀物。有些竪着，有些平放着，衹有兩大捲紅封面的《Histoire des voyages 》 ① 規規矩矩靠墻竪着，然後是長長的、厚厚的、大大小小的書籍，有的有封皮沒書，有的有書沒封皮。每當課間休息以前，卡爾·伊凡內奇就吩咐我們整理“圖書館”（卡爾·伊凡內奇誇大其詞地把這個小書架稱作“圖書館”）的時候，我們總是把一切東西往那裏亂塞。老師私人書架上的藏書，雖然册數沒有我們書架上的那麽多，種類卻五花八門。我還記得其中的三册：一本是沒有硬封皮的德文小册子，內容講在白菜地裏施肥的方法；一本是羊皮紙的、燒掉了一角的七年戰爭史；另一本是靜體力學全部教程。卡爾·伊凡內奇把大部分時間都消磨在讀書上，甚至因此損傷了視力；不過，除了這些書和《北方蜜蜂》雜志以外，他什麽都不看。
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①《Histoiredes voyages》：《遊記》（法語）
在卡爾·伊凡內奇的小書架上所有的東西中間，有一件東西最能使我想起他來。那就是一隻用紙板做的圓盤，它安着木腿，可以藉着木釘移動。圓盤上貼着一張漫畫，上面畫着一個貴婦和一個理發師。卡爾·伊凡內奇粘很得好，這個圓盤也是他自己設計的一做這個圓盤的目的是為了遮住大亮的光綫，保護自己的視力衰退的眼睛。
就是現在，我仿佛還能看見他的身影——高高的個兒，穿着棉袍，戴着紅色小帽，帽子下面露出稀疏的白發。他坐在一張小桌旁邊，桌上擺着那衹圓盤，圓盤上的理發師把陰影投射到他的臉上；卡爾·伊凡內奇一隻手拿着書，另一隻手搭在安樂椅的扶手上，面前放着一隻表盤上畫着獵人的鐘、一塊方格手帕、一個圓形的黑鼻煙壺、一隻緑色眼鏡盒和擺在小托盤裏的一把剪燭花的剪刀。這一切東西都那麽規規矩矩、整整齊齊地擺在各自的位置上，單憑着這種並井有條的秩序，就可以斷定卡爾·伊凡內奇心地純潔，心平氣和。
平常。當我在樓下大廳裏跑夠了的時候，我總是踮着腳悄悄地上樓，跑進教室，那時候我總是發現，卡爾·伊凡內奇正獨自一人坐在安樂椅上，神情安詳而莊嚴地閱讀他喜愛的一本什麽書。有時也遇到他不在讀書。這時他總把眼鏡低低地架在大鷹鈎鼻上，半睜半閉的藍眼睛裏含着一種特殊的表情，嘴唇憂鬱地微笑着。房間裏靜悄悄的，衹聽得見他的均勻呼吸聲和那塊畫着獵人的鐘嘀嗒作響。
他常常沒有發現我，我就站在門邊想：“可憐的，可憐的老頭兒！我們人多，我們玩呀，樂呀，可是他孤零零一個，沒有任何人安慰他。他說自己是孤兒，真是一點也不錯。他的身世多麽可怕呀！我記得他對尼古拉講過自己的身世。他的處境真是可怕呀！”我非常可憐他，因此常常走到他跟前，拉住他的一隻手說：“Lieb er卡爾·伊凡內奇 ① ！”他很喜歡我這麽對他說話。每當這種時刻，他總要撫摸我，顯然他深深地受了感動。
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①Lieber：親愛的（德語）
另一面墻上挂着幾幅地圖，差不多全是破的，不過，卡爾·伊凡內奇妙手回春，把它們都裱糊得好好的。第三面墻的正中間是通樓梯口的門，門的一邊挂着兩把尺，一把是我們的，刀痕纍纍；另外一把是嶄新的，是他私人的，他用它訓戒人的時候多，畫綫的時候少。門的另一邊挂着一塊黑板，上面用圓圈記着我們的大錯，用十字記着我們的小錯。黑板左邊，就是罰我們下跪的角落。
這個角落令我終生難忘！我記得那個爐門、記得爐門上的通風孔以及人們轉動它時，它發出的響聲。我常常在屋角跪的時間很長，跪得腰酸腿疼。這時候我心裏就想：“卡爾·伊凡內奇把我忘了。他大概是舒舒服眼地坐在安樂椅上讀他的流體靜力學，可是我呢？”為了讓他想起我，我就把爐門輕輕打開又關上，或者從墻上摳下一塊灰泥。但是，如果忽然有一塊大大的灰泥嘭的一聲掉到地板上，說真的，單是那份害怕就比任何懲罰都精心。我回頭望一望卡爾·伊凡內奇，他卻捧着一本書，兀自坐在那兒，好象什麽都沒有覺察似的。
屋子中間擺着一張桌子，桌上鋪着一塊破黑漆布，從漆布的許多窟窿裏有好多地方透出被鉛筆刀劃出道道的桌子的邊沿。桌子周圍擺着幾張沒有油漆過，但是由於使用了好久，已經磨得鋥亮的凳子。最後一面墻上有三扇小窗戶。窗外的景色是這樣：正前方有一條路，路上的每個坑窪、每顆石子、每道車轍，都是我久已熟悉和喜愛的；走過這條路，就是一個修剪過的菩提樹的林蔭路，路後有些地方隱隱約約露出用樹枝編成的籬笆；在林蔭路那邊，可以看見一片草地，草地的一邊是打𠔌場，另一邊是樹林。樹林深處，可以看到守林人的小木房。從窗口朝右邊眺望，可以看到一部分涼臺，午飯以前，大人們常常坐在那裏。當卡爾·伊凡內奇批改默寫捲子的時候，我常常朝那邊觀望，我可以看見媽媽的烏黑的頭髮和什麽人的脊背，也可以隱隱約約地聽到那裏的談笑聲。因為不能到那裏去，我心裏很生氣。我想：“我什麽時候才能長大，不再學習，永遠不再死念《會話課本》，而同我所喜歡的人坐在一起呢？”氣惱會變成悲傷，天知道我為什麽沉思，沉思些什麽，我想出了神，竟連卡爾·伊凡內奇因為我的錯誤而發起脾氣，我都沒有聽到。
卡爾·伊凡內奇脫下棉袍，穿上他那件肩頭墊得高高的、打着褶的藍色燕尾眼，照着鏡子理一理領帶，就領着我們下樓去嚮媽媽問安了。
On the 12th of August, 18-- (just three days after my tenth birthday, when I had been given such wonderful presents), I was awakened at seven o'clock in the morning by Karl Ivanitch slapping the wall close to my head with a fly-flap made of sugar paper and a stick. He did this so roughly that he hit the image of my patron saint suspended to the oaken back of my bed, and the dead fly fell down on my curls. I peeped out from under the coverlet, steadied the still shaking image with my hand, flicked the dead fly on to the floor, and gazed at Karl Ivanitch with sleepy, wrathful eyes. He, in a parti-coloured wadded dressing- gown fastened about the waist with a wide belt of the same material, a red knitted cap adorned with a tassel, and soft slippers of goat skin, went on walking round the walls and taking aim at, and slapping, flies.
"Suppose," I thought to myself," that I am only a small boy, yet why should he disturb me? Why does he not go killing flies around Woloda's bed? No; Woloda is older than I, and I am the youngest of the family, so he torments me. That is what he thinks of all day long--how to tease me. He knows very well that he has woken me up and frightened me, but he pretends not to notice it. Disgusting brute! And his dressing-gown and cap and tassel too-- they are all of them disgusting."
While I was thus inwardly venting my wrath upon Karl Ivanitch, he had passed to his own bedstead, looked at his watch (which hung suspended in a little shoe sewn with bugles), and deposited the fly-flap on a nail, then, evidently in the most cheerful mood possible, he turned round to us.
"Get up, children! It is quite time, and your mother is already in the drawing-room," he exclaimed in his strong German accent. Then he crossed over to me, sat down at my feet, and took his snuff-box out of his pocket. I pretended to be asleep. Karl Ivanitch sneezed, wiped his nose, flicked his fingers, and began amusing himself by teasing me and tickling my toes as he said with a smile, "Well, well, little lazy one!"
For all my dread of being tickled, I determined not to get out of bed or to answer him,. but hid my head deeper in the pillow, kicked out with all my strength, and strained every nerve to keep from laughing.
"How kind he is, and how fond of us!" I thought to myself, Yet to think that I could be hating him so just now!"
I felt angry, both with myself and with Karl Ivanitch, I wanted to laugh and to cry at the same time, for my nerves were all on edge.
"Leave me alone, Karl!" I exclaimed at length, with tears in my eyes, as I raised my head from beneath the bed-clothes.
Karl Ivanitch was taken aback, He left off tickling my feet, and asked me kindly what the matter was, Had I had a disagreeable dream? His good German face and the sympathy with which he sought to know the cause of my tears made them flow the faster. I felt conscience-stricken, and could not understand how, only a minute ago, I had been hating Karl, and thinking his dressing-gown and cap and tassel disgusting. On the contrary, they looked eminently lovable now. Even the tassel seemed another token of his goodness. I replied that I was crying because I had had a bad dream, and had seen Mamma dead and being buried. Of course it was a mere invention, since I did not remember having dreamt anything at all that night, but the truth was that Karl's sympathy as he tried to comfort and reassure me had gradually made me believe that I HAD dreamt such a horrible dream, and so weep the more-- though from a different cause to the one he imagined
When Karl Ivanitch had left me, I sat up in bed and proceeded to draw my stockings over my little feet. The tears had quite dried now, yet the mournful thought of the invented dream was still haunting me a little. Presently Uncle [This term is often applied by children to old servants in Russia] Nicola came in--a neat little man who was always grave, methodical, and respectful, as well as a great friend of Karl's, He brought with him our clothes and boots--at least, boots for Woloda, and for myself the old detestable, be-ribanded shoes. In his presence I felt ashamed to cry, and, moreover, the morning sun was shining so gaily through the window, and Woloda, standing at the washstand as he mimicked Maria Ivanovna (my sister's governess), was laughing so loud and so long, that even the serious Nicola--a towel over his shoulder, the soap in one hand, and the basin in the other--could not help smiling as he said, "Will you please let me wash you, Vladimir Petrovitch?" I had cheered up completely.
"Are you nearly ready?" came Karl's voice from the schoolroom. The tone of that voice sounded stern now, and had nothing in it of the kindness which had just touched me so much. In fact, in the schoolroom Karl was altogether a different man from what he was at other times. There he was the tutor. I washed and dressed myself hurriedly, and, a brush still in my hand as I smoothed my wet hair, answered to his call. Karl, with spectacles on nose and a book in his hand, was sitting, as usual, between the door and one of the windows. To the left of the door were two shelves-- one of them the children's (that is to say, ours), and the other one Karl's own. Upon ours were heaped all sorts of books--lesson books and play books--some standing up and some lying down. The only two standing decorously against the wall were two large volumes of a Histoire des Voyages, in red binding. On that shelf could be seen books thick and thin and books large and small, as well as covers without books and books without covers, since everything got crammed up together anyhow when play time arrived and we were told to put the "library" (as Karl called these shelves) in order The collection of books on his own shelf was, if not so numerous as ours, at least more varied. Three of them in particular I remember, namely, a German pamphlet (minus a cover) on Manuring Cabbages in Kitchen-Gardens, a History of the Seven Years' War (bound in parchment and burnt at one corner), and a Course of Hydrostatics. Though Karl passed so much of his time in reading that he had injured his sight by doing so, he never read anything beyond these books and The Northern Bee.
Another article on Karl's shelf I remember well. This was a round piece of cardboard fastened by a screw to a wooden stand, with a sort of comic picture of a lady and a hairdresser glued to the cardboard. Karl was very clever at fixing pieces of cardboard together, and had devised this contrivance for shielding his weak eyes from any very strong light.
I can see him before me now--the tall figure in its wadded dressing-gown and red cap (a few grey hairs visible beneath the latter) sitting beside the table; the screen with the hairdresser shading his face; one hand holding a book, and the other one resting on the arm of the chair. Before him lie his watch, with a huntsman painted on the dial, a check cotton handkerchief, a round black snuff-box, and a green spectacle- case, The neatness and orderliness of all these articles show clearly that Karl Ivanitch has a clear conscience and a quiet mind.
Sometimes, when tired of running about the salon downstairs, I would steal on tiptoe to the schoolroom and find Karl sitting alone in his armchair as, with a grave and quiet expression on his face, he perused one of his favourite books. Yet sometimes, also, there were moments when he was not reading, and when the spectacles had slipped down his large aquiline nose, and the blue, half-closed eyes and faintly smiling lips seemed to be gazing before them with a curious expression, All would be quiet in the room--not a sound being audible save his regular breathing and the ticking of the watch with the hunter painted on the dial. He would not see me, and I would stand at the door and think:
"Poor, poor old man! There are many of us, and we can play together and be happy, but he sits there all alone, and has nobody to be fond of him. Surely he speaks truth when he says that he is an orphan. And the story of his life, too--how terrible it is! I remember him telling it to Nicola, How dreadful to be in his position!" Then I would feel so sorry for him that I would go to him, and take his hand, and say, "Dear Karl Ivanitch!" and he would be visibly delighted whenever I spoke to him like this, and would look much brighter.
On the second wall of the schoolroom hung some maps--mostly torn, but glued together again by Karl's hand. On the third wall (in the middle of which stood the door) hung, on one side of the door, a couple of rulers (one of them ours--much bescratched, and the other one his--quite a new one), with, on the further side of the door, a blackboard on which our more serious faults were marked by circles and our lesser faults by crosses. To the left of the blackboard was the corner in which we had to kneel when naughty. How well I remember that corner--the shutter on the stove, the ventilator above it, and the noise which it made when turned! Sometimes I would be made to stay in that corner till my back and knees were aching all over, and I would think to myself. "Has Karl Ivanitch forgotten me? He goes on sitting quietly in his arm-chair and reading his Hydrostatics, while I--!" Then, to remind him of my presence, I would begin gently turning the ventilator round. Or scratching some plaster off the wall; but if by chance an extra large piece fell upon the floor, the fright of it was worse than any punishment. I would glance round at Karl, but he would still be sitting there quietly, book in hand, and pretending that he had noticed nothing.
In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a torn black oilcloth so much cut about with penknives that the edge of the table showed through. Round the table stood unpainted chairs which, through use, had attained a high degree of polish. The fourth and last wall contained three windows, from the first of which the view was as follows, Immediately beneath it there ran a high road on which every irregularity, every pebble, every rut was known and dear to me. Beside the road stretched a row of lime-trees, through which glimpses could be caught of a wattled fence, with a meadow with farm buildings on one side of it and a wood on the other--the whole bounded by the keeper's hut at the further end of the meadow, The next window to the right overlooked the part of the terrace where the "grownups" of the family used to sit before luncheon. Sometimes, when Karl was correcting our exercises, I would look out of that window and see Mamma's dark hair and the backs of some persons with her, and hear the murmur of their talking and laughter. Then I would feel vexed that I could not be there too, and think to myself, "When am I going to be grown up, and to have no more lessons, but sit with the people whom I love instead of with these horrid dialogues in my hand?" Then my anger would change to sadness, and I would fall into such a reverie that I never heard Karl when he scolded me for my mistakes.
At last, on the morning of which I am speaking, Karl Ivanitch took off his dressing-gown, put on his blue frockcoat with its creased and crumpled shoulders, adjusted his tie before the looking-glass, and took us down to greet Mamma.
媽媽正坐在客廳裏斟茶。她一隻手輕輕扶着茶壺，另一隻按着茶炊的竜頭，竜頭裏流出來的水漫過茶壺口，溢到托盤裏。她雖然目不轉睛地望着，卻沒有註意到這種情況，也沒有註意到我們進來。
當你努力追憶一個親人的容貌時，總有許許多多往事一齊涌上心頭，要透過這些回憶來看它，就象透過淚眼看它一樣，總是模糊不清。這是想象的眼淚。因此在我極力回憶媽媽當年的音容笑貌時，我衹能想象出她那流露着始終如一的慈愛的棕色眼睛，她那顆長在短短的發鬈下面的脖子上的黑痣，她那雪白的綉花衣領和那常常愛撫我、常常讓我親吻的、細嫩纖瘦的手，但是她的整個神態卻總是從我的記憶裏滑掉。
沙發左邊擺着一架古老的英國大鋼琴，大鋼琴前面坐着我那黑頭髮、黑皮膚的小姐姐柳博奇卡 ① ，她用剛在冷水裏洗過的玫瑰色手指顯然很緊張地在彈剋萊曼蒂的練習麯 ② 。她十一歲了，穿着一件麻布短衣，一條雪白的、鑲花邊的襯褲，衹能用arpeggio彈八度音 ③ 。她旁邊側身坐着瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜。瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜戴着有紅緞帶的包發帽，身穿天藍色的敞胸短上衣，臉色通紅，怒氣衝衝；卡爾·伊就內奇一進來，她更加板起臉來了。她威嚴地望一望他，也不答禮，用腳踏着拍子，繼續數着：Un，deux，trois，un，deux，trois” ④ ，聲音比以前更響，更專橫。
--------
①柳博奇卡：柳博芙的小名。
②剋萊曼蒂（1752-1832）：意大利鋼琴傢和作麯傢。
③arPeggio：意大利語“琶音”。和弦中的各個組成音不是同時而是順序奏出。
④“Un，deux，trois,un，deux，trois”：法語“一，二，三，一，二，三”
卡爾·伊凡內奇好象絲毫沒有註意到這點，還是按照德國的敬禮方式，一直走到我母親跟前，吻她的小手。她醒悟過來了，搖搖頭，仿佛想藉此驅散憂思。她把手伸給卡爾·伊凡內奇，當他吻她的手的時候，她吻了吻他那滿是皺紋的鬢角。
“Ich danke，lieber卡爾·伊凡內奇 ① ！”她仍舊用德語問道：“孩子們睡得好嗎？”
--------
①Ich danke，lieber：德語“謝謝您，親愛的”。
卡爾·伊凡內奇本來一隻耳朵就聾，現在由於彈鋼琴的聲音，什麽都聽不見了。他彎下腰，更靠近沙發一些，一隻手扶着桌子，單腿站着，帶着一種當時我覺得是最文雅的笑容，把小帽往頭上稍微一舉，說：
“您原諒我嗎，娜達麗雅·尼古拉耶芙娜？”
卡爾·伊凡內奇怕他的禿頭着涼，從來不摘掉他那頂小紅帽，但是每次走進客廳裏來，他都請求人傢許他這樣。
“戴上吧，卡爾·伊凡內奇……我在問您，孩子們睡得好不好？’”媽媽嚮他稍微靠近一些說，聲音相當響亮。
但是他還是什麽也沒有聽見，用小紅帽蓋上禿頭，笑得更和藹了。
“你停一下，米米 ① ！”媽媽笑着對瑪麗雅·伊就諾芙娜說，“什麽都聽不見了。”
--------
①米米：瑪麗雅的小名。
媽媽的容貌本來就非常俊秀，當她微笑的時候，就更加美麗無比，周圍的一切也仿佛喜氣洋溢了。如果我在自己一生中痛苦的時刻能看一眼這種笑容，我就會不曉得什麽是悲哀了。我覺得人的美貌就在於一笑：如果這一笑增加了臉上的魅力，這臉就是美的；如果這一笑不使它發生變化，這就是平平常常的；如果這一笑損害了它，它就是醜的。
媽媽同我打過招呼以後，就用雙手抱着我的頭，使它仰起來，然後，聚精會神地看了我一眼說：
“你今天哭了嗎？”
我沒有回答。她吻吻我的眼睛，用德語問道：
“你為什麽哭啊？”
當她同我們親切交談的時候，她總是用她熟諸的這種語言說話的。
“我是在夢裏哭的，媽媽，”我說。我回想起虛構的夢境的詳情細節，不禁顫抖起來。
卡爾·伊凡內奇證實了我的話，但是對於夢裏的事衹字未提。大傢又談到天氣，米米也參加了談話。然後，媽媽往托盤裏放了六塊糖給幾個可敬的僕人，就站起身來，走近擺在窗口的刺綉架。
“喂，孩子們，現在到爸爸那裏去吧，你們告訴他，他去打𠔌場以前，一定要到我這裏來一趟。”
又是音樂、數拍子，又是嚴厲的目光。我們到爸爸那裏去了。穿過從祖父的時代就保留着“僕從室”這個名稱的房間，我們走進了書房。
Mamma was sitting in the drawing-room and making tea. In one hand she was holding the tea-pot, while with the other one she was drawing water from the urn and letting it drip into the tray. Yet though she appeared to be noticing what she doing, in reality she noted neither this fact nor our entry.
However vivid be one's recollection of the past, any attempt to recall the features of a beloved being shows them to one's vision as through a mist of tears--dim and blurred. Those tears are the tears of the imagination. When I try to recall Mamma as she was then, I see, true, her brown eyes, expressive always of love and kindness, the small mole on her neck below where the small hairs grow, her white embroidered collar, and the delicate, fresh hand which so often caressed me, and which I so often kissed; but her general appearance escapes me altogether.
To the left of the sofa stood an English piano, at which my dark- haired sister Lubotshka was sitting and playing with manifest effort (for her hands were rosy from a recent washing in cold water) Clementi's "Etudes." Then eleven years old, she was dressed in a short cotton frock and white lace-frilled trousers, and could take her octaves only in arpeggio. Beside her was sitting Maria Ivanovna, in a cap adorned with pink ribbons and a blue shawl, Her face was red and cross, and it assumed an expression even more severe when Karl Ivanitch entered the room. Looking angrily at him without answering his bow, she went on beating time with her foot and counting, " One, two, three--one, two, three," more loudly and commandingly than ever.
Karl Ivanitch paid no attention to this rudeness, but went, as usual, with German politeness to kiss Mamma's hand, She drew herself up, shook her head as though by the movement to chase away sad thoughts from her, and gave Karl her hand, kissing him on his wrinkled temple as he bent his head in salutation.
"I thank you, dear Karl Ivanitch," she said in German, and then, still using the same language asked him how we (the children) had slept. Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and the added noise of the piano now prevented him from hearing anything at all. He moved nearer to the sofa, and, leaning one hand upon the table and lifting his cap above his head, said with, a smile which in those days always seemed to me the perfection of politeness: "You, will excuse me, will you not, Natalia Nicolaevna?"
The reason for this was that, to avoid catching cold, Karl never took off his red cap, but invariably asked permission, on entering the drawing-room, to retain it on his head.
"Yes, pray replace it, Karl Ivanitch," said Mamma, bending towards him and raising her voice, "But I asked you whether the children had slept well? "
Still he did not hear, but, covering his bald head again with the red cap, went on smiling more than ever,
"Stop a moment, Mimi." said Mamma (now smiling also) to Maria Ivanovna. "It is impossible to hear anything."
How beautiful Mamma's face was when she smiled! It made her so infinitely more charming, and everything around her seemed to grow brighter! If in the more painful moments of my life I could have seen that smile before my eyes, I should never have known what grief is. In my opinion, it is in the smile of a face that the essence of what we call beauty lies. If the smile heightens the charm of the face, then the face is a beautiful one. If the smile does not alter the face, then the face is an ordinary one. But if the smile spoils the face, then the face is an ugly one indeed.
Mamma took my head between her hands, bent it gently backwards, looked at me gravely, and said: "You have been crying this morning?"
I did not answer. She kissed my eyes, and said again in German:
"Why did you cry?"
When talking to us with particular intimacy she always used this language, which she knew to perfection.
"I cried about a dream, Mamma" I replied, remembering the invented vision, and trembling involuntarily at the recollection.
Karl Ivanitch confirmed my words, but said nothing as to the subject of the dream. Then, after a little conversation on the weather, in which Mimi also took part, Mamma laid some lumps of sugar on the tray for one or two of the more privileged servants, and crossed over to her embroidery frame, which stood near one of the windows.
"Go to Papa now, children," she said, "and ask him to come to me before he goes to the home farm."
Then the music, the counting, and the wrathful looks from Mimi began again, and we went off to see Papa. Passing through the room which had been known ever since Grandpapa's time as "the pantry," we entered the study,
當你努力追憶一個親人的容貌時，總有許許多多往事一齊涌上心頭，要透過這些回憶來看它，就象透過淚眼看它一樣，總是模糊不清。這是想象的眼淚。因此在我極力回憶媽媽當年的音容笑貌時，我衹能想象出她那流露着始終如一的慈愛的棕色眼睛，她那顆長在短短的發鬈下面的脖子上的黑痣，她那雪白的綉花衣領和那常常愛撫我、常常讓我親吻的、細嫩纖瘦的手，但是她的整個神態卻總是從我的記憶裏滑掉。
沙發左邊擺着一架古老的英國大鋼琴，大鋼琴前面坐着我那黑頭髮、黑皮膚的小姐姐柳博奇卡 ① ，她用剛在冷水裏洗過的玫瑰色手指顯然很緊張地在彈剋萊曼蒂的練習麯 ② 。她十一歲了，穿着一件麻布短衣，一條雪白的、鑲花邊的襯褲，衹能用arpeggio彈八度音 ③ 。她旁邊側身坐着瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜。瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜戴着有紅緞帶的包發帽，身穿天藍色的敞胸短上衣，臉色通紅，怒氣衝衝；卡爾·伊就內奇一進來，她更加板起臉來了。她威嚴地望一望他，也不答禮，用腳踏着拍子，繼續數着：Un，deux，trois，un，deux，trois” ④ ，聲音比以前更響，更專橫。
--------
①柳博奇卡：柳博芙的小名。
②剋萊曼蒂（1752-1832）：意大利鋼琴傢和作麯傢。
③arPeggio：意大利語“琶音”。和弦中的各個組成音不是同時而是順序奏出。
④“Un，deux，trois,un，deux，trois”：法語“一，二，三，一，二，三”
卡爾·伊凡內奇好象絲毫沒有註意到這點，還是按照德國的敬禮方式，一直走到我母親跟前，吻她的小手。她醒悟過來了，搖搖頭，仿佛想藉此驅散憂思。她把手伸給卡爾·伊凡內奇，當他吻她的手的時候，她吻了吻他那滿是皺紋的鬢角。
“Ich danke，lieber卡爾·伊凡內奇 ① ！”她仍舊用德語問道：“孩子們睡得好嗎？”
--------
①Ich danke，lieber：德語“謝謝您，親愛的”。
卡爾·伊凡內奇本來一隻耳朵就聾，現在由於彈鋼琴的聲音，什麽都聽不見了。他彎下腰，更靠近沙發一些，一隻手扶着桌子，單腿站着，帶着一種當時我覺得是最文雅的笑容，把小帽往頭上稍微一舉，說：
“您原諒我嗎，娜達麗雅·尼古拉耶芙娜？”
卡爾·伊凡內奇怕他的禿頭着涼，從來不摘掉他那頂小紅帽，但是每次走進客廳裏來，他都請求人傢許他這樣。
“戴上吧，卡爾·伊凡內奇……我在問您，孩子們睡得好不好？’”媽媽嚮他稍微靠近一些說，聲音相當響亮。
但是他還是什麽也沒有聽見，用小紅帽蓋上禿頭，笑得更和藹了。
“你停一下，米米 ① ！”媽媽笑着對瑪麗雅·伊就諾芙娜說，“什麽都聽不見了。”
--------
①米米：瑪麗雅的小名。
媽媽的容貌本來就非常俊秀，當她微笑的時候，就更加美麗無比，周圍的一切也仿佛喜氣洋溢了。如果我在自己一生中痛苦的時刻能看一眼這種笑容，我就會不曉得什麽是悲哀了。我覺得人的美貌就在於一笑：如果這一笑增加了臉上的魅力，這臉就是美的；如果這一笑不使它發生變化，這就是平平常常的；如果這一笑損害了它，它就是醜的。
媽媽同我打過招呼以後，就用雙手抱着我的頭，使它仰起來，然後，聚精會神地看了我一眼說：
“你今天哭了嗎？”
我沒有回答。她吻吻我的眼睛，用德語問道：
“你為什麽哭啊？”
當她同我們親切交談的時候，她總是用她熟諸的這種語言說話的。
“我是在夢裏哭的，媽媽，”我說。我回想起虛構的夢境的詳情細節，不禁顫抖起來。
卡爾·伊凡內奇證實了我的話，但是對於夢裏的事衹字未提。大傢又談到天氣，米米也參加了談話。然後，媽媽往托盤裏放了六塊糖給幾個可敬的僕人，就站起身來，走近擺在窗口的刺綉架。
“喂，孩子們，現在到爸爸那裏去吧，你們告訴他，他去打𠔌場以前，一定要到我這裏來一趟。”
又是音樂、數拍子，又是嚴厲的目光。我們到爸爸那裏去了。穿過從祖父的時代就保留着“僕從室”這個名稱的房間，我們走進了書房。
Mamma was sitting in the drawing-room and making tea. In one hand she was holding the tea-pot, while with the other one she was drawing water from the urn and letting it drip into the tray. Yet though she appeared to be noticing what she doing, in reality she noted neither this fact nor our entry.
However vivid be one's recollection of the past, any attempt to recall the features of a beloved being shows them to one's vision as through a mist of tears--dim and blurred. Those tears are the tears of the imagination. When I try to recall Mamma as she was then, I see, true, her brown eyes, expressive always of love and kindness, the small mole on her neck below where the small hairs grow, her white embroidered collar, and the delicate, fresh hand which so often caressed me, and which I so often kissed; but her general appearance escapes me altogether.
To the left of the sofa stood an English piano, at which my dark- haired sister Lubotshka was sitting and playing with manifest effort (for her hands were rosy from a recent washing in cold water) Clementi's "Etudes." Then eleven years old, she was dressed in a short cotton frock and white lace-frilled trousers, and could take her octaves only in arpeggio. Beside her was sitting Maria Ivanovna, in a cap adorned with pink ribbons and a blue shawl, Her face was red and cross, and it assumed an expression even more severe when Karl Ivanitch entered the room. Looking angrily at him without answering his bow, she went on beating time with her foot and counting, " One, two, three--one, two, three," more loudly and commandingly than ever.
Karl Ivanitch paid no attention to this rudeness, but went, as usual, with German politeness to kiss Mamma's hand, She drew herself up, shook her head as though by the movement to chase away sad thoughts from her, and gave Karl her hand, kissing him on his wrinkled temple as he bent his head in salutation.
"I thank you, dear Karl Ivanitch," she said in German, and then, still using the same language asked him how we (the children) had slept. Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and the added noise of the piano now prevented him from hearing anything at all. He moved nearer to the sofa, and, leaning one hand upon the table and lifting his cap above his head, said with, a smile which in those days always seemed to me the perfection of politeness: "You, will excuse me, will you not, Natalia Nicolaevna?"
The reason for this was that, to avoid catching cold, Karl never took off his red cap, but invariably asked permission, on entering the drawing-room, to retain it on his head.
"Yes, pray replace it, Karl Ivanitch," said Mamma, bending towards him and raising her voice, "But I asked you whether the children had slept well? "
Still he did not hear, but, covering his bald head again with the red cap, went on smiling more than ever,
"Stop a moment, Mimi." said Mamma (now smiling also) to Maria Ivanovna. "It is impossible to hear anything."
How beautiful Mamma's face was when she smiled! It made her so infinitely more charming, and everything around her seemed to grow brighter! If in the more painful moments of my life I could have seen that smile before my eyes, I should never have known what grief is. In my opinion, it is in the smile of a face that the essence of what we call beauty lies. If the smile heightens the charm of the face, then the face is a beautiful one. If the smile does not alter the face, then the face is an ordinary one. But if the smile spoils the face, then the face is an ugly one indeed.
Mamma took my head between her hands, bent it gently backwards, looked at me gravely, and said: "You have been crying this morning?"
I did not answer. She kissed my eyes, and said again in German:
"Why did you cry?"
When talking to us with particular intimacy she always used this language, which she knew to perfection.
"I cried about a dream, Mamma" I replied, remembering the invented vision, and trembling involuntarily at the recollection.
Karl Ivanitch confirmed my words, but said nothing as to the subject of the dream. Then, after a little conversation on the weather, in which Mimi also took part, Mamma laid some lumps of sugar on the tray for one or two of the more privileged servants, and crossed over to her embroidery frame, which stood near one of the windows.
"Go to Papa now, children," she said, "and ask him to come to me before he goes to the home farm."
Then the music, the counting, and the wrathful looks from Mimi began again, and we went off to see Papa. Passing through the room which had been known ever since Grandpapa's time as "the pantry," we entered the study,