一八XX年八月十二日……也就是我过十岁生日，得到那么珍奇的礼品以后的第三天，早晨七点钟，卡尔·伊凡内奇用棍子上绑着糖纸做的蝇拍就在我的头上面打苍蝇，把我惊醒了。他打得那么笨，不但碰着了挂在柞木床架上的我的守护神的圣像，而且让死苍蝇一直落到我的脑袋上。我从被子下面伸出鼻子，用手扶稳还在摇摆的圣像，把那只死苍蝇扔到地板上，用虽然睡意惺论、却含着怒意的眼光看了卡尔·伊凡内奇一眼。他呢，身上穿着花布棉袍，腰里束着同样料子做的腰带，头上戴着红毛线织的带缨小圆帽，脚上穿着山羊皮靴，继续顺着墙边走来走去，瞅准苍蝇，啪啪地打着。
“就算我小吧，”我想，“可是，他为什么偏偏要惊动我呢？他为什么不在沃洛佳的床边打苍蝇呢 ① ？您瞧，那边有多少啊！不，沃洛佳比我大；我年纪最小，所以他就让我吃苦头。他一辈子净琢磨着怎么叫我不痛快。”我低声说。“他明明看见，他把我弄醒了，吓了我一跳，却硬装作没有注意到的样子……讨厌的家伙！连棉袍、小帽、帽缨，都讨厌死了！”
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①沃洛佳：弗拉基米尔的小名。
当我心里这样恼恨卡尔·伊凡内奇的时候，他走到自己的床前，望了望挂在床头、镶着小玻璃珠的钟座上的钟，然后把蝇拍挂到小钉上，带着一种显然很愉快的心情向我们转过身来。
“Auf，kinden，auf！……s’ist Zeit．Die Mutter ist schon imSaal！” ① 他用德国口音和颜悦色地喊道，然后朝我走过来，坐到我的床边，从衣袋里掏出鼻烟壶。我假装在睡觉。卡尔·伊凡内奇先唤了一撮鼻烟，擦了擦鼻子，弹了弹手指，然后才来收拾我。他一边笑着，一边开始搔我的脚后跟。“Nu，nun，Faule nzer！” ② 他说。
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①“Auf，kinden，auf！……s’ist Zeit Die Mutter ist schon im Saa！”：德语“起来，孩子们，起来……到时候了，妈妈已经在饭厅里了。”
②“Nu，nun，Faulenzer！”：德语“喂，喂，懒骨头。”
尽管我怕痒，我还是没有从床上跳起来，也没有理睬他，只是把头更往枕头里钻．拚命踢蹬，竭力忍住不笑出来。
“他多善良，多喜欢我们，可是我却把他想得那么坏！”
我自己很难过，也替卡尔·伊凡内奇难过；我又想笑，又想哭，心里很乱。
“Ach，lassen，Sie， ① 卡尔·伊凡内奇！”我眼泪汪汪地喊着，把头从枕头底下伸出来。
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①“Ach，lassen Sie”：德语“喂，别碰我。”
卡尔·伊凡内奇吃了一惊，放开我的脚，不安地问我到底是怎么回事？是不是做了什么噩梦？……他那慈祥的德国人的面孔、他那竭力要猜出我为什么流泪的关注神情，更使我泪如雨下了：我很惭愧，而且不明白在一分钟之前，我怎么居然能不喜欢卡尔·伊凡内奇，认为他的棉袍、小帽和帽缨讨厌呢？现在，恰好相反，我觉得这些东西都非常可爱，连帽缨都似乎成了他很善良的证明。我对他说，我哭，是因为我做了一个噩梦，梦见妈妈死了，人们抬着她去下葬。这完全是我凭空编造的，因为我一点也不记得夜里做了什么梦。但是，当卡尔·伊凡内奇被我的谎话所打动，开始安慰我、抚爱我的时候，我却觉得自己真地做了那场噩梦，因此为另外的原因落起泪来了。
当卡尔·伊凡内奇离开我的时候，我从床上抬起身子，往自己的小脚上穿长统袜子，这时眼泪不怎么流了，但是我所虚构的那场噩梦的阴郁的想法，却仍然萦绕在我的脑海里。照料孩子的尼古拉进来了，他是一个身材矮小、爱好整洁的人，一向严肃认真，彬彬有礼，是卡尔·伊凡内奇的好朋友。他给我们送来衣服和鞋；给沃洛佳拿来的是靴子，给我拿来的却是我至今还讨厌的打着花结的鞋。我不好意思当着他的面哭泣；况且，朝阳愉快地从窗口射进来，沃洛佳又站在脸盆架前面，很滑稽地模仿玛丽雅·伊凡诺芙娜（姐姐的女家庭教师），笑得那么开心，那么响亮，连肩头搭着毛巾、一手拿着肥皂、一手提着水壶的一本正经的尼古拉都笑着说：
“得了，费拉基米尔·彼得罗维奇，请洗脸吧。”
我十分快活了。
“Sind sie bald fertig？” ① 从教室里传来卡尔·伊凡内奇的声
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①“Sind sie bald fereig？”：德语“你们快准备好了吗？”
他的声音严厉，已经没有使我感动得落泪的音调了。在教室里，卡尔·伊凡内奇完全是另外一个人了，他是老师。我应声而来，连忙穿上衣服，洗好脸，手里还拿着刷子，一边抚平我的湿漉漉的头发，一边走进教室。
卡尔·伊凡内奇鼻梁上架着眼镜，手里拿着一本书，坐在门窗之间他一向坐的地方。门左边摆着两个小书架：一个是我们孩子们的，另外一个是卡尔·伊凡内奇私人的。我们的书架上摆着各种各样的书——有教科书，也有课外读物。有些竖着，有些平放着，只有两大卷红封面的《Histoire des voyages 》 ① 规规矩矩靠墙竖着，然后是长长的、厚厚的、大大小小的书籍，有的有封皮没书，有的有书没封皮。每当课间休息以前，卡尔·伊凡内奇就吩咐我们整理“图书馆”（卡尔·伊凡内奇夸大其词地把这个小书架称作“图书馆”）的时候，我们总是把一切东西往那里乱塞。老师私人书架上的藏书，虽然册数没有我们书架上的那么多，种类却五花八门。我还记得其中的三册：一本是没有硬封皮的德文小册子，内容讲在白菜地里施肥的方法；一本是羊皮纸的、烧掉了一角的七年战争史；另一本是静体力学全部教程。卡尔·伊凡内奇把大部分时间都消磨在读书上，甚至因此损伤了视力；不过，除了这些书和《北方蜜蜂》杂志以外，他什么都不看。
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①《Histoiredes voyages》：《游记》（法语）
在卡尔·伊凡内奇的小书架上所有的东西中间，有一件东西最能使我想起他来。那就是一只用纸板做的圆盘，它安着木腿，可以借着木钉移动。圆盘上贴着一张漫画，上面画着一个贵妇和一个理发师。卡尔·伊凡内奇粘很得好，这个圆盘也是他自己设计的一做这个圆盘的目的是为了遮住大亮的光线，保护自己的视力衰退的眼睛。
就是现在，我仿佛还能看见他的身影——高高的个儿，穿着棉袍，戴着红色小帽，帽子下面露出稀疏的白发。他坐在一张小桌旁边，桌上摆着那只圆盘，圆盘上的理发师把阴影投射到他的脸上；卡尔·伊凡内奇一只手拿着书，另一只手搭在安乐椅的扶手上，面前放着一只表盘上画着猎人的钟、一块方格手帕、一个圆形的黑鼻烟壶、一只绿色眼镜盒和摆在小托盘里的一把剪烛花的剪刀。这一切东西都那么规规矩矩、整整齐齐地摆在各自的位置上，单凭着这种并井有条的秩序，就可以断定卡尔·伊凡内奇心地纯洁，心平气和。
平常。当我在楼下大厅里跑够了的时候，我总是踮着脚悄悄地上楼，跑进教室，那时候我总是发现，卡尔·伊凡内奇正独自一人坐在安乐椅上，神情安详而庄严地阅读他喜爱的一本什么书。有时也遇到他不在读书。这时他总把眼镜低低地架在大鹰钩鼻上，半睁半闭的蓝眼睛里含着一种特殊的表情，嘴唇忧郁地微笑着。房间里静悄悄的，只听得见他的均匀呼吸声和那块画着猎人的钟嘀嗒作响。
他常常没有发现我，我就站在门边想：“可怜的，可怜的老头儿！我们人多，我们玩呀，乐呀，可是他孤零零一个，没有任何人安慰他。他说自己是孤儿，真是一点也不错。他的身世多么可怕呀！我记得他对尼古拉讲过自己的身世。他的处境真是可怕呀！”我非常可怜他，因此常常走到他跟前，拉住他的一只手说：“Lieb er卡尔·伊凡内奇 ① ！”他很喜欢我这么对他说话。每当这种时刻，他总要抚摸我，显然他深深地受了感动。
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①Lieber：亲爱的（德语）
另一面墙上挂着几幅地图，差不多全是破的，不过，卡尔·伊凡内奇妙手回春，把它们都裱糊得好好的。第三面墙的正中间是通楼梯口的门，门的一边挂着两把尺，一把是我们的，刀痕累累；另外一把是崭新的，是他私人的，他用它训戒人的时候多，画线的时候少。门的另一边挂着一块黑板，上面用圆圈记着我们的大错，用十字记着我们的小错。黑板左边，就是罚我们下跪的角落。
这个角落令我终生难忘！我记得那个炉门、记得炉门上的通风孔以及人们转动它时，它发出的响声。我常常在屋角跪的时间很长，跪得腰酸腿疼。这时候我心里就想：“卡尔·伊凡内奇把我忘了。他大概是舒舒服眼地坐在安乐椅上读他的流体静力学，可是我呢？”为了让他想起我，我就把炉门轻轻打开又关上，或者从墙上抠下一块灰泥。但是，如果忽然有一块大大的灰泥嘭的一声掉到地板上，说真的，单是那份害怕就比任何惩罚都精心。我回头望一望卡尔·伊凡内奇，他却捧着一本书，兀自坐在那儿，好象什么都没有觉察似的。
屋子中间摆着一张桌子，桌上铺着一块破黑漆布，从漆布的许多窟窿里有好多地方透出被铅笔刀划出道道的桌子的边沿。桌子周围摆着几张没有油漆过，但是由于使用了好久，已经磨得锃亮的凳子。最后一面墙上有三扇小窗户。窗外的景色是这样：正前方有一条路，路上的每个坑洼、每颗石子、每道车辙，都是我久已熟悉和喜爱的；走过这条路，就是一个修剪过的菩提树的林荫路，路后有些地方隐隐约约露出用树枝编成的篱笆；在林荫路那边，可以看见一片草地，草地的一边是打谷场，另一边是树林。树林深处，可以看到守林人的小木房。从窗口朝右边眺望，可以看到一部分凉台，午饭以前，大人们常常坐在那里。当卡尔·伊凡内奇批改默写卷子的时候，我常常朝那边观望，我可以看见妈妈的乌黑的头发和什么人的脊背，也可以隐隐约约地听到那里的谈笑声。因为不能到那里去，我心里很生气。我想：“我什么时候才能长大，不再学习，永远不再死念《会话课本》，而同我所喜欢的人坐在一起呢？”气恼会变成悲伤，天知道我为什么沉思，沉思些什么，我想出了神，竟连卡尔·伊凡内奇因为我的错误而发起脾气，我都没有听到。
卡尔·伊凡内奇脱下棉袍，穿上他那件肩头垫得高高的、打着褶的蓝色燕尾眼，照着镜子理一理领带，就领着我们下楼去向妈妈问安了。
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，他为什么偏偏要惊动我呢？他为什么不在沃洛佳的床边打苍蝇呢 ① ？您瞧，那边有多少啊！不，沃洛佳比我大；我年纪最小，所以他就让我吃苦头。他一辈子净琢磨着怎么叫我不痛快。”我低声说。“他明明看见，他把我弄醒了，吓了我一跳，却硬装作没有注意到的样子……讨厌的家伙！连棉袍、小帽、帽缨，都讨厌死了！”
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①沃洛佳：弗拉基米尔的小名。
当我心里这样恼恨卡尔·伊凡内奇的时候，他走到自己的床前，望了望挂在床头、镶着小玻璃珠的钟座上的钟，然后把蝇拍挂到小钉上，带着一种显然很愉快的心情向我们转过身来。
“Auf，kinden，auf！……s’ist Zeit．Die Mutter ist schon imSaal！” ① 他用德国口音和颜悦色地喊道，然后朝我走过来，坐到我的床边，从衣袋里掏出鼻烟壶。我假装在睡觉。卡尔·伊凡内奇先唤了一撮鼻烟，擦了擦鼻子，弹了弹手指，然后才来收拾我。他一边笑着，一边开始搔我的脚后跟。“Nu，nun，Faule nzer！” ② 他说。
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①“Auf，kinden，auf！……s’ist Zeit Die Mutter ist schon im Saa！”：德语“起来，孩子们，起来……到时候了，妈妈已经在饭厅里了。”
②“Nu，nun，Faulenzer！”：德语“喂，喂，懒骨头。”
尽管我怕痒，我还是没有从床上跳起来，也没有理睬他，只是把头更往枕头里钻．拚命踢蹬，竭力忍住不笑出来。
“他多善良，多喜欢我们，可是我却把他想得那么坏！”
我自己很难过，也替卡尔·伊凡内奇难过；我又想笑，又想哭，心里很乱。
“Ach，lassen，Sie， ① 卡尔·伊凡内奇！”我眼泪汪汪地喊着，把头从枕头底下伸出来。
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①“Ach，lassen Sie”：德语“喂，别碰我。”
卡尔·伊凡内奇吃了一惊，放开我的脚，不安地问我到底是怎么回事？是不是做了什么噩梦？……他那慈祥的德国人的面孔、他那竭力要猜出我为什么流泪的关注神情，更使我泪如雨下了：我很惭愧，而且不明白在一分钟之前，我怎么居然能不喜欢卡尔·伊凡内奇，认为他的棉袍、小帽和帽缨讨厌呢？现在，恰好相反，我觉得这些东西都非常可爱，连帽缨都似乎成了他很善良的证明。我对他说，我哭，是因为我做了一个噩梦，梦见妈妈死了，人们抬着她去下葬。这完全是我凭空编造的，因为我一点也不记得夜里做了什么梦。但是，当卡尔·伊凡内奇被我的谎话所打动，开始安慰我、抚爱我的时候，我却觉得自己真地做了那场噩梦，因此为另外的原因落起泪来了。
当卡尔·伊凡内奇离开我的时候，我从床上抬起身子，往自己的小脚上穿长统袜子，这时眼泪不怎么流了，但是我所虚构的那场噩梦的阴郁的想法，却仍然萦绕在我的脑海里。照料孩子的尼古拉进来了，他是一个身材矮小、爱好整洁的人，一向严肃认真，彬彬有礼，是卡尔·伊凡内奇的好朋友。他给我们送来衣服和鞋；给沃洛佳拿来的是靴子，给我拿来的却是我至今还讨厌的打着花结的鞋。我不好意思当着他的面哭泣；况且，朝阳愉快地从窗口射进来，沃洛佳又站在脸盆架前面，很滑稽地模仿玛丽雅·伊凡诺芙娜（姐姐的女家庭教师），笑得那么开心，那么响亮，连肩头搭着毛巾、一手拿着肥皂、一手提着水壶的一本正经的尼古拉都笑着说：
“得了，费拉基米尔·彼得罗维奇，请洗脸吧。”
我十分快活了。
“Sind sie bald fertig？” ① 从教室里传来卡尔·伊凡内奇的声
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①“Sind sie bald fereig？”：德语“你们快准备好了吗？”
他的声音严厉，已经没有使我感动得落泪的音调了。在教室里，卡尔·伊凡内奇完全是另外一个人了，他是老师。我应声而来，连忙穿上衣服，洗好脸，手里还拿着刷子，一边抚平我的湿漉漉的头发，一边走进教室。
卡尔·伊凡内奇鼻梁上架着眼镜，手里拿着一本书，坐在门窗之间他一向坐的地方。门左边摆着两个小书架：一个是我们孩子们的，另外一个是卡尔·伊凡内奇私人的。我们的书架上摆着各种各样的书——有教科书，也有课外读物。有些竖着，有些平放着，只有两大卷红封面的《Histoire des voyages 》 ① 规规矩矩靠墙竖着，然后是长长的、厚厚的、大大小小的书籍，有的有封皮没书，有的有书没封皮。每当课间休息以前，卡尔·伊凡内奇就吩咐我们整理“图书馆”（卡尔·伊凡内奇夸大其词地把这个小书架称作“图书馆”）的时候，我们总是把一切东西往那里乱塞。老师私人书架上的藏书，虽然册数没有我们书架上的那么多，种类却五花八门。我还记得其中的三册：一本是没有硬封皮的德文小册子，内容讲在白菜地里施肥的方法；一本是羊皮纸的、烧掉了一角的七年战争史；另一本是静体力学全部教程。卡尔·伊凡内奇把大部分时间都消磨在读书上，甚至因此损伤了视力；不过，除了这些书和《北方蜜蜂》杂志以外，他什么都不看。
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①《Histoiredes voyages》：《游记》（法语）
在卡尔·伊凡内奇的小书架上所有的东西中间，有一件东西最能使我想起他来。那就是一只用纸板做的圆盘，它安着木腿，可以借着木钉移动。圆盘上贴着一张漫画，上面画着一个贵妇和一个理发师。卡尔·伊凡内奇粘很得好，这个圆盘也是他自己设计的一做这个圆盘的目的是为了遮住大亮的光线，保护自己的视力衰退的眼睛。
就是现在，我仿佛还能看见他的身影——高高的个儿，穿着棉袍，戴着红色小帽，帽子下面露出稀疏的白发。他坐在一张小桌旁边，桌上摆着那只圆盘，圆盘上的理发师把阴影投射到他的脸上；卡尔·伊凡内奇一只手拿着书，另一只手搭在安乐椅的扶手上，面前放着一只表盘上画着猎人的钟、一块方格手帕、一个圆形的黑鼻烟壶、一只绿色眼镜盒和摆在小托盘里的一把剪烛花的剪刀。这一切东西都那么规规矩矩、整整齐齐地摆在各自的位置上，单凭着这种并井有条的秩序，就可以断定卡尔·伊凡内奇心地纯洁，心平气和。
平常。当我在楼下大厅里跑够了的时候，我总是踮着脚悄悄地上楼，跑进教室，那时候我总是发现，卡尔·伊凡内奇正独自一人坐在安乐椅上，神情安详而庄严地阅读他喜爱的一本什么书。有时也遇到他不在读书。这时他总把眼镜低低地架在大鹰钩鼻上，半睁半闭的蓝眼睛里含着一种特殊的表情，嘴唇忧郁地微笑着。房间里静悄悄的，只听得见他的均匀呼吸声和那块画着猎人的钟嘀嗒作响。
他常常没有发现我，我就站在门边想：“可怜的，可怜的老头儿！我们人多，我们玩呀，乐呀，可是他孤零零一个，没有任何人安慰他。他说自己是孤儿，真是一点也不错。他的身世多么可怕呀！我记得他对尼古拉讲过自己的身世。他的处境真是可怕呀！”我非常可怜他，因此常常走到他跟前，拉住他的一只手说：“Lieb er卡尔·伊凡内奇 ① ！”他很喜欢我这么对他说话。每当这种时刻，他总要抚摸我，显然他深深地受了感动。
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①Lieber：亲爱的（德语）
另一面墙上挂着几幅地图，差不多全是破的，不过，卡尔·伊凡内奇妙手回春，把它们都裱糊得好好的。第三面墙的正中间是通楼梯口的门，门的一边挂着两把尺，一把是我们的，刀痕累累；另外一把是崭新的，是他私人的，他用它训戒人的时候多，画线的时候少。门的另一边挂着一块黑板，上面用圆圈记着我们的大错，用十字记着我们的小错。黑板左边，就是罚我们下跪的角落。
这个角落令我终生难忘！我记得那个炉门、记得炉门上的通风孔以及人们转动它时，它发出的响声。我常常在屋角跪的时间很长，跪得腰酸腿疼。这时候我心里就想：“卡尔·伊凡内奇把我忘了。他大概是舒舒服眼地坐在安乐椅上读他的流体静力学，可是我呢？”为了让他想起我，我就把炉门轻轻打开又关上，或者从墙上抠下一块灰泥。但是，如果忽然有一块大大的灰泥嘭的一声掉到地板上，说真的，单是那份害怕就比任何惩罚都精心。我回头望一望卡尔·伊凡内奇，他却捧着一本书，兀自坐在那儿，好象什么都没有觉察似的。
屋子中间摆着一张桌子，桌上铺着一块破黑漆布，从漆布的许多窟窿里有好多地方透出被铅笔刀划出道道的桌子的边沿。桌子周围摆着几张没有油漆过，但是由于使用了好久，已经磨得锃亮的凳子。最后一面墙上有三扇小窗户。窗外的景色是这样：正前方有一条路，路上的每个坑洼、每颗石子、每道车辙，都是我久已熟悉和喜爱的；走过这条路，就是一个修剪过的菩提树的林荫路，路后有些地方隐隐约约露出用树枝编成的篱笆；在林荫路那边，可以看见一片草地，草地的一边是打谷场，另一边是树林。树林深处，可以看到守林人的小木房。从窗口朝右边眺望，可以看到一部分凉台，午饭以前，大人们常常坐在那里。当卡尔·伊凡内奇批改默写卷子的时候，我常常朝那边观望，我可以看见妈妈的乌黑的头发和什么人的脊背，也可以隐隐约约地听到那里的谈笑声。因为不能到那里去，我心里很生气。我想：“我什么时候才能长大，不再学习，永远不再死念《会话课本》，而同我所喜欢的人坐在一起呢？”气恼会变成悲伤，天知道我为什么沉思，沉思些什么，我想出了神，竟连卡尔·伊凡内奇因为我的错误而发起脾气，我都没有听到。
卡尔·伊凡内奇脱下棉袍，穿上他那件肩头垫得高高的、打着褶的蓝色燕尾眼，照着镜子理一理领带，就领着我们下楼去向妈妈问安了。
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.
妈妈正坐在客厅里斟茶。她一只手轻轻扶着茶壶，另一只按着茶炊的龙头，龙头里流出来的水漫过茶壶口，溢到托盘里。她虽然目不转睛地望着，却没有注意到这种情况，也没有注意到我们进来。
当你努力追忆一个亲人的容貌时，总有许许多多往事一齐涌上心头，要透过这些回忆来看它，就象透过泪眼看它一样，总是模糊不清。这是想象的眼泪。因此在我极力回忆妈妈当年的音容笑貌时，我只能想象出她那流露着始终如一的慈爱的棕色眼睛，她那颗长在短短的发鬈下面的脖子上的黑痣，她那雪白的绣花衣领和那常常爱抚我、常常让我亲吻的、细嫩纤瘦的手，但是她的整个神态却总是从我的记忆里滑掉。
沙发左边摆着一架古老的英国大钢琴，大钢琴前面坐着我那黑头发、黑皮肤的小姐姐柳博奇卡 ① ，她用刚在冷水里洗过的玫瑰色手指显然很紧张地在弹克莱曼蒂的练习曲 ② 。她十一岁了，穿着一件麻布短衣，一条雪白的、镶花边的衬裤，只能用arpeggio弹八度音 ③ 。她旁边侧身坐着玛丽雅·伊凡诺芙娜。玛丽雅·伊凡诺芙娜戴着有红缎带的包发帽，身穿天蓝色的敞胸短上衣，脸色通红，怒气冲冲；卡尔·伊就内奇一进来，她更加板起脸来了。她威严地望一望他，也不答礼，用脚踏着拍子，继续数着：Un，deux，trois，un，deux，trois” ④ ，声音比以前更响，更专横。
--------
①柳博奇卡：柳博芙的小名。
②克莱曼蒂（1752-1832）：意大利钢琴家和作曲家。
③arPeggio：意大利语“琶音”。和弦中的各个组成音不是同时而是顺序奏出。
④“Un，deux，trois,un，deux，trois”：法语“一，二，三，一，二，三”
卡尔·伊凡内奇好象丝毫没有注意到这点，还是按照德国的敬礼方式，一直走到我母亲跟前，吻她的小手。她醒悟过来了，摇摇头，仿佛想借此驱散忧思。她把手伸给卡尔·伊凡内奇，当他吻她的手的时候，她吻了吻他那满是皱纹的鬓角。
“Ich danke，lieber卡尔·伊凡内奇 ① ！”她仍旧用德语问道：“孩子们睡得好吗？”
--------
①Ich danke，lieber：德语“谢谢您，亲爱的”。
卡尔·伊凡内奇本来一只耳朵就聋，现在由于弹钢琴的声音，什么都听不见了。他弯下腰，更靠近沙发一些，一只手扶着桌子，单腿站着，带着一种当时我觉得是最文雅的笑容，把小帽往头上稍微一举，说：
“您原谅我吗，娜达丽雅·尼古拉耶芙娜？”
卡尔·伊凡内奇怕他的秃头着凉，从来不摘掉他那顶小红帽，但是每次走进客厅里来，他都请求人家许他这样。
“戴上吧，卡尔·伊凡内奇……我在问您，孩子们睡得好不好？’”妈妈向他稍微靠近一些说，声音相当响亮。
但是他还是什么也没有听见，用小红帽盖上秃头，笑得更和蔼了。
“你停一下，米米 ① ！”妈妈笑着对玛丽雅·伊就诺芙娜说，“什么都听不见了。”
--------
①米米：玛丽雅的小名。
妈妈的容貌本来就非常俊秀，当她微笑的时候，就更加美丽无比，周围的一切也仿佛喜气洋溢了。如果我在自己一生中痛苦的时刻能看一眼这种笑容，我就会不晓得什么是悲哀了。我觉得人的美貌就在于一笑：如果这一笑增加了脸上的魅力，这脸就是美的；如果这一笑不使它发生变化，这就是平平常常的；如果这一笑损害了它，它就是丑的。
妈妈同我打过招呼以后，就用双手抱着我的头，使它仰起来，然后，聚精会神地看了我一眼说：
“你今天哭了吗？”
我没有回答。她吻吻我的眼睛，用德语问道：
“你为什么哭啊？”
当她同我们亲切交谈的时候，她总是用她熟诸的这种语言说话的。
“我是在梦里哭的，妈妈，”我说。我回想起虚构的梦境的详情细节，不禁颤抖起来。
卡尔·伊凡内奇证实了我的话，但是对于梦里的事只字未提。大家又谈到天气，米米也参加了谈话。然后，妈妈往托盘里放了六块糖给几个可敬的仆人，就站起身来，走近摆在窗口的刺绣架。
“喂，孩子们，现在到爸爸那里去吧，你们告诉他，他去打谷场以前，一定要到我这里来一趟。”
又是音乐、数拍子，又是严厉的目光。我们到爸爸那里去了。穿过从祖父的时代就保留着“仆从室”这个名称的房间，我们走进了书房。
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,
当你努力追忆一个亲人的容貌时，总有许许多多往事一齐涌上心头，要透过这些回忆来看它，就象透过泪眼看它一样，总是模糊不清。这是想象的眼泪。因此在我极力回忆妈妈当年的音容笑貌时，我只能想象出她那流露着始终如一的慈爱的棕色眼睛，她那颗长在短短的发鬈下面的脖子上的黑痣，她那雪白的绣花衣领和那常常爱抚我、常常让我亲吻的、细嫩纤瘦的手，但是她的整个神态却总是从我的记忆里滑掉。
沙发左边摆着一架古老的英国大钢琴，大钢琴前面坐着我那黑头发、黑皮肤的小姐姐柳博奇卡 ① ，她用刚在冷水里洗过的玫瑰色手指显然很紧张地在弹克莱曼蒂的练习曲 ② 。她十一岁了，穿着一件麻布短衣，一条雪白的、镶花边的衬裤，只能用arpeggio弹八度音 ③ 。她旁边侧身坐着玛丽雅·伊凡诺芙娜。玛丽雅·伊凡诺芙娜戴着有红缎带的包发帽，身穿天蓝色的敞胸短上衣，脸色通红，怒气冲冲；卡尔·伊就内奇一进来，她更加板起脸来了。她威严地望一望他，也不答礼，用脚踏着拍子，继续数着：Un，deux，trois，un，deux，trois” ④ ，声音比以前更响，更专横。
--------
①柳博奇卡：柳博芙的小名。
②克莱曼蒂（1752-1832）：意大利钢琴家和作曲家。
③arPeggio：意大利语“琶音”。和弦中的各个组成音不是同时而是顺序奏出。
④“Un，deux，trois,un，deux，trois”：法语“一，二，三，一，二，三”
卡尔·伊凡内奇好象丝毫没有注意到这点，还是按照德国的敬礼方式，一直走到我母亲跟前，吻她的小手。她醒悟过来了，摇摇头，仿佛想借此驱散忧思。她把手伸给卡尔·伊凡内奇，当他吻她的手的时候，她吻了吻他那满是皱纹的鬓角。
“Ich danke，lieber卡尔·伊凡内奇 ① ！”她仍旧用德语问道：“孩子们睡得好吗？”
--------
①Ich danke，lieber：德语“谢谢您，亲爱的”。
卡尔·伊凡内奇本来一只耳朵就聋，现在由于弹钢琴的声音，什么都听不见了。他弯下腰，更靠近沙发一些，一只手扶着桌子，单腿站着，带着一种当时我觉得是最文雅的笑容，把小帽往头上稍微一举，说：
“您原谅我吗，娜达丽雅·尼古拉耶芙娜？”
卡尔·伊凡内奇怕他的秃头着凉，从来不摘掉他那顶小红帽，但是每次走进客厅里来，他都请求人家许他这样。
“戴上吧，卡尔·伊凡内奇……我在问您，孩子们睡得好不好？’”妈妈向他稍微靠近一些说，声音相当响亮。
但是他还是什么也没有听见，用小红帽盖上秃头，笑得更和蔼了。
“你停一下，米米 ① ！”妈妈笑着对玛丽雅·伊就诺芙娜说，“什么都听不见了。”
--------
①米米：玛丽雅的小名。
妈妈的容貌本来就非常俊秀，当她微笑的时候，就更加美丽无比，周围的一切也仿佛喜气洋溢了。如果我在自己一生中痛苦的时刻能看一眼这种笑容，我就会不晓得什么是悲哀了。我觉得人的美貌就在于一笑：如果这一笑增加了脸上的魅力，这脸就是美的；如果这一笑不使它发生变化，这就是平平常常的；如果这一笑损害了它，它就是丑的。
妈妈同我打过招呼以后，就用双手抱着我的头，使它仰起来，然后，聚精会神地看了我一眼说：
“你今天哭了吗？”
我没有回答。她吻吻我的眼睛，用德语问道：
“你为什么哭啊？”
当她同我们亲切交谈的时候，她总是用她熟诸的这种语言说话的。
“我是在梦里哭的，妈妈，”我说。我回想起虚构的梦境的详情细节，不禁颤抖起来。
卡尔·伊凡内奇证实了我的话，但是对于梦里的事只字未提。大家又谈到天气，米米也参加了谈话。然后，妈妈往托盘里放了六块糖给几个可敬的仆人，就站起身来，走近摆在窗口的刺绣架。
“喂，孩子们，现在到爸爸那里去吧，你们告诉他，他去打谷场以前，一定要到我这里来一趟。”
又是音乐、数拍子，又是严厉的目光。我们到爸爸那里去了。穿过从祖父的时代就保留着“仆从室”这个名称的房间，我们走进了书房。
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,