Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Five/Chapter 27
CHAPTER XXVII
After the professor, came the lesson with his father. Serozha, while waiting for him, sat at the table, playing with his pen-knife, and he fell into new thoughts.
One of his favorite occupations was to look for his mother while he was out walking. He did not believe in death as a general thing; and specially he did not believe that his mother was dead, in spite of what the Countess Lidia Ivanovna told him, and though his father confirmed it. And therefore, after they told him that she was dead, he used to watch for her while he was out for his walk. Every tall, graceful woman with dark hair he imagined to be his mother; at the sight of such a woman, his heart would swell with love, the tears would come into his eyes, and he would wait until the lady drew near him, and raised her veil; then he would see her face; she would kiss him, smile upon him; he would feel the sweet caress of her hand, smell the well-known perfume, and weep with joy, as he did one evening when he lay at her feet, and she tickled him, and he laughed so heartily, and gently bit her white hand, covered with rings.
Later, when he learned accidentally from the old nurse that his mother was alive, and that his father and the countess had told him that she was dead because she was a wicked woman, this seemed still more impossible to Serozha, because he loved her; and he looked for her, and longed for her.
That very day, in the summer garden, there had been a lady in a lilac veil, and, with his heart beating violently, expecting that it was she, he saw her take the same footpath where he was walking; but this lady did not come up where he was, and she disappeared from sight. Serozha felt a stronger love than ever for his mother; and now, while waiting for his father, he was cutting his desk with his penknife; with shining eyes, he was looking straight ahead, and thinking of her.
"Here comes your papa," said Vasili Lukitch.
Serozha jumped up from the chair, ran to kiss his father's hand, and looked for some sign of pleasure because he had received the order of Alexander Nevsky.
"Did you have a good walk?" asked Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, as he sat down in an armchair, taking up the Old Testament and opening it.
Though he had often told Serozha that every Christian ought to know the sacred history by heart, he had often to consult the Old Testament for his lessons; and Serozha noticed it.
"Yes, papa, I enjoyed it very much," said Serozha, sitting across his chair, and tipping it, which was forbidden. "I saw Nadenka" (Nadenka was the countess's niece, whom she adopted) "and she told me that they've given you a new star. Are you glad, papa?"
"In the first place, please don't tip your chair so," said Alekseï Aleksandrovitch, "and in the second place, know that what ought to be dear to us is work for itself and not the reward. I want you to understand that. If you work and study simply for the sake of receiving the recompense, the work will seem painful; but if you love work, your recompense will come of itself."
And Alekseï Aleksandrovitch remembered that on this very day he had signed one hundred and eighteen different papers with no other support in a most unwelcome task than the feeling of duty.
Serozha's eyes, shining with affection and merriment, grew gloomy, and dropped as his father looked at him. It was the same well-remembered way his father had adopted in his treatment of him, and Serozha had already schooled himself to be hypocritical toward it.
He felt that his father always spoke as if he were addressing some imaginary boy, one of those children found in books, and not in the least like Serozha. And Serozha, when he was with his father, tried to make believe that he was that bookish little boy.
"You understand this, I hope."
"Yes, papa," replied the lad, playing the part of this imaginary little boy.
The lesson consisted of the recitation of several verses of the Gospel and the review of the first part of the Old Testament. The verses from the Gospel Serozha knew fairly well. But, as he was in the midst of so repeating them, Serozha was struck by the appearance of his father's forehead, which made almost a right angle near the temples, and he stumbled and transferred the end of one verse to the next verse which began with the same word. Alekseï Aleksandrovitch concluded that he did not understand the meaning of what he was reciting, and he was vexed.
He frowned, and began to explain what Serozha had heard so many times that he could not help remembering because he understood it too well—just as it was with the concept of the word vdrug, suddenly, being "a circumstance of the mode of action." The child, with scared eyes, looked at his father and thought about only one thing: would his father obhge him to repeat the explanation that he had given him, as he had done at other times? This fear kept him from understanding anything. Fortunately his father passed on to the lesson in Sacred History. Serozha narrated the facts themselves very well; but when he was required to answer the questions as to what the fact signified he did not know it at all, though he had already been punished for this same lesson. The place where he could not recite and hesitated, and where he had whittled the table and rocked the chair, was the critical moment when he had to repeat the list of antediluvian patriarchs. Not one could he remember, not even Enoch, who was snatched up to heaven alive. On other occasions he could remember his name, but now he had entirely forgotten it, for the very reason that Enoch was his favorite character in all Biblical history, and he connected with the translation of this patriarch a long string of ideas which completely absorbed him, while he was staring at his father's watch-chain and a loose button on his waist-coat.
Serozha absolutely disbelieved in death, though they had told him about it many times. He could not believe that those whom he loved could die, and especially incredible was the thought of his own death. It all seemed perfectly impossible and incomprehensible. But he had been told that all must die; he had asked people in whom he had confidence, and they had assured him that it was so. The nurse herself, though unwillingly, said the same thing. But Enoch did not die, and perhaps others might not have to die.
"Why should not others deserve justice before God, and so be snatched up to heaven alive?" thought Serozha. "The wicked—those whom he disliked—might have to die, but the good might be like Enoch."
"Well! how about these patriarchs?"
"Enoch .... Enos...."
"You have already mentioned him. This is bad, Serozha, very bad. If you do not endeavor to learn the things essential for every Christian to know, what will become of you?" asked his father, getting up. "I am dissatisfied with you, and Piotr Ignatyevitch"—he was the professor—"is dissatisfied with you .... so I am compelled to punish you."
Father and pedagogue both found fault with him, and Serozha was doubtless making bad work of it. Yet it could not possibly be said that he was a stupid boy; on the contrary, he was far superior to those whom his teacher held up to him as examples. From his father's point of view, he did not want to learn what was taught him. In reality, it was because he could not learn it. He could not for the reason that his mind had needs more essential to him than those that his father and the pedagogue supposed. These needs were wholly opposed to what they gave him, and he revolted against his teachers.
He was only nine years old. He was only a child; but he knew his own soul. It was dear to him; he guarded it jealously, as the eyelid guards the eye; and no one should force a way in without the key of love. His teachers blamed him for being unwilling to learn, and yet he was all on fire with the yearning for knowledge; and he learned from Kapitonuitch, his old nurse, Nadenka, and Vasili Lukitch, but not from his teachers. The water which the father and the pedagogue poured on the mill-wheel was wasted, but the work was done in another place.
His father punished Serozha by not letting him go to see Nadenka; but his punishment turned out to be an advantage. Vasili Lukitch was in good humor, and taught him how to make wind-mills. The whole afternoon was spent in working and thinking of the ways and means to make the mill go. Should he fix wings to it, or arrange it so he could turn it himself? He forgot about his mother all the evening; but after he had got into bed, he suddenly remembered her, and he prayed in his own fashion that she might cease to hide herself from him, and make him a visit the next day, which was his birthday.
"Vasili Lukitch, do you know what I prayed God for?"
"To study better?"
"No."
"Toys?"
"No. You must not guess. It is a secret; when it comes to pass, I will tell you. Can't you guess?"
"No, I can't guess; you must tell me!" said Vasili Lukitch, smiling, which was rare with him. "Well, get into bed; I am going to put out the light."
"I see that which I prayed for much better when there isn't any light. There, I almost told my secret!" cried Serozha, laughing gayly.
Serozha believed that he heard his mother and felt her presence when he was in the dark. She was standing near him, and looking at him tenderly with her loving eyes; then he saw a mill, a knife; then all melted into darkness, and he was asleep.