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4
SÖNYA KOVALÉVSKY
Our childish beds, guarded by railings, stood side
by side, so that in the mornings we could, and did,
crawl from one to the other without setting foot on
the floor. At a little distance stood nurse’s large
bed, upon which rose a perfect mountain of feather
beds and down pillows. Nurse was very proud of it.
Sometimes, during the day, when she was in a
particularly good humor, she would permit us to tumble
about on her bed. We would climb upon it with the
aid of a chair, but no sooner did we reach the very
summit than the mountain slid out from under us,
and away we went into a soft sea of down. This
delighted us greatly.
No sooner do I think of our nursery than, by an
inevitable association of ideas, I begin to be aware of
a peculiar odor — a mixture of incense, olive-oil, May
balsam, and the smoke of tallow-candles. It is a
very long time since I chanced to encounter
anywhere that peculiar odor; indeed, I believe that, not
only abroad, but even in St. Petersburg and Moscow,
it is now very rarely to be encountered. But two years
ago, when I was visiting some of my country
acquaintances, I went into their nursery, and that familiar
smell immediately surged to meet me, and evoked a
whole series of long-forgotten memories and emotions.
The French governess could not enter our nursery
without cautiously putting her handkerchief to her
nose.
" Do open the window-pane, nurse!" she would
entreat, in her broken Russian.
Nurse took the remark in the light of apersonal insult.
" What idea has she got into her head now, the
Mohammedan heathen! As if I would open the pane
and give the master’s children their death of cold!"
she would mutter as the governess left the room.
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