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62
SÖNYA KOVALÉVSKY
out of habit, and were already retreating toward the
doors, when Malånya, who was bolder than the rest,
began to argue with them.
"’ What are you about, you vile cowards 1 Have n’t
you any mercy on your own hides? She ’11 pack you
all off to Siberia to-morrow!’ Then they came to
their senses, and the whole horde rushed up to her
bed, seized my låte sister by the hands and feet, flung
a feather-bed on her, and began to smother her. She
begged for mercy, and offered them money and all
sorts of goods! No; they would accept nothing.
For Malånya, her favorite, continued to exhort them:
"’ A towel; throw a wet towel over her head so
that no blue marks will be left on her face.’ The
people themselves, those miserable serfs, confessed it
afterward. They told in detail, in court, under the
rods, just how it took place. Well, and they were
not patted on the head for this, their fine piece of
work. Many of them, I think, must still be rotting
in Siberia."
Aunt relapsed into silence, and we also remained
silent with horror.
" See now that you don’t tell papa and mama that
I have been so silly as to chatter all this to you,"
were aunt’s parting words to us. But we already
knew for ourselves that such things were not to be
mentioned to papa, nor mama, nor to our governess.
Nothing but a row would come of that.
But at night, when bedtime approached, this tale
pursued me, and would not let me sleep.
Once, when I was on uncle’s estate, I saw a portrait
of my aunt Nadézhda Andreevna, painted in oil, full
length, in that commonplace, stereotyped manner in
which all portraits of that date were painted. And
then she presented herself vividly to me: small of
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