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RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 9
A semi-darkness reigns in the nursery. The rather
dirty flame of the tallow candle alone stands out like
a yellow spot amid the gloom, because nurse has
forgotten this long time to snuff it, and from the
opposite corner of the room the quivering little blue flame
of the shrine-lamp casts wonderful shadows on the
ceiling and brilliantly illuminates the hand of the
Savior raised in benediction, which stands out in
relief against the silver vestment of the holy picture.
Almost directly beside me I hear the even
breathing of my brother, and from the corner beyond the
stove-couch comes the heavy, nasal respiration of
our nursery serving-maid, snub-nosed Feklusha,
nurse’s scape-goat. She sleeps in the nursery, on
the floor, on a piece of gray felt, which she spreads
down at night, and tucks away in a lumber-room
during the day.
Nurse and Naståsya are conversing in a low tone,
and, imagining that we are asleep, they discuss all
the household affairs without reserve. But, in the
meantime, I am not asleep; on the contrary, I am
listening intently to their conversation. Of course there
is much that I do not understand; much is very
interesting to me. It sometimes happens that I fall
asleep in the middle of a story, and do not hear the
end. But the scraps of their conversation which do
reach my consciousness form themselves into
fantastic figures therein, and leave behind them ineffaceable
traces for the rest of my life.
" Well, and how am I to help loving her, my
darling, more than the other children 1" I hear the nurse
say, and I understand that they are discussing me.
" Why, I have reared her almost entirely by myself.
When our Aniutka was born, papa, and mama, and
grandpa, and the aunts never could get their fill of
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