幼年 英文版 Childhood
列夫.托尔斯泰 Leo Tolstoy
II
MAMMA
Mamma was sitting in the drawing-room and making tea. In one handshe was holding the tea-pot, while with the other one she wasdrawing water from the urn and letting it drip into the tray.Yet though she appeared to be noticing what she doing, inreality she noted neither this fact nor our entry.
However vivid be one's recollection of the past, any attempt torecall the features of a beloved being shows them to one's visionas through a mist of tears--dim and blurred. Those tears are thetears of the imagination. When I try to recall Mamma as she wasthen, I see, true, her brown eyes, expressive always of love andkindness, the small mole on her neck below where the small hairsgrow, her white embroidered collar, and the delicate, fresh handwhich so often caressed me, and which I so often kissed; but hergeneral 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 manifesteffort (for her hands were rosy from a recent washing in coldwater) Clementi's "Etudes." Then eleven years old, she wasdressed in a short cotton frock and white lace-frilled trousers,and could take her octaves only in arpeggio. Beside her wassitting Maria Ivanovna, in a cap adorned with pink ribbons and ablue shawl, Her face was red and cross, and it assumed anexpression even more severe when Karl Ivanitch entered the room.Looking angrily at him without answering his bow, she went onbeating 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, asusual, with German politeness to kiss Mamma's hand, She drewherself up, shook her head as though by the movement to chaseaway sad thoughts from her, and gave Karl her hand, kissing himon 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) hadslept. Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and the added noise ofthe piano now prevented him from hearing anything at all. Hemoved nearer to the sofa, and, leaning one hand upon the tableand lifting his cap above his head, said with, a smile which inthose 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 nevertook off his red cap, but invariably asked permission, onentering the drawing-room, to retain it on his head.
"Yes, pray replace it, Karl Ivanitch," said Mamma, bendingtowards him and raising her voice, "But I asked you whether thechildren had slept well? "
Still he did not hear, but, covering his bald head again with thered cap, went on smiling more than ever,
"Stop a moment, Mimi." said Mamma (now smiling also) to MariaIvanovna. "It is impossible to hear anything."
How beautiful Mamma's face was when she smiled! It made her soinfinitely more charming, and everything around her seemed togrow brighter! If in the more painful moments of my life I couldhave seen that smile before my eyes, I should never have knownwhat grief is. In my opinion, it is in the smile of a face thatthe essence of what we call beauty lies. If the smile heightensthe charm of the face, then the face is a beautiful one. If thesmile 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 oneindeed.
Mamma took my head between her hands, bent it gently backwards,looked at me gravely, and said: "You have been crying thismorning?"
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 thislanguage, which she knew to perfection.
"I cried about a dream, Mamma" I replied, remembering theinvented vision, and trembling involuntarily at the recollection.
Karl Ivanitch confirmed my words, but said nothing as to thesubject of the dream. Then, after a little conversation on theweather, in which Mimi also took part, Mamma laid some lumps ofsugar on the tray for one or two of the more privileged servants,and crossed over to her embroidery frame, which stood near one ofthe windows.
"Go to Papa now, children," she said, "and ask him to come tome before he goes to the home farm."
Then the music, the counting, and the wrathful looks from Mimibegan again, and we went off to see Papa. Passing through theroom which had been known ever since Grandpapa's time as "thepantry," we entered the study,