‘My Karl is alive?’ she cry. ‘Zen tank Got!
Vere is he, my Karl?
I woult die in peace if I coult see him once more—my darling son! Bot Got will not haf it so.’ Then she cried, and I coult no longer stant it.
‘Darling Mamma!’ I say, ‘I am your son, I am your Karl!’—and she fell into my arms.”
Karl Ivanitch covered his eyes, and his lips were quivering.
“‘Mutter,’ sagte ich, ‘ich bin ihr Sohn, ich bin ihr Karl!’—und sie sturtzte mir in die Arme!’” he repeated, recovering a little and wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Bot Got did not wish me to finish my tays in my own town.
I were pursuet by fate.
I livet in my own town only sree mons.
One Suntay I sit in a coffee-house, ant trinket one pint of Pier, ant fumigated my pipe, ant speaket wis some frients of Politik, of ze Emperor Franz, of Napoleon, of ze war—ant anypoty might say his opinion.
But next to us sits a strange chentleman in a grey Uberrock, who trink coffee, fumigate the pipe, ant says nosing.
Ven the night watchman shoutet ten o’clock I taket my hat, paid ze money, and go home.
At ze middle of ze night some one knock at ze door.
I rise ant says,
‘Who is zere?’
‘Open!’ says someone.
I shout again,
‘First say who is zere, ant I will open.’
‘Open in the name of the law!’ say the someone behint the door.
I now do so.
Two Soldaten wis gons stant at ze door, ant into ze room steps ze man in ze grey Uberrock, who had sat with us in ze coffeehouse.
He were Spion!
‘Come wis me,’ says ze Spion,
‘Very goot!’ say I.
I dresset myself in boots, trousers, ant coat, ant go srough ze room.
Ven I come to ze wall where my gon hangs I take it, ant says,
‘You are a Spion, so defent you!’
I give one stroke left, one right, ant one on ze head.
Ze Spion lay precipitated on ze floor!
Zen I taket my cloak-bag ant money, ant jompet out of ze vintow.
I vent to Ems, where I was acquainted wis one General Sasin, who loaft me, givet me a passport from ze Embassy, ant taket me to Russland to learn his chiltren.
Ven General Sasin tiet, your Mamma callet for me, ant says,
‘Karl Ivanitch, I gif you my children. Loaf them, ant I will never leave you, ant will take care for your olt age.’
Now is she teat, ant all is forgotten!
For my twenty year full of service I most now go into ze street ant seek for a try crust of preat for my olt age!
Got sees all sis, ant knows all sis. His holy will be done! Only-only, I yearn for you, my children!”—and Karl drew me to him, and kissed me on the forehead.
XI. ONE MARK ONLY
The year of mourning over, Grandmamma recovered a little from her grief, and once more took to receiving occasional guests, especially children of the same age as ourselves.
On the 13th of December—Lubotshka’s birthday—the Princess Kornakoff and her daughters, with Madame Valakhin, Sonetchka, Ilinka Grap, and the two younger Iwins, arrived at our house before luncheon.
Though we could hear the sounds of talking, laughter, and movements going on in the drawing-room, we could not join the party until our morning lessons were finished.
The table of studies in the schoolroom said, “Lundi, de 2 a 3, maitre d’Histoire et de Geographie,” and this infernal maitre d’Histoire we must await, listen to, and see the back of before we could gain our liberty.
Already it was twenty minutes past two, and nothing was to be heard of the tutor, nor yet anything to be seen of him in the street, although I kept looking up and down it with the greatest impatience and with an emphatic longing never to see the maitre again.
“I believe he is not coming to-day,” said Woloda, looking up for a moment from his lesson-book.
“I hope he is not, please the Lord!” I answered, but in a despondent tone. “Yet there he DOES come, I believe, all the same!”
“Not he! Why, that is a GENTLEMAN,” said Woloda, likewise looking out of the window, “Let us wait till half-past two, and then ask St. Jerome if we may put away our books.”
“Yes, and wish them au revoir,” I added, stretching my arms, with the book clasped in my hands, over my head.
Having hitherto idled away my time, I now opened the book at the place where the lesson was to begin, and started to learn it.
It was long and difficult, and, moreover, I was in the mood when one’s thoughts refuse to be arrested by anything at all. Consequently I made no progress.
After our last lesson in history (which always seemed to me a peculiarly arduous and wearisome subject) the history master had complained to St. Jerome of me because only two good marks stood to my credit in the register—a very small total.
St. Jerome had then told me that if I failed to gain less than THREE marks at the next lesson I should be severely punished.