IV. IN MOSCOW

From the time of our arrival in Moscow, the change in my conception of
objects, of persons, and of my connection with them became increasingly
perceptible. When at my first meeting with Grandmamma, I saw her thin,
wrinkled face and faded eyes, the mingled respect and fear with which
she had hitherto inspired me gave place to compassion, and when, laying
her cheek against Lubotshka's head, she sobbed as though she saw before
her the corpse of her beloved daughter, my compassion grew to love.

I felt deeply sorry to see her grief at our meeting, even though I knew
that in ourselves we represented nothing in her eyes, but were dear to
her only as reminders of our mother--that every kiss which she imprinted
upon my cheeks expressed the one thought, "She is no more--she is dead,
and I shall never see her again."

Papa, who took little notice of us here in Moscow, and whose face was
perpetually preoccupied on the rare occasions when he came in his black
dress-coat to take formal dinner with us, lost much in my eyes at this
period, in spite of his turned-up ruffles, robes de chambre, overseers,
bailiffs, expeditions to the estate, and hunting exploits.

Karl Ivanitch--whom Grandmamma always called "Uncle," and who (Heaven
knows why!) had taken it into his head to adorn the bald pate of my
childhood's days with a red wig parted in the middle--now looked to me
so strange and ridiculous that I wondered how I could ever have failed
to observe the fact before. Even between the girls and ourselves there
seemed to have sprung up an invisible barrier. They, too, began to have
secrets among themselves, as well as to evince a desire to show off
their ever-lengthening skirts even as we boys did our trousers and