say, the meal was no longer what it had been in Mamma's or our
grandmother's time, namely, a kind of rite which brought all the
family together at a given hour and divided the day into two
halves. We allowed ourselves to come in as late as the second
course, to drink wine in tumblers (St. Jerome himself set us the
example), to roll about on our chairs, to depart without saying
grace, and so on. In fact, luncheon had ceased to be a family
ceremony. In the old days at Petrovskoe, every one had been used
to wash and dress for the meal, and then to repair to the
drawing-room as the appointed hour (two o'clock) drew near, and
pass the time of waiting in lively conversation. Just as the
clock in the servants' hall was beginning to whirr before
striking the hour, Foka would enter with noiseless footsteps, and,
throwing his napkin over his arm and assuming a dignified, rather
severe expression, would say in loud, measured tones: "Luncheon
is ready!" Thereupon, with pleased, cheerful faces, we would form
a procession--the elders going first and the juniors following,
and, with much rustling of starched petticoats and subdued
creaking of boots and shoes--would proceed to the dining-room,
where, still talking in undertones, the company would seat
themselves in their accustomed places. Or, again, at Moscow, we
would all of us be standing before the table ready-laid in the
hall, talking quietly among ourselves as we waited for our
grandmother, whom the butler, Gabriel, had gone to acquaint with
the fact that luncheon was ready. Suddenly the door would open,
there would come the faint swish of a dress and the sound of
footsteps, and our grandmother--dressed in a mob-cap trimmed with
a quaint old lilac bow, and wearing either a smile or a severe
expression on her face according as the state of her health
inclined her--would issue from her room. Gabriel would hasten to