In the course of her whole life she had never been
able to resist any thing; and so with her illness,
also, she did not struggle. When she could no
longer speak, and the shadows of death already lay
on her face, her features still retained their old
expression of patient perplexity, of unruffled and
submissive sweetness. With her usual silent humility,
she gazed at Glafira; and as Anna Pavlovna on her
death-bed had kissed the hand of Peter Andreich, so
she pressed her lips to Glafira’s hand, as she
confided to Glafira’s care her only child.
So did this good and quiet being end her earthly career.
Like a shrub torn from its native soil, and the next
moment flung aside, its roots upturned to the sun,
she withered and disappeared, leaving no trace behind,
and no one to grieve for her. It is true that
her maids regretted her, and so did Peter Andreich.
The old man missed her kindly face, her silent presence.
“Forgive—farewell—my quiet
one!” he said, as he took leave of her for the
last time, in the church. He wept as he threw
a handful of earth into her grave.
He did not long survive her—not more than
five years. In the winter of 1819, he died peacefully
in Moscow, whither he had gone with Glafira and his
grandson. In his will he desired to be buried
by the side of Anna Pavlovna and “Malasha."[A]
[Footnote A: Diminutive of Malania.]
Ivan Petrovich was at that time amusing himself in
Paris, having retired from the service soon after
the year 1815. On receiving the news of his father’s
death, he determined to return to Russia. The
organization of his property had to be considered.
Besides, according to Glafira’s letter, Fedia
had finished his twelfth year; and the time had come
for taking serious thought about his education.
X.
Ivan Petrovich returned to Russia an Anglomaniac.
Short hair, starched frills, a pea-green, long-skirted
coat with a number of little collars; a soar expression
of countenance, something trenchant and at the same
time careless in his demeanor, an utterance through
the teeth, an abrupt wooden laugh, an absence of smile,
a habit of conversing only on political or politico-economical
subjects, a passion for under-done roast beef and
port wine—every thing in him breathed,
so to speak, of Great Britain. He seemed entirely
imbued by its spirit. But strange to say, while
becoming an Anglomaniac, Ivan Petrovich had also become
a patriot,—at all events he called himself
a patriot,—although he knew very little
about Russia, he had not retained a single Russian
habit, and he expressed himself in Russian oddly.
In ordinary talk, his language was colorless and unwieldy,
and absolutely bristled with Gallicisms. But the
moment that the conversation turned upon serious topics,
Ivan Petrovich immediately began to give utterance
to such expressions as “to render manifest abnormal
symptoms of enthusiasm,” or “this is extravagantly
inconsistent with the essential nature of circumstances,”
and so forth. He had brought with him some manuscript
plans, intended to assist in the organization and
improvement of the empire. For he was greatly
discontented with what he saw taking place. It
was the absence of system which especially aroused
his indignation.
