“What a boy, cousin!  He ought to have been whipped, but the trick was so spirited and amusing that I let him off.”  Then the Princess looked at Grandmamma and laughed again.

“Ah!  So you whip your children, do you” said Grandmamma, with a significant lift of her eyebrows, and laying a peculiar stress on the word “Whip.”

“Alas, my good Aunt,” replied the Princess in a sort of tolerant tone and with another glance at Papa, “I know your views on the subject, but must beg to be allowed to differ with them.  However much I have thought over and read and talked about the matter, I have always been forced to come to the conclusion that children must be ruled through fear.  To make something of a child, you must make it fear something.  Is it not so, cousin?  And what, pray, do children fear so much as a rod?”

As she spoke she seemed, to look inquiringly at Woloda and myself, and I confess that I did not feel altogether comfortable.

“Whatever you may say,” she went on, “a boy of twelve, or even of fourteen, is still a child and should be whipped as such; but with girls, perhaps, it is another matter.”

“How lucky it is that I am not her son!” I thought to myself.

“Oh, very well,” said Grandmamma, folding up my verses and replacing them beneath the box (as though, after that exposition of views, the Princess was unworthy of the honour of listening to such a production).  “Very well, my dear,” she repeated “But please tell me how, in return, you can look for any delicate sensibility from your children?”

Evidently Grandmamma thought this argument unanswerable, for she cut the subject short by adding: 

“However, it is a point on which people must follow their own opinions.”

The Princess did not choose to reply, but smiled condescendingly, and as though out of indulgence to the strange prejudices of a person whom she only pretended to revere.

“Oh, by the way, pray introduce me to your young people,” she went on presently as she threw us another gracious smile.

Thereupon we rose and stood looking at the Princess, without in the least knowing what we ought to do to show that we were being introduced.

“Kiss the Princess’s hand,” said Papa.

“Well, I hope you will love your old aunt,” she said to Woloda, kissing his hair, “even though we are not near relatives.  But I value friendship far more than I do degrees of relationship,” she added to Grandmamma, who nevertheless, remained hostile, and replied: 

“Eh, my dear?  Is that what they think of relationships nowadays?”

“Here is my man of the world,” put in Papa, indicating Woloda; “and here is my poet,” he added as I kissed the small, dry hand of the Princess, with a vivid picture in my mind of that same hand holding a rod and applying it vigorously.

“Which one is the poet?” asked the Princess.