“Yes.”
“Has he any children?”
“Three.”
That is how we talked when her sons and daughters were our subject of conversation.
She would rather talk of Peter than of the others. He was the failure of the family—he had squandered all that he had, did not pay his debts, and caused his mother more distress than any of them. But he was her best-beloved in spite of his waywardness, for she saw, as she put it, his “heart of gold.”
There is often a peculiar charm about the reminiscences of those who have gone through hidden sorrows, and it was only when we touched on the days of her careless youth that she let herself go. Our last talk was the best of them all, so delightful that I did not leave her home until after midnight. It was full of tender sympathy. It was about Peter Nikiforovich, the first tutor her children ever had. He was a graduate of Moscow University, and he died of consumption in her house. He was a remarkable man, and had exercised a great influence over her. Though she did not realise it, he was the only man whom she could, or did, love besides her husband.
We talked about him and about his theories of life, views which I had known and shared at the time. He was not exactly a disciple of Rousseau, though he knew and approved of his theories, but he had a mind of the same type. He very much resembled our usual conception of the wise men of antiquity. He was full of the gentle humility of unconscious Christianity. Though he was convinced that he hated the teachings of Christianity, his whole life was one long self-sacrifice. He was obviously wretched when he could find no opportunity to deny himself something