of you who moves forward.” Nikólenka turned to look at Pierre but Pierre was no longer there. In his place was his father—Prince Andréy—and his father had neither shape nor form, but he existed, and when Nikólenka perceived him he grew faint with love: he felt himself powerless, limp, and formless. His father caressed and pitied him. But Uncle Nikoláy came nearer and nearer to them. Terror seized Nikólenka and he awoke.
“My father!” he thought. (Though there were two good portraits of Prince Andréy in the house, Nikólenka never imagined him in human form.) “My father has been with me and caressed me. He approved of me and of Uncle Pierre. Whatever he may tell me, I will do it. Mucius Scaevola burned his hand. Why should not the same sort of thing happen to me? I know they want me to learn. And I will learn. But someday I shall have finished learning, and then I will do something. I only pray God that something may happen to me such as happened to Plutarch’s men, and I will act as they did. I will do better. Everyone shall know me, love me, and be delighted with me!” And suddenly his bosom heaved with sobs and he began to cry.