Page:The Russian Review Volume 1.djvu/312

280 dull knife of pain and humiliation. And you began to cry, and shriek, and call for help.

Not a muscle twitched in the face of Life. . .Give in, give in! And you gave in.

Do you remember how timidly you came out of the nursery, and what you said to me?

"Uncle," you said, exhausted by your struggle for happiness, and still thirsting for it. "Uncle, forgive me, please." You begged me for at least a drop of that happiness, the longing for which was bringing you such acute suffering.

But Life is not so easily appeased. It made a sad face and said:

"Of course, the knowledge of figures brings happiness. But you do not love your uncle." "It isn't true, I do love him! I do love him!"

Then Life became kinder.

"Well, bring your chair to the table and get the pencils and some paper."

With what joy your eyes glistened then! How you rushed about! Fearing that you might anger me, how obedient, how careful were you in every movement that you made! And how eagerly you grasped every word I said!

Taking deep breaths, every little while moistening your pencil with your lips, you bent over the table, laboriously tracing those mysterious lines full of some divine significance. And I watched you, my heart full of pleasure, as I inhaled the odor of your soft hair; for the hair of little children has the odor of little birds.

"One. . .two. . .five" you were saying, tracing the figures.

"No, no. One, two, three, four. . ."

"Oh, yes. Oh, yes," you would hasten to say. "I'll start at the beginning. One, two. . ."

And you would look at me in embarrassment.

"Well? Three. . ."

"Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Three! I know."

And you traced the figure three, and it looked like a large capital E.