Leo Tolstoy: The Complete Novels and Novellas. Leo Tolstoy

away even the smallest thing should have left no more: yet it was a fact.

      Though Natalia’s last illness lasted for two months, she bore her sufferings with truly Christian fortitude. Never did she fret or complain, but, as usual, appealed continually to God. An hour before the end came she made her final confession, received the Sacrament with quiet joy, and was accorded extreme unction. Then she begged forgiveness of every one in the house for any wrong she might have done them, and requested the priest to send us word of the number of times she had blessed us for our love of her, as well as of how in her last moments she had implored our forgiveness if, in her ignorance, she had ever at any time given us offence. “Yet a thief have I never been. Never have I used so much as a piece of thread that was not my own.” Such was the one quality which she valued in herself.

      Dressed in the cap and gown prepared so long beforehand, and with her head resting, upon the cushion made for the purpose, she conversed with the priest up to the very last moment, until, suddenly, recollecting that she had left him nothing for the poor, she took out ten roubles, and asked him to distribute them in the parish. Lastly she made the sign of the cross, lay down, and expired — pronouncing with a smile of joy the name of the Almighty.

      She quitted life without a pang, and, so far from fearing death, welcomed it as a blessing. How often do we hear that said, and how seldom is it a reality! Natalia Savishna had no reason to fear death for the simple reason that she died in a sure and certain faith and in strict obedience to the commands of the Gospel. Her whole life had been one of pure, disinterested love, of utter self-negation. Had her convictions been of a more enlightened order, her life directed to a higher aim, would that pure soul have been the more worthy of love and reverence? She accomplished the highest and best achievement in this world: she died without fear and without repining.

      They buried her where she had wished to lie — near the little mausoleum which still covers Mamma’s tomb. The little mound beneath which she sleeps is overgrown with nettles and burdock, and surrounded by a black railing, but I never forget, when leaving the mausoleum, to approach that railing, and to salute the, plot of earth within by bowing reverently to the ground.

      Sometimes, too, I stand thoughtfully between the railing and the mausoleum, and sad memories pass through my mind. Once the idea came to me as I stood there: “Did Providence unite me to those two beings solely in order to make me regret them my life long?”

      Boyhood

      First published : 1854

      Translation : C. J. Hogarth (1869-1942)

       Chapter 1 — A Slow Journey

       Chapter 2 — The Thunderstorm

       Chapter 3 — A New Point of View

       Chapter 4 — In Moscow

       Chapter 5 — My Elder Brother

       Chapter 6 — Masha

       Chapter 7 — Small Shot

       Chapter 8 — Karl Ivanitch’s History

       Chapter 9 — Continuation of Karl’s Narrative

       Chapter 10 — Conclusion of Karl’s Narrative

       Chapter 11 — One Mark Only

       Chapter 12 — The Key

       Chapter 13 — The Traitress

       Chapter 14 — The Retribution

       Chapter 15 — Dreams

       Chapter 16 — “Keep on Grinding, and You’ll have Flour”

       Chapter 17 — Hatred

       Chapter 18 — The Maidservants’ Room

       Chapter 19 — Boyhood

       Chapter 20 — Woloda

       Chapter 21 — Katenka and Lubotshka

       Chapter 22 — Papa

       Chapter 23 — Grandmamma

       Chapter 24 — Myself

       Chapter 25 — Woloda’s Friends

       Chapter 26 — Discussions

       Chapter 27 — The Beginning of Our Friendship

Chapter 1 — A Slow Journey

      Again two carriages stood at the front door of the house at Petrovskoe. In one of them sat Mimi, the two girls, and their maid, with the bailiff, Jakoff, on the box, while in the other — a britchka — sat Woloda, myself, and our servant Vassili. Papa, who was to follow us to Moscow in a few days, was standing bareheaded on the entrance-steps. He made the sign of the cross at the windows of the carriages, and said:

      “Christ go with you! Good-bye.”

      Jakoff and our coachman (for we had our own horses) lifted their caps in answer, and also made the sign of the cross.

      “Amen. God go with us!”

      The carriages began to roll away, and the birch-trees of the great avenue filed out of sight.

      I was not in the least depressed on this occasion, for my mind was not so much turned upon what I had left as upon what was awaiting me. In proportion as the various objects connected with the sad recollections which had recently filled my imagination receded behind me, those recollections lost their power, and gave place to a consolatory feeling of life, youthful vigour, freshness, and hope.

      Seldom have I spent four days more — well, I will not say gaily, since I should still have