mother, but grandmother was still dissatisfied with her, and said:
"Ah, my dear, do we nowadays count such relationship?"
"This one will be a worldly young man," said papa, pointing to Volódya, "and this one a poet," he added, while I was kissing the small dry hand of the princess, and with extraordinary distinctness imagined a switch in that hand, and under the switch a bench, and so forth.
"Which one?" asked the princess, keeping hold of my hand.
"This one, the little fellow with the locks," answered papa, smiling merrily.
"What have my locks done to him? Has he nothing else to talk about?" thought I, and went into the corner.
I had the oddest conceptions of beauty, — I even regarded Karl Ivánovich as the first beau in the world; but I knew full well that I was not good-looking, and in this opinion was not mistaken. Therefore, every reference to my looks was offensive to me.
I remember very well how once at dinner, — I was then six years old, — they were speaking of my exterior, and mamma was trying to find something comely in my face. She said that I had bright eyes and a pleasant smile, and, finally, yielding to father's proofs and to evidence, was compelled to admit that I was homely. Later, when I thanked her for the dinner, she patted my cheek, and said:
"Know this much, Nikólenka, no one will love you for your face, so you must try and be a good and clever boy."
These words not only convinced me that I was not handsome, but also that I must try by all means to be a good and clever boy.
In spite of this, moments of despair frequently came over me. I imagined that there was no happiness in the world for a man with such a broad nose, fat lips, and
