disgustingly, and with such an intonation as if it would give him the greatest pleasure to whip me.
I was not in the least afraid of the pain of the punishment, though I had never experienced it, but the mere thought that St. Jérôme could strike me induced in me a heavy feeling of subdued despair and fury.
In moments of anger Karl Ivánovich used to make his personal accounts with us by means of the ruler or suspenders, but I recall that without the least annoyance. Even if Karl Ivánovich had struck me at that particular moment (when I was fourteen years old), I should have borne his blows with equanimity. I loved Karl Ivánovich, remembered him as far back as I could remember myself, and was accustomed to regard him as a member of the family; but St. Jérôme was a haughty and selfsatisfied man, for whom I felt nothing but that involuntary respect with which all grown people inspired me. Karl Ivánovich was a funny old valet, whom I loved with all my soul, but whom I placed, nevertheless, below myself in my childish conception of social standing.
St. Jérôme, on the contrary, was an educated, finelooking young dandy, who tried to stand on the same level with us.
Karl Ivánovich used to scold and punish us with indifference; it was evident that he regarded it as a disagreeable, though necessary, duty. St. Jérôme, on the contrary, liked to pose as a tutor; it was evident that, when he punished us, he did so more for his own pleasure than for our good. He was carried away by his majesty. His high-flowing French phrases, which he pronounced with a strong accent on the last syllable, with circumflexes, were inexpressibly repulsive to me. When Karl Ivánovich grew angry, he said: "Puppet show, vanton boy, Shampanish fly." St. Jérôme called us "mauvais sujet, vilain garnement" and so forth, giving me names which offended my self-esteem.
