The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Childhood/Chapter 13
XIII.
Natálya Sávishna
In the middle of the last century there used to run about the yards of the village Khabárovka, in a dress of ticking, the barefoot, but merry, fat, and red-cheeked girl, Natáshka. On account of the deserts, and at the request of her father, the clarinet-player Sávva, my grandfather took her "up-stairs," to be among the female servants of grandmother. Chambermaid Natáshka distinguished herself in that capacity, both by her meekness of manner and by her zeal. When mother was born, and a nurse was needed, this duty fell on Natáshka. In that new field she earned praises and rewards for her activity, faithfulness, and attachment to the young miss. But the powdered head and the buckled stockings of young, dapper, officious Fóka, who had frequent relations with her during his duties, charmed her coarse, but loving heart. She had even made up her own mind to go to grandfather to ask his permission to marry Fóka. Grandfather received her wish as a sign of her ingratitude, grew angry, and sent poor Natálya, as a punishment, into the cattle-yard in a village of the steppes. Six months later, however, since there was no one who could take her place, she was brought back to the estate, and restored to her old position. As she returned from banishment in her ticking garments, she appeared before grandfather, fell down before his feet, and asked him to restore her to his former favour and kindness, and to forget her old infatuation which, she swore, would never again return. And, indeed, she kept her word.
Since then Natáshka became Natálya Sávishna, and donned a cap; all the abundance of love which she treasured she transferred to her young lady.
When a governess took her place with my mother, she received the keys of the larder, and all the linen and the provisions were placed in her hands. She executed her new duties with the same zeal and love. She lived only for the good of her masters, and seeing in everything loss, ruin, and misappropriation, tried in all ways to counteract them.
When mamma married, she wished to show her appreciation of Natálya Sávishna's twenty years' labour and faithfulness; so she sent for her, and expressing in the most flattering words all her gratefulness and love for her, handed her a sheet of paper with a revenue stamp upon it, on which was written Natalya Savishna's emancipation, adding that, no matter whether she continued to serve in our house or not, she would receive a yearly pension of three hundred roubles. Natalya listened to all that in silence, then, taking the document in her hands, angrily looked upon it, mumbled something between her teeth, and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Mamma did not understand the cause of her strange act, so, waiting a few minutes, she went into Natálya Sávishna's room. She was sitting with tearful eyes upon her coffer, fingering her handkerchief, and was looking fixedly at the bits of the torn emancipation document that were lying near her feet.
"What is the matter with you, my dear Natálya?" asked mamma, as she took her hand.
"Nothing, motherkin," answered she. "Evidently I have in some way displeased you, that you are chasing me from the estate. Well, I shall go."
She tore her hand away and, scarcely restraining her tears, wanted to rush out of the room. Mamma kept her back, embraced her, and they both melted into tears.
As far back as I can remember myself, I remember Natálya Sávishna, her love and her favours; but it is only now that I am able to estimate them, — for then it never occurred to me what a rare and remarkable being that old woman was. She not only never spoke, but, it seems, she never even thought of herself; all her life consisted of love and self-sacrifice. I was so accustomed to her unselfish, tender love for us that I did not imagine it could have been otherwise, in no way was grateful to her, and never asked myself whether she was happy or satisfied.
At times I would run into her chamber, under the pretext of some absolute necessity, and would sit down and begin to think aloud, not being in the least troubled by her presence. She was always busy with something: she either knitted some stockings or rummaged through the coffers with which her chamber was crowded, or took a list of the linen, and, listening to all the nonsense which I was talking, how, "when I shall be a general, I will marry a famous beauty, will buy me a red horse, will build me a glass house, and will send for Karl Ivánovich's relatives in Saxony," and so forth, she would say, " Yes, my dear, yes." Generally, when I got up to go, she opened a blue coffer, on the lid of which were pasted, on the inside, — I remember it as if it happened to-day, — a coloured reproduction of a hussar, a picture with a pomatum can, and a drawing by Volódya, — took out of that box some incense, lighted it, and, fanning, said:
"This, my dear one, is incense from Ochákov. When your deceased grandfather — the kingdom of heaven be his! — went against the Turks, he brought it back from there. There is only this last piece left," she added with a sigh.
In the coffers that filled the room there was absolutely everything. No matter what was needed, they used to say, "We ought to ask Natálya Sávishna," and, indeed, after rummaging awhile, she would find the necessary article and declare, "Luckily I have put it away." In these coffers there were thousands of such articles of which nobody in the house knew anything, and for which no one cared, except she.
Once I was angry with her. It happened like this. At dinner, as I was pouring out a glass of kvas, I dropped the bottle and spoiled the table-cloth.
"Call Natálya Sávishna to see what her darling child has done," said mamma.
Natálya Sávishna entered, and, seeing the puddle which I had made, shook her head; then mamma said something in her ear, and she went out threatening me with her finger.
After dinner I went into the parlour, leaping about in the happiest frame of mind, when suddenly Natálya Sávishna jumped from behind the door, with the table-cloth in her hands, caught me, and began to wipe my face with the wet part of it, all the time saying: "Don't soil table-cloths, don't soil table-cloths!" That so incensed me, that I bawled from anger.
"What!" said I to myself, as I walked about the parlour and choked with tears, "Natálya Sávishna, simple Natálya, says 'thou' to me, and strikes my face with a wet table-cloth, as if I were a common village boy. No, that is terrible!"
When Natálya Sávishna saw that I was blubbering, she ran away, but I continued to strut about and to consider how to repay insolent Natálya for the insult which she had offered me.
A few minutes later Natálya Sávishna returned, timidly accosted me, and began to console me.
"Do stop, my dear one, stop weeping — forgive me, foolish woman — I have done wrong — you will forgive me, my darling — here is something for you."
She took from her handkerchief a cornet, in which were two pieces of caramels and one fig, and with a trembling hand gave them to me. I did not have enough strength to look into the face of the good old woman; I turned away, as I accepted the present, and my tears began to flow more copiously, this time not from anger, but from love and shame.