t now; I
had never properly felt or understood it.

Thought merges into conviction through paths of its own, as well as,
sometimes, with great suddenness and by methods wholly different from
those which have brought other intellects to the same conclusion. For me
the conversation with Katenka--striking deeply as it did, and forcing me
to reflect on her future position--constituted such a path. As I gazed
at the towns and villages through which we passed, and in each house of
which lived at least one family like our own, as well as at the women
and children who stared with curiosity at our carriages and then became
lost to sight for ever, and the peasants and workmen who did not even
look at us, much less make us any obeisance, the question arose for the
first time in my thoughts, "Whom else do they care for if not for us?"
And this question was followed by others, such as, "To what end do
they live?" "How do they educate their children?" "Do they teach their
children and let them play? What are their names?" and so forth.

IV. IN MOSCOW

From the time of our arrival in Moscow, the change in my conception of
objects, of persons, and of my connection with them became increasingly
perceptible. When at my first meeting with Grandmamma, I saw her thin,
wrinkled face and faded eyes, the mingled respect and fear with which
she had hitherto inspired me gave place to compassion, and when, laying
her cheek against Lubotshka's head, she sobbed as though she saw before
her the corpse of her beloved daughter, my compassion grew to love.

I felt deeply sorry to see her grief at our meeting, even though I knew
that in ourselves we represented nothing in her eyes, but were dear to
her only as reminders of our mother--that every kiss which she imprinted
upon my cheeks expressed the one thought, "She is no more--she is dead,
and I shall never see her again."

Papa, who took little notice of us here in Moscow, and whose face was
perpetually preoccupied on the rare occasions when he came in his black
dress-coat to take formal dinner with us, lost much in my eyes at this
period, in spite of his turned-up ruffles, robes de chambre, overseers,
bailiffs, expeditions to the estate, and hunting exploits.

Karl Ivanitch--whom Grandmamma always called "Uncle," and who (Heaven
knows why!) had taken it into his head to adorn the bald pate of my
childhood's days with a red wig parted in the middle--now looked to me
so strange and ridiculo