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RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD 49
And so you may picture to yourself how I, a big
girl of twelve—I, who a few minutes previously had
been going through the most complicated dramas
with the heroine of a romance perused on the sly,—
I am obliged to go and stand in the corner like a
foolish little child.
My father continues his occupations at his
writing-table. Profound silence reigns in the room. I stand
motionless, but, good heavens, through what a gamut
of thoughts and emotions do I not pass in those few
minutes! I understand and recognize so clearly the
fact how stupid and awkward this whole situation
is; a certain feeling of inward shame in my father’s
presence makes me obey in silence, and does not
permit me to burst out into a roar and make a scene.
Nevertheless the feeling of bitter insult, of powerless
wrath, rises in my throat and chokes me. "What
nonsense! What is it to me that I must stand in the
corner ?" I console myself inwardly, but I feel hurt
that my father is able and willing to humiliate me,
and he that very father of whom I am so proud,
whom I place above all others.
It would be well enough, too, if we were alone.
But some one knocks at the door, and that
intolerable Ilya makes his appearance in the room, under
some pretext or other. I am perfectly well aware that
the pretext is invented, that he has come simply out
of curiosity, to see how the young mistress is being
punished; but he makes no sign of this, does his
business with deliberation, as if he perceived nothing,
and merely casts a scoffing glance at me as he leaves
the room. Oh, how I hate him at that moment!
I stand so still that my father sometimes forgets
me, and makes me stand for quite a long time,
because, of course, I am too proud to ask forgiveness
on any account. At last father remembers me, and
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