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Eight years ago, there was living with Tatyana Borissovna a boy of twelve, an orphan, the son of her brother, Andryusha. Andryusha had large, clear, humid eyes, a tiny little mouth, a regular nose, and a fine lofty brow.
"Don't be frightened, Andryusha," Tanya was saying, shivering as though in a fever; "don't be frightened. . . . Father, it will all pass over . . . it will all pass over. . . ." Kovrin was too much agitated to speak. He wanted to say to his father-in-law in a playful tone: "Congratulate me; it appears I have gone out of my mind"; but he could only move his lips and smile bitterly.
Benevolensky's arrival, Tatyana Borissovna told her nephew at tea-time to show their guest his drawings. 'Why, does he draw? said Mr. Benevolensky, with some surprise, and he turned with interest to Andryusha. 'Yes, he draws, said Tatyana Borissovna; 'he's so fond of it! and he does it all alone, without a master. 'Ah! show me, show me, cried Mr. Benevolensky.
'I am very happy, he says; 'I was walking about all among white birds to-day; and the Lord God gave me a nosegay and in the nosegay was Andryusha with a little knife, he calls our Lyubotchka, Andryusha; 'now we shall both be quite well, he says. 'We need only one stroke with the little knife, like this! and he points to his throat.
You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody . . . . To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that." "I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you.
Andryusha, blushing and smiling, brought the visitor his sketch-book. Mr. Benevolensky began turning it over with the air of a connoisseur. 'Good, young man, he pronounced at last; 'good, very good. And he patted Andryusha on the head. Andryusha intercepted his hand and kissed it 'Fancy, now, a talent like that!... I congratulate you, Tatyana Borissovna. 'But what am I to do, Piotr Mihalitch?
From his letter she had expected to see a wasted invalid, and she beheld a stout, broad-shouldered fellow, with a big red face and greasy, curly hair. The pale, slender little Andryusha had turned into the stalwart Andrei Ivanovitch Byelovzorov. And it was not only his exterior that was transformed.
'Of course, of course, that's readily understood, and does you great credit; but, on the other hand, consider the pleasure that in the future... your success.... 'Kiss me, Andryusha, muttered the kind-hearted lady. Andryusha flung himself on her neck. 'There, now, thank your benefactor. Andryusha embraced Mr.
I entreat you, Andryusha, for God's sake, for the sake of your dead father, for the sake of my peace of mind, be affectionate to him." "I can't, I don't want to." "But why?" asked Tanya, beginning to tremble all over. "Explain why." "Because he is antipathetic to me, that's all," said Kovrin carelessly; and he shrugged his shoulders. "But we won't talk about him: he is your father."
"Here, Andryusha; read father's articles," she said, giving him a bundle of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles. He writes capitally." "Capitally, indeed!" said Yegor Semyonitch, following her and smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed. "Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."
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