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“Well, was he very glad?” he asked.
“Glad? I should think so! Almost dancing as he walked away.”
“And has anything been left?” asked Seryozha, after a pause.
“Come, sir,” said the hall-porter; then with a shake of his head he
whispered, “Something from the countess.”
Seryozha understood at once that what the hall porter was speak-
ing of was a present from Countess Lidia Ivanovna for his birthday.
“What do you say? Where?”
“Korney took it to your papa. A fine plaything it must be too!”
“How big? Like this?”
“Rather small, but a fine thing.”
“A book.”
“No, a thing. Run along, run along, Vassily Lukitch is calling you,”
said the porter, hearing the tutor’s steps approaching, and carefully
taking away from his belt the little hand in the glove half pulled off, he
signed with his head towards the tutor.
“Vassily Lukitch, in a tiny minute!” answered Seryozha with that
gay and loving smile which always won over the conscientious Vassily
Lukitch.
Seryozha was too happy, everything was too delightful for him to
be able to help sharing with his friend the porter the family good
fortune of which he had heard during his walk in the public gardens
from Lidia Ivanovna’s niece. This piece of good news seemed to him
particularly important from its coming at the same time with the glad-
ness of the bandaged clerk and his own gladness at toys having come
for him. It seemed to Seryozha that this was a day on which everyone
ought to be glad and happy.
“You know papa’s received the Alexander Nevsky today?”
“To be sure I do! People have been already to congratulate him.”
“And is he glad?”
“Glad at the Tsar’s gracious favor! I should think so! It’s a proof
he’s deserved it,” said the porter severely and seriously.
Seryozha fell to dreaming, gazing up at the face of the porter, which
he had thoroughly studied in every detail, especially the chin that
hung down between the gray whiskers, never seen by anyone but
Seryozha, who saw him only from below.
“Well, and has your daughter been to see you lately?”
The porter’s daughter was a ballet dancer.
“When is she to come on week-days? They’ve their lessons to
learn too. And you’ve your lesson, sir; run along.”
On coming into the room, Seryozha, instead of sitting down to his
lessons, told his tutor of his supposition that what had been brought
him must be a machine. “What do you think?” he inquired.
But Vassily Lukitch was thinking of nothing but the necessity of
learning the grammar lesson for the teacher, who was coming at two.
“No, do just tell me, Vassily Lukitch,” he asked suddenly, when he
was seated at their work table with the book in his hands, “what is
greater than the Alexander Nevsky? You know papa’s received the
Alexander Nevsky?”
Vassily Lukitch replied that the Vladimir was greater than the
Alexander Nevsky.
“And higher still?”
“Well, highest of all is the Andrey Pervozvanny.”
“And higher than the Andrey?”
“I don’t know.”
“What, you don’t know?” and Seryozha, leaning on his elbows,
sank into deep meditation.
His meditations were of the most complex and diverse character.