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home in their cottage he gave her a lesson, pulling her hair
a little. But there it ended: the beating was never repeated,
and Marfa Ignatyevna gave up dancing.
God had not blessed them with children. One child was
born but it died. Grigory was fond of children, and was
not ashamed of showing it. When Adelaida Ivanovna had
run away, Grigory took Dmitri, then a child of three years
old, combed his hair and washed him in a tub with his
own hands, and looked after him for almost a year. After-
wards he had looked after Ivan and Alyosha, for which the
general’s widow had rewarded him with a slap in the face;
but I have already related all that. The only happiness his
own child had brought him had been in the anticipation
of its birth. When it was born, he was overwhelmed with
grief and horror. The baby had six fingers. Grigory was so
crushed by this, that he was not only silent till the day of the
christening, but kept away in the garden. It was spring, and
he spent three days digging the kitchen garden. The third
day was fixed for christening the baby: meantime Grigo-
ry had reached a conclusion. Going into the cottage where
the clergy were assembled and the visitors had arrived, in-
cluding Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was to stand godfather, he
suddenly announced that the baby ‘ought not to be chris-
tened at all.’ He announced this quietly, briefly, forcing out
his words, and gazing with dull intentness at the priest.
‘Why not?’ asked the priest with good-humoured sur-
prise.
‘Because it’s a dragon,’ muttered Grigory.
‘A dragon? What dragon?’