ou'd known him," said the little
pitchman to me. "He was so good. Many a one has told me, since then,
how he used to help everybody. He knew all about everything. He taught
me that you can get the best turpentine from the larches. He never
liked to give anything to people, but he wasn't stingy. He helped all
who'd work, and showed them how things might be done with less trouble
and with greater profit, and that was better than giving them money.
Every year he would lend them some money, so that they could buy a pig,
and when they'd sold it, they had to pay him back. They often laughed
at him and gave him a nickname, too, but it was an honor to him.
Yes--and would you believe it?--he had a great misfortune. His children
deserted him."

How these words rent my heart!

During the whole evening, the terrible mark on my forehead burned like
fire.

*

This is the anniversary of my return to the summer palace.

At that time, I dreamt that a star had fallen down on me, and that a
man, with averted gaze, was saying: "Thou too, art alone!"

There are depths of the soul, which no safety-lamp ever enters, and
where all light is extinguished. I turn away--for naught dwells there
but the angry storm-wind.

*

My thoughts go back to my childhood. I was three years old when my
mother died. I have nothing to remind me of it, except that the moving
about and pushing in the next room greatly frightened me. Oh mother!
why did you die so soon? How different I would have been--

I? Who is this I? If it could have been different, it were not I. It
was to be thus.

They put black clothes on me and my brother, and I only remember that
father went with us. He said that it would be better if we did not
remain with him, and that it was not well for us to grow up in
solitude. He kissed us at parting. He kissed me and my brother, then he
kissed me once more. It seemed as if he wished to retain my kiss for
the last.

What are the memories of my childhood? A silent convent, my aunt the
lady abbess, and my friend Emma. I remember this much, however: when
strangers came, they would turn to me and say: "Oh, what a pretty
child! what large brown eyes!" Emma told me that I was not pretty, and
that the visitors were only laughing at and mocking me; but my mirror
told me that I was pretty. I frankly said so to Emma and she confessed
that I was. My father came--he had been in