little man who was always grave, methodical, and respectful, as well as a great friend of Karl’s. He brought with him our clothes and boots — at least, boots for Woloda, and for myself the old detestable, be-ribanded shoes. In his presence I felt ashamed to cry, and, moreover, the morning sun was shining so gaily through the window, and Woloda, standing at the washstand as he mimicked Maria Ivanovna (my sister’s governess), was laughing so loud and so long, that even the serious Nicola — a towel over his shoulder, the soap in one hand, and the basin in the other — could not help smiling as he said, “Will you please let me wash you, Vladimir Petrovitch?” I had cheered up completely.

“Are you nearly ready?” came Karl’s voice from the schoolroom.