As for papa, he should only be allowed to see us once a year. At Christmas.
I have married Vassili.
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I pretended to be seized with such convulsions that my poor dear mother, being at her wits' end, at last allowed me to run away with him.
Do I say “I pretended”? I am not sure that that is correct. At first the convulsions were certainly a mere pretense. I would say to myself: “Now I shall make myself have convulsions.” But as soon as I had begun I could not stop. After I had voluntarily gnashed my teeth they seemed to become locked as in a vice; my fists that I had purposely clenched would not reopen. My nails dug into the palms of my hands, and I could see the blood flowing down my wrists without being able to unclasp or relax my fingers.
Doctor Orlof, summoned in haste from Kieff, shook his head gravely.
“There are indications of epilepsy, due to the fall from the swing.”
“No, no, no!” I cried. “Not the swing! It is because of Vassili!”
My mother trembled and wept.
How cruel we are in our childhood! How we torture the mothers that adore us, even though we love them with all our hearts. And oh! the tragedy of not understanding this until it is too late, when we can never, never ask for their forgiveness, nor console them or atone to them again.