“It will be easier on the pianoforte,” he thought.
His guardian engaged a German master, but took the opportunity of saying a few words to his nephew.
“Boris,” he said, “for what are you preparing yourself? I have been intending to ask you for a long time.”
Boris did not understand the question, and made no answer.
“You are nearly sixteen years old, and it is time you began to think of serious things. It is plain that you have not yet considered what faculty you will follow in the University, and to which branch of the service you will devote yourself. You cannot well go into the army, because you have no great fortune, and yet, for the sake of your family, could hardly serve elsewhere than in the Guards.”
Boris was silent, and watched through the window how the hens strutted about, how the pigs wallowed in the mire, how the cat was stalking a pigeon....
“I am speaking to you seriously, and you stare out of the window. For what future are you preparing yourself?”
“I want to be an artist.”
“Wha-at?”
“An artist.”