She often said thoughtfully, and with an air of slight vexation:
"We must have you taught, and I am always forgetting. Ach, my God!"
After sitting with her, I ran down-stairs with a new book in my hands, feeling as if I had been washed inside.
I had already read Aksakov's "Family Chronicle," the glorious Russian poem "In the Forests," the amazing "Memoirs of a Hunter," several volumes of Grebenkov and Solugub, and the poetry of Venevitinov, Odoevski, and Tutchev. These books laved my soul, washing away the husks of barren and bitter reality. I felt that these were good books, and realized that they were indispensable to me. One result of reading them was that I gained a firm conviction that I was not alone in the world, and the fact that I should not be lost took root in my soul.
When grandmother came to see me I used to tell her joyfully about Queen Margot, and she, taking a pinch of snuff with great enjoyment, said heartily:
"Well, well; that is very nice. You see, there are plenty of good people about. You only have to look for them, and then you will find them."
And one day she suggested:
"How would it be if I went to her and said thank you for what she does for you?"
"No; it is better not."
"Well, if you don't want me to——Lord! Lord! how good it all is! I would like to go on living for ever and ever!"