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Her son's growth toward manhood, at each of its stages, had

seemed as extraordinary to her as if there had never existed the

millions of human beings who grew up in the same way. As twenty

years before, it seemed impossible that the little creature who

lived somewhere under her heart would ever cry, suck her breast,

and begin to speak, so now she could not believe that that little

creature could be this strong, brave man, this model son and

officer that, judging by this letter, he now was.

"What a style! How charmingly he describes!" said she, reading

the descriptive part of the letter. "And what a soul! Not a word

about himself.... Not a word! About some Denisov or other, though

he himself, I dare say, is braver than any of them. He says

nothing about his sufferings. What a heart! How like him it is!

And how he has remembered everybody! Not forgetting anyone. I

always said when he was only so high-I always said...."