The Forged Coupon, and Other Stories-8

“Whenever there was a waltz figure in the mazurka, I waltzed with her for

a long time, and breathing fast and smiling, she would say, ‘Encore’; and

I went on waltzing and waltzing, as though unconscious of any bodily

existence.”

“Come now, how could you be unconscious of it with your arm round her

waist? You must have been conscious, not only of your own existence, but

of hers,” said one of the party.

Ivan Vasilievich cried out, almost shouting in anger: “There you are,

moderns all over! Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was

different in our day. The more I was in love the less corporeal was she in

my eyes. Nowadays you think of nothing but the body. It was different in

our day. The more I was in love the less corporeal was she in my eyes.

Nowadays you set legs, ankles, and I don’t know what. You undress the

women you are in love with. In my eyes, as Alphonse Karr said—and he

was a good writer—’ the one I loved was always draped in robes of

bronze.’ We never thought of doing so; we tried to veil her nakedness,

like Noah’s good-natured son. Oh, well, you can’t understand.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him. Go on,” said one of them.

“Well, I danced for the most part with her, and did not notice how time

was passing. The musicians kept playing the same mazurka tunes over and

over again in desperate exhaustion—you know what it is towards the

end of a ball. Papas and mammas were already getting up from the

card-tables in the drawing-room in expectation of supper, the men-servants

were running to and fro bringing in things. It was nearly three o’clock. I

had to make the most of the last minutes. I chose her again for the

mazurka, and for the hundredth time we danced across the room.

“‘The quadrille after supper is mine,’ I said, taking her to her place.

“‘Of course, if I am not carried off home,’ she said, with a smile.

“‘I won’t give you up,’ I said.

“‘Give me my fan, anyhow,’ she answered.

“‘I am so sorry to part with it,’ I said, handing her a cheap white fan.

“‘Well, here’s something to console you,’ she said, plucking a feather out

of the fan, and giving it to me.

“I took the feather, and could only express my rapture and gratitude with

my eyes. I was not only pleased and gay, I was happy, delighted; I was

good, I was not myself but some being not of this earth, knowing nothing

of evil. I hid the feather in my glove, and stood there unable to tear

myself away from her.

“‘Look, they are urging father to dance,’ she said to me, pointing to the

tall, stately figure of her father, a colonel with silver epaulettes, who

was standing in the doorway with some ladies.

“‘Varinka, come here!’ exclaimed our hostess, the lady with the diamond

ferronniere and with shoulders like Elizabeth, in a loud voice.

“‘Varinka went to the door, and I followed her.

“‘Persuade your father to dance the mazurka with you, ma chere.—Do,

please, Peter Valdislavovich,’ she said, turning to the colonel.

“Varinka’s father was a very handsome, well-preserved old man. He had a

good colour, moustaches curled in the style of Nicolas I., and white

whiskers which met the moustaches. His hair was combed on to his forehead,

and a bright smile, like his daughter’s, was on his lips and in his eyes.

He was splendidly set up, with a broad military chest, on which he wore

some decorations, and he had powerful shoulders and long slim legs. He was

that ultra-military type produced by the discipline of Emperor Nicolas I.

“When we approached the door the colonel was just refusing to dance,

saying that he had quite forgotten how; but at that instant he smiled,

swung his arm gracefully around to the left, drew his sword from its

sheath, handed it to an obliging young man who stood near, and smoothed

his suede glove on his right hand.

“‘Everything must be done according to rule,’ he said with a smile. He

took the hand of his daughter, and stood one-quarter turned, waiting for

the music.

“At the first sound of the mazurka, he stamped one foot smartly, threw the

other forward, and, at first slowly and smoothly, then buoyantly and

impetuously, with stamping of feet and clicking of boots, his tall,

imposing figure moved the length of the room. Varinka swayed gracefully

beside him, rhythmically and easily, making her steps short or long, with

her little feet in their white satin slippers.

“All the people in the room followed every movement of the couple. As for

me I not only admired, I regarded them with enraptured sympathy. I was

particularly impressed with the old gentleman’s boots. They were not the

modern pointed affairs, but were made of cheap leather, squared-toed, and

evidently built by the regimental cobbler. In order that his daughter

might dress and go out in society, he did not buy fashionable boots, but

wore home-made ones, I thought, and his square toes seemed to me most

touching. It was obvious that in his time he had been a good dancer; but

now he was too heavy, and his legs had not spring enough for all the

beautiful steps he tried to take. Still, he contrived to go twice round

the room. When at the end, standing with legs apart, he suddenly clicked

his feet together and fell on one knee, a bit heavily, and she danced

gracefully around him, smiling and adjusting her skirt, the whole room

applauded.

“Rising with an effort, he tenderly took his daughter’s face between his

hands. He kissed her on the forehead, and brought her to me, under the

impression that I was her partner for the mazurka. I said I was not.

‘Well, never mind, just go around the room once with her,’ he said,

smiling kindly, as he replaced his sword in the sheath.

“As the contents of a bottle flow readily when the first drop has been

poured, so my love for Varinka seemed to set free the whole force of

loving within me. In surrounding her it embraced the world. I loved the

hostess with her diadem and her shoulders like Elizabeth, and her husband

and her guests and her footmen, and even the engineer Anisimov who felt

peevish towards me. As for Varinka’s father, with his home-made boots and

his kind smile, so like her own, I felt a sort of tenderness for him that

was almost rapture.

“After supper I danced the promised quadrille with her, and though I had

been infinitely happy before, I grew still happier every moment.

“We did not speak of love. I neither asked myself nor her whether she

loved me. It was quite enough to know that I loved her. And I had only one

fear—that something might come to interfere with my great joy.

“When I went home, and began to undress for the night, I found it quite

out of the question. I held the little feather out of her fan in my hand,

and one of her gloves which she gave me when I helped her into the

carriage after her mother. Looking at these things, and without closing my

eyes I could see her before me as she was for an instant when she had to

choose between two partners. She tried to guess what kind of person was

represented in me, and I could hear her sweet voice as she said, ‘Pride—am

I right?’ and merrily gave me her hand. At supper she took the first sip

from my glass of champagne, looking at me over the rim with her caressing

glance. But, plainest of all, I could see her as she danced with her

father, gliding along beside him, and looking at the admiring observers

with pride and happiness.

“He and she were united in my mind in one rush of pathetic tenderness.

“I was living then with my brother, who has since died. He disliked going

out, and never went to dances; and besides, he was busy preparing for his

last university examinations, and was leading a very regular life. He was

asleep. I looked at him, his head buried in the pillow and half covered

with the quilt; and I affectionately pitied him, pitied him for his

ignorance of the bliss I was experiencing. Our serf Petrusha had met me

with a candle, ready to undress me, but I sent him away. His sleepy face

and tousled hair seemed to me so touching. Trying not to make a noise, I

went to my room on tiptoe and sat down on my bed. No, I was too happy; I

could not sleep. Besides, it was too hot in the rooms. Without taking off

my uniform, I went quietly into the hall, put on my overcoat, opened the

front door and stepped out into the street.

“It was after four when I had left the ball; going home and stopping there

a while had occupied two hours, so by the time I went out it was dawn. It

was regular carnival weather—foggy, and the road full of

water-soaked snow just melting, and water dripping from the eaves.

Varinka’s family lived on the edge of town near a large field, one end of

which was a parade ground: at the other end was a boarding-school for

young ladies. I passed through our empty little street and came to the

main thoroughfare, where I met pedestrians and sledges laden with wood,

the runners grating the road. The horses swung with regular paces beneath

their shining yokes, their backs covered with straw mats and their heads

wet with rain; while the drivers, in enormous boots, splashed through the

mud beside the sledges. All this, the very horses themselves, seemed to me

stimulating and fascinating, full of suggestion.

“When I approached the field near their house, I saw at one end of it, in

the direction of the parade ground, something very huge and black, and I

heard sounds of fife and drum proceeding from it. My heart had been full

of song, and I had heard in imagination the tune of the mazurka, but this

was very harsh music. It was not pleasant.

“‘What can that be?’ I thought, and went towards the sound by a slippery

path through the centre of the field. Walking about a hundred paces, I

began to distinguish many black objects through the mist. They were

evidently soldiers. ‘It is probably a drill,’ I thought.

“So I went along in that direction in company with a blacksmith, who wore

a dirty coat and an apron, and was carrying something. He walked ahead of

me as we approached the place. The soldiers in black uniforms stood in two

rows, facing each other motionless, their guns at rest. Behind them stood

the fifes and drums, incessantly repeating the same unpleasant tune.

“‘What are they doing?’ I asked the blacksmith, who halted at my side.

“‘A Tartar is being beaten through the ranks for his attempt to desert,’

said the blacksmith in an angry tone, as he looked intently at the far end

of the line.

“I looked in the same direction, and saw between the files something

horrid approaching me. The thing that approached was a man, stripped to

the waist, fastened with cords to the guns of two soldiers who were

leading him. At his side an officer in overcoat and cap was walking, whose

figure had a familiar look. The victim advanced under the blows that

rained upon him from both sides, his whole body plunging, his feet

dragging through the snow. Now he threw himself backward, and the

subalterns who led him thrust him forward. Now he fell forward, and they

pulled him up short; while ever at his side marched the tall officer, with

firm and nervous pace. It was Varinka’s father, with his rosy face and

white moustache.

“At each stroke the man, as if amazed, turned his face, grimacing with

pain, towards the side whence the blow came, and showing his white teeth

repeated the same words over and over. But I could only hear what the

words were when he came quite near. He did not speak them, he sobbed them

out,—“‘Brothers, have mercy on me! Brothers, have mercy on me!’ But

the brothers had, no mercy, and when the procession came close to me, I

saw how a soldier who stood opposite me took a firm step forward and

lifting his stick with a whirr, brought it down upon the man’s back. The

man plunged forward, but the subalterns pulled him back, and another blow

came down from the other side, then from this side and then from the

other. The colonel marched beside him, and looking now at his feet and now

at the man, inhaled the air, puffed out his cheeks, and breathed it out

between his protruded lips. When they passed the place where I stood, I

caught a glimpse between the two files of the back of the man that was

being punished. It was something so many-coloured, wet, red, unnatural,

that I could hardly believe it was a human body.

“‘My God!”’ muttered the blacksmith.

The procession moved farther away. The blows continued to rain upon the

writhing, falling creature; the fifes shrilled and the drums beat, and the

tall imposing figure of the colonel moved along-side the man, just as

before. Then, suddenly, the colonel stopped, and rapidly approached a man

in the ranks.

“‘I’ll teach you to hit him gently,’ I heard his furious voice say. ‘Will

you pat him like that? Will you?’ and I saw how his strong hand in the

suede glove struck the weak, bloodless, terrified soldier for not bringing

down his stick with sufficient strength on the red neck of the Tartar.

“‘Bring new sticks!’ he cried, and looking round, he saw me. Assuming an

air of not knowing me, and with a ferocious, angry frown, he hastily

turned away. I felt so utterly ashamed that I didn’t know where to look.

It was as if I had been detected in a disgraceful act. I dropped my eyes,

and quickly hurried home. All the way I had the drums beating and the

fifes whistling in my ears. And I heard the words, ‘Brothers, have mercy

on me!’ or ‘Will you pat him? Will you?’ My heart was full of physical

disgust that was almost sickness. So much so that I halted several times

on my way, for I had the feeling that I was going to be really sick from

all the horrors that possessed me at that sight. I do not remember how I

got home and got to bed. But the moment I was about to fall asleep I heard

and saw again all that had happened, and I sprang up.

“‘Evidently he knows something I do not know,’ I thought about the

colonel. ‘If I knew what he knows I should certainly grasp—understand—what

I have just seen, and it would not cause me such suffering.’

“But however much I thought about it, I could not understand the thing

that the colonel knew. It was evening before I could get to sleep, and

then only after calling on a friend and drinking till I; was quite drunk.

“Do you think I had come to the conclusion that the deed I had witnessed

was wicked? Oh, no. Since it was done with such assurance, and was

recognised by every one as indispensable, they doubtless knew something

which I did not know. So I thought, and tried to understand. But no

matter, I could never understand it, then or afterwards. And not being

able to grasp it, I could not enter the service as I had intended. I don’t

mean only the military service: I did not enter the Civil Service either.

And so I have been of no use whatever, as you can see.”

“Yes, we know how useless you’ve been,” said one of us. “Tell us, rather,

how many people would be of any use at all if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Oh, that’s utter nonsense,” said Ivan Vasilievich, with genuine

annoyance.

“Well; and what about the love affair?

“My love? It decreased from that day. When, as often happened, she looked

dreamy and meditative, I instantly recollected the colonel on the parade

ground, and I felt so awkward and uncomfortable that I began to see her

less frequently. So my love came to naught. Yes; such chances arise, and

they alter and direct a man’s whole life,” he said in summing up. “And you

say . . .”

ALYOSHA THE POT

ALYOSHA was the younger brother. He was called the Pot, because his mother

had once sent him with a pot of milk to the deacon’s wife, and he had

stumbled against something and broken it. His mother had beaten him, and

the children had teased him. Since then he was nicknamed the Pot. Alyosha

was a tiny, thin little fellow, with ears like wings, and a huge nose.

“Alyosha has a nose that looks like a dog on a hill!” the children used to

call after him. Alyosha went to the village school, but was not good at

lessons; besides, there was so little time to learn. His elder brother was

in town, working for a merchant, so Alyosha had to help his father from a

very early age. When he was no more than six he used to go out with the

girls to watch the cows and sheep in the pasture, and a little later he

looked after the horses by day and by night. And at twelve years of age he

had already begun to plough and to drive the cart. The skill was there

though the strength was not. He was always cheerful. Whenever the children

made fun of him, he would either laugh or be silent. When his father

scolded him he would stand mute and listen attentively, and as soon as the

scolding was over would smile and go on with his work. Alyosha was

nineteen when his brother was taken as a soldier. So his father placed him

with the merchant as a yard-porter. He was given his brother’s old boots,

his father’s old coat and cap, and was taken to town. Alyosha was

delighted with his clothes, but the merchant was not impressed by his

appearance.

“I thought you would bring me a man in Simeon’s place,” he said, scanning

Alyosha; “and you’ve brought me THIS! What’s the good of him?”

“He can do everything; look after horses and drive. He’s a good one to

work. He looks rather thin, but he’s tough enough. And he’s very willing.”

“He looks it. All right; we’ll see what we can do with him.”

So Alyosha remained at the merchant’s.

The family was not a large one. It consisted of the merchant’s wife: her

old mother: a married son poorly educated who was in his father’s

business: another son, a learned one who had finished school and entered

the University, but having been expelled, was living at home: and a

daughter who still went to school.

They did not take to Alyosha at first. He was uncouth, badly dressed, and

had no manner, but they soon got used to him. Alyosha worked even better

than his brother had done; he was really very willing. They sent him on

all sorts of errands, but he did everything quickly and readily, going

from one task to another without stopping. And so here, just as at home,

all the work was put upon his shoulders. The more he did, the more he was

given to do. His mistress, her old mother, the son, the daughter, the

clerk, and the cook—all ordered him about, and sent him from one

place to another.

“Alyosha, do this! Alyosha, do that! What! have you forgotten, Alyosha?

Mind you don’t forget, Alyosha!” was heard from morning till night. And

Alyosha ran here, looked after this and that, forgot nothing, found time

for everything, and was always cheerful.

His brother’s old boots were soon worn out, and his master scolded him for

going about in tatters with his toes sticking out. He ordered another pair

to be bought for him in the market. Alyosha was delighted with his new

boots, but was angry with his feet when they ached at the end of the day

after so much running about. And then he was afraid that his father would

be annoyed when he came to town for his wages, to find that his master had

deducted the cost of the boots.

In the winter Alyosha used to get up before daybreak. He would chop the

wood, sweep the yard, feed the cows and horses, light the stoves, clean

the boots, prepare the samovars and polish them afterwards; or the clerk

would get him to bring up the goods; or the cook would set him to knead

the bread and clean the saucepans. Then he was sent to town on various

errands, to bring the daughter home from school, or to get some olive oil

for the old mother. “Why the devil have you been so long?” first one, then

another, would say to him. Why should they go? Alyosha can go. “Alyosha!

Alyosha!” And Alyosha ran here and there. He breakfasted in snatches while

he was working, and rarely managed to get his dinner at the proper hour.

The cook used to scold him for being late, but she was sorry for him all

the same, and would keep something hot for his dinner and supper.

At holiday times there was more work than ever, but Alyosha liked holidays

because everybody gave him a tip. Not much certainly, but it would amount

up to about sixty kopeks [1s 2d]—his very own money. For Alyosha

never set eyes on his wages. His father used to come and take them from

the merchant, and only scold Alyosha for wearing out his boots.

When he had saved up two roubles [4s], by the advice of the cook he bought

himself a red knitted jacket, and was so happy when he put it on, that he

couldn’t close his mouth for joy. Alyosha was not talkative; when he spoke

at all, he spoke abruptly, with his head turned away. When told to do

anything, or asked if he could do it, he would say yes without the

smallest hesitation, and set to work at once.

Alyosha did not know any prayer; and had forgotten what his mother had

taught him. But he prayed just the same, every morning and every evening,

prayed with his hands, crossing himself.

He lived like this for about a year and a half, and towards the end of the

second year a most startling thing happened to him. He discovered one day,

to his great surprise, that, in addition to the relation of usefulness

existing between people, there was also another, a peculiar relation of

quite a different character. Instead of a man being wanted to clean boots,

and go on errands and harness horses, he is not wanted to be of any

service at all, but another human being wants to serve him and pet him.

Suddenly Alyosha felt he was such a man.

He made this discovery through the cook Ustinia. She was young, had no

parents, and worked as hard as Alyosha. He felt for the first time in his

life that he—not his services, but he himself—was necessary to

another human being. When his mother used to be sorry for him, he had

taken no notice of her. It had seemed to him quite natural, as though he

were feeling sorry for himself. But here was Ustinia, a perfect stranger,

and sorry for him. She would save him some hot porridge, and sit watching

him, her chin propped on her bare arm, with the sleeve rolled up, while he

was eating it. When he looked at her she would begin to laugh, and he

would laugh too.

This was such a new, strange thing to him that it frightened Alyosha. He

feared that it might interfere with his work. But he was pleased,

nevertheless, and when he glanced at the trousers that Ustinia had mended

for him, he would shake his head and smile. He would often think of her

while at work, or when running on errands. “A fine girl, Ustinia!” he

sometimes exclaimed.

Ustinia used to help him whenever she could, and he helped her. She told

him all about her life; how she had lost her parents; how her aunt had

taken her in and found a place for her in the town; how the merchant’s son

had tried to take liberties with her, and how she had rebuffed him. She

liked to talk, and Alyosha liked to listen to her. He had heard that

peasants who came up to work in the towns frequently got married to

servant girls. On one occasion she asked him if his parents intended

marrying him soon. He said that he did not know; that he did not want to

marry any of the village girls.

“Have you taken a fancy to some one, then?”

“I would marry you, if you’d be willing.”

“Get along with you, Alyosha the Pot; but you’ve found your tongue,

haven’t you?” she exclaimed, slapping him on the back with a towel she

held in her hand. “Why shouldn’t I?”

At Shrovetide Alyosha’s father came to town for his wages. It had come to

the ears of the merchant’s wife that Alyosha wanted to marry Ustinia, and

she disapproved of it. “What will be the use of her with a baby?” she

thought, and informed her husband.

The merchant gave the old man Alyosha’s wages.

“How is my lad getting on?” he asked. “I told you he was willing.”

“That’s all right, as far as it goes, but he’s taken some sort of nonsense

into his head. He wants to marry our cook. Now I don’t approve of married

servants. We won’t have them in the house.”

“Well, now, who would have thought the fool would think of such a thing?”

the old man exclaimed. “But don’t you worry. I’ll soon settle that.”

He went into the kitchen, and sat down at the table waiting for his son.

Alyosha was out on an errand, and came back breathless.

“I thought you had some sense in you; but what’s this you’ve taken into

your head?” his father began.

“I? Nothing.”

“How, nothing? They tell me you want to get married. You shall get married

when the time comes. I’ll find you a decent wife, not some town hussy.”

His father talked and talked, while Alyosha stood still and sighed. When

his father had quite finished, Alyosha smiled.

“All right. I’ll drop it.”

“Now that’s what I call sense.”

When he was left alone with Ustinia he told her what his father had said.

(She had listened at the door.)

“It’s no good; it can’t come off. Did you hear? He was angry—won’t

have it at any price.”

Ustinia cried into her apron.

Alyosha shook his head.

“What’s to be done? We must do as we’re told.”

“Well, are you going to give up that nonsense, as your father told you?”

his mistress asked, as he was putting up the shutters in the evening.

“To be sure we are,” Alyosha replied with a smile, and then burst into

tears.

From that day Alyosha went about his work as usual, and no longer talked

to Ustinia about their getting married. One day in Lent the clerk told him

to clear the snow from the roof. Alyosha climbed on to the roof and swept

away all the snow; and, while he was still raking out some frozen lumps

from the gutter, his foot slipped and he fell over. Unfortunately he did

not fall on the snow, but on a piece of iron over the door. Ustinia came

running up, together with the merchant’s daughter.

“Have you hurt yourself, Alyosha?”

“Ah! no, it’s nothing.”

But he could not raise himself when he tried to, and began to smile.

He was taken into the lodge. The doctor arrived, examined him, and asked

where he felt the pain.

“I feel it all over,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m only afraid

master will be annoyed. Father ought to be told.”

Alyosha lay in bed for two days, and on the third day they sent for the

priest.

“Are you really going to die?” Ustinia asked.

“Of course I am. You can’t go on living for ever. You must go when the

time comes.” Alyosha spoke rapidly as usual. “Thank you, Ustinia. You’ve

been very good to me. What a lucky thing they didn’t let us marry! Where

should we have been now? It’s much better as it is.”

When the priest came, he prayed with his bands and with his heart. “As it

is good here when you obey and do no harm to others, so it will be there,”

was the thought within it.

He spoke very little; he only said he was thirsty, and he seemed full of

wonder at something.

He lay in wonderment, then stretched himself, and died.

MY DREAM

“As a daughter she no longer exists for me. Can’t you understand? She

simply doesn’t exist. Still, I cannot possibly leave her to the charity of

strangers. I will arrange things so that she can live as she pleases, but

I do not wish to hear of her. Who would ever have thought . . . the horror

of it, the horror of it.”

He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and raised his eyes. These

words were spoken by Prince Michael Ivanovich to his brother Peter, who

was governor of a province in Central Russia. Prince Peter was a man of

fifty, Michael’s junior by ten years.

On discovering that his daughter, who had left his house a year before,

had settled here with her child, the elder brother had come from St.

Petersburg to the provincial town, where the above conversation took

place.

Prince Michael Ivanovich was a tall, handsome, white-haired, fresh

coloured man, proud and attractive in appearance and bearing. His family

consisted of a vulgar, irritable wife, who wrangled with him continually

over every petty detail, a son, a ne’er-do-well, spendthrift and roue—yet

a “gentleman,” according to his father’s code, two daughters, of whom the

elder had married well, and was living in St. Petersburg; and the younger,

Lisa—his favourite, who had disappeared from home a year before.

Only a short while ago he had found her with her child in this provincial

town.

Prince Peter wanted to ask his brother how, and under what circumstances,

Lisa had left home, and who could possibly be the father of her child. But

he could not make up his mind to inquire.

That very morning, when his wife had attempted to condole with her

brother-in-law, Prince Peter had observed a look of pain on his brother’s

face. The look had at once been masked by an expression of unapproachable

pride, and he had begun to question her about their flat, and the price

she paid. At luncheon, before the family and guests, he had been witty and

sarcastic as usual. Towards every one, excepting the children, whom he

treated with almost reverent tenderness, he adopted an attitude of distant

hauteur. And yet it was so natural to him that every one somehow

acknowledged his right to be haughty.

In the evening his brother arranged a game of whist. When he retired to

the room which had been made ready for him, and was just beginning to take

out his artificial teeth, some one tapped lightly on the door with two

fingers.

“Who is that?”

“C’est moi, Michael.”

Prince Michael Ivanovich recognised the voice of his sister-in-law,

frowned, replaced his teeth, and said to himself, “What does she want?”

Aloud he said, “Entrez.”

His sister-in-law was a quiet, gentle creature, who bowed in submission to

her husband’s will. But to many she seemed a crank, and some did not

hesitate to call her a fool. She was pretty, but her hair was always

carelessly dressed, and she herself was untidy and absent-minded. She had,

also, the strangest, most unaristocratic ideas, by no means fitting in the

wife of a high official. These ideas she would express most unexpectedly,

to everybody’s astonishment, her husband’s no less than her friends’.

“Fous pouvez me renvoyer, mais je ne m’en irai pas, je vous le dis

d’avance,” she began, in her characteristic, indifferent way.

“Dieu preserve,” answered her brother-in-law, with his usual somewhat

exaggerated politeness, and brought forward a chair for her.

“Ca ne vous derange pas?” she asked, taking out a cigarette. “I’m not

going to say anything unpleasant, Michael. I only wanted to say something

about Lisochka.”

Michael Ivanovich sighed—the word pained him; but mastering himself

at once, he answered with a tired smile. “Our conversation can only be on

one subject, and that is the subject you wish to discuss.” He spoke

without looking at her, and avoided even naming the subject. But his

plump, pretty little sister-in-law was unabashed. She continued to regard

him with the same gentle, imploring look in her blue eyes, sighing even

more deeply.

“Michael, mon bon ami, have pity on her. She is only human.”

“I never doubted that,” said Michael Ivanovich with a bitter smile.

“She is your daughter.”

“She was—but my dear Aline, why talk about this?”

“Michael, dear, won’t you see her? I only wanted to say, that the one who

is to blame—”

Prince Michael Ivanovich flushed; his face became cruel.