ANNA IVANOVNA lets them all pass through the door, except LYUBOV
GORDEYEVNA; she shuts the door and does not allow her to pass.

SCENE X

MITYA and LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA. [At the door] Stop, don’t be silly! [Through the door the girls are heard laughing] They won’t let me out!  Oh, what girls! [Walks away from the door] They’re always up to something.

MITYA. [Hands her a chair] Be seated, Lyubov Gordeyevna, and talk to me for just a moment.  I’m very glad to see you in my room.

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA.  Why are you glad?  I don’t understand.

MITYA.  Oh, why!—­It is very pleasant for me to see on your side such consideration; it is above my deserts to receive it from you.  This is the second time I have had the good fortune—­

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA.  There’s nothing in that!  I came here, sat awhile, and went away again.  That means nothing.  Maybe I’ll go away again at once.

MITYA.  Oh, no!  Don’t go!—­Why should you! [Takes the paper out of his pocket] Permit me to present to you my work, the best I can do—­from my heart.

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA.  What is this?

MITYA.  I made these verses just for you.

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA. [Trying to hide her joy] Still, it may be just some sort of foolishness—­not worth reading.

MITYA.  That I cannot judge, because I wrote it myself, and without studying besides.

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA.  Read it.

MITYA.  Directly.

Seats himself at the table, and takes the paper:  LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA approaches very near to him.

    “In the meadow no grasses wither,
    And never a flower doth fade;
    However a fair lad fadeth
    That once was a lusty blade.

    He loved a handsome damsel;
    For that his grief is great,
    And heavy his misfortune,
    For she came of high estate.

    The lad’s heart is breaking,
    But vain his grief must be,
    Because he loved a damsel
    Above his own degree.

    When all the night is darkened
    The sun may not appear;
    And so the pretty maiden. 
    She may not be his dear.”

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA. [Sitting and reflecting for some time] Give it here. [Takes the paper and hides it, then rises] Now I will write something for you.

MITYA.  You!

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA.  Only I don’t know how to do it in verse, but—­just plain
Russian.

MITYA.  I shall regard such a kindness from you as a great happiness to myself. [Gives her paper and pen] Here they are.

LYUBOV GORDEYEVNA.  It’s a great pity that I write so abominably. [She writes; MITYA tries to look] Only don’t you look, or I’ll stop writing and tear it up.