frivolous and absurd person; that he had been nicknamed
in society ‘le Parisien,’ from having
lived a long while in Paris; that he had been very
rich, but had gambled away all his property; and for
some unknown reason, probably for money, though indeed
he might have chosen better, if so, my father added
with a cold smile, he had married the daughter of
an agent, and after his marriage had entered upon
speculations and ruined himself utterly.
‘If only she doesn’t try to borrow money,’
observed my mother.
‘That’s exceedingly possible,’ my
father responded tranquilly. ’Does she
speak French?’
‘Very badly.’
’H’m. It’s of no consequence
anyway. I think you said you had asked the daughter
too; some one was telling me she was a very charming
and cultivated girl.’
‘Ah! Then she can’t take after her
mother.’
‘Nor her father either,’ rejoined my father.
’He was cultivated indeed, but a fool.’
My mother sighed and sank into thought. My father
said no more. I felt very uncomfortable during
this conversation.
After dinner I went into the garden, but without my
gun. I swore to myself that I would not go near
the Zasyekins’ garden, but an irresistible force
drew me thither, and not in vain. I had hardly
reached the fence when I caught sight of Zinaida.
This time she was alone. She held a book in her
hands, and was coming slowly along the path.
She did not notice me.
I almost let her pass by; but all at once I changed
my mind and coughed.
She turned round, but did not stop, pushed back with
one hand the broad blue ribbon of her round straw
hat, looked at me, smiled slowly, and again bent her
eyes on the book.
I took off my cap, and after hesitating a moment,
walked away with a heavy heart. ‘Que suis-je
pour elle?’ I thought (God knows why) in
French.
Familiar footsteps sounded behind me; I looked round,
my father came up to me with his light, rapid walk.
‘Is that the young princess?’ he asked
me.
‘Yes.’
‘Why, do you know her?’
‘I saw her this morning at the princess’s.’
My father stopped, and, turning sharply on his heel,
went back. When he was on a level with Zinaida,
he made her a courteous bow. She, too, bowed
to him, with some astonishment on her face, and dropped
her book. I saw how she looked after him.
My father was always irreproachably dressed, simple
and in a style of his own; but his figure had never
struck me as more graceful, never had his grey hat
sat more becomingly on his curls, which were scarcely
perceptibly thinner than they had once been.
I bent my steps toward Zinaida, but she did not even
glance at me; she picked up her book again and went
away.
The whole evening and the following day I spent in
a sort of dejected apathy. I remember I tried
to work and took up Keidanov, but the boldly printed
lines and pages of the famous text-book passed before
my eyes in vain. I read ten times over the words:
’Julius Caesar was distinguished by warlike
courage.’ I did not understand anything
and threw the book aside. Before dinner-time
I pomaded myself once more, and once more put on my
tail-coat and necktie.
