His wounded pride tortured him.  His daughter—­his—­brought up in the house of her mother, the famous Avdotia Borisovna, whom the Empress honoured with her visits, and acquaintance with whom was an honour for all the world!  His daughter—­; and he had lived his life as a knight of old, knowing neither fear nor blame.  The fact that he had a natural son born of a Frenchwoman, whom he had settled abroad, did not lower his own self-esteem.  And now this daughter, for whom he had not only done everything that a father could and should do; this daughter to whom he had given a splendid education and every opportunity to make a match in the best Russian society—­this daughter to whom he had not only given all that a girl could desire, but whom he had really loved; whom he had admired, been proud of—­this daughter had repaid him with such disgrace, that he was ashamed and could not face the eyes of men!

He recalled the time when she was not merely his child, and a member of his family, but his darling, his joy and his pride.  He saw her again, a little thing of eight or nine, bright, intelligent, lively, impetuous, graceful, with brilliant black eyes and flowing auburn hair.  He remembered how she used to jump up on his knees and hug him, and tickle his neck; and how she would laugh, regardless of his protests, and continue to tickle him, and kiss his lips, his eyes, and his cheeks.  He was naturally opposed to all demonstration, but this impetuous love moved him, and he often submitted to her petting.  He remembered also how sweet it was to caress her.  To remember all this, when that sweet child had become what she now was, a creature of whom he could not think without loathing.

He also recalled the time when she was growing into womanhood, and the curious feeling of fear and anger that he experienced when he became aware that men regarded her as a woman.  He thought of his jealous love when she came coquettishly to him dressed for a ball, and knowing that she was pretty.  He dreaded the passionate glances which fell upon her, that she not only did not understand but rejoiced in.  “Yes,” thought he, “that superstition of woman’s purity!  Quite the contrary, they do not know shame—­they lack this sense.”  He remembered how, quite inexplicably to him, she had refused two very good suitors.  She had become more and more fascinated by her own success in the round of gaieties she lived in.

But this success could not last long.  A year passed, then two, then three.  She was a familiar figure, beautiful—­but her first youth had passed, and she had become somehow part of the ball-room furniture.  Michael Ivanovich remembered how he had realised that she was on the road to spinsterhood, and desired but one thing for her.  He must get her married off as quickly as possible, perhaps not quite so well as might have been arranged earlier, but still a respectable match.

But it seemed to him she had behaved with a pride that bordered on insolence.  Remembering this, his anger rose more and more fiercely against her.  To think of her refusing so many decent men, only to end in this disgrace.  “Oh, oh!” he groaned again.