บทที่ บทที่ 7 · 第7章（1）
Many years passed, and family circumstances obliged me to settle in the
poor little village of H. Engaged in farming, I sighed in secret for my
former merry, careless existence. Most difficult of all I found it to
pass in solitude the spring and winter evenings. Until the dinner hour
I somehow occupied the time, talking to the _starosta_, driving round
to see how the work went on, or visiting the new buildings. But as soon
as evening began to draw in, I was at a loss what to do with myself. My
books in various bookcases, cupboards, and storerooms I knew by heart.
The housekeeper, Kurilovna, related to me all the stories she could
remember. The songs of the peasant women made me melancholy. I tried
cherry brandy, but that gave me the headache. I must confess, however,
that I had some fear of becoming a drunkard from _ennui_, the saddest
kind of drunkenness imaginable, of which I had seen many examples in
our district.
I had no near neighbours with the exception of two or three melancholy
ones, whose conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs.
Solitude was preferable to that. Finally I decided to go to bed as
early as possible, and to dine as late as possible, thus shortening the
evening and lengthening the day; and I found this plan a good one.
Pour versts from my place was a large estate belonging to Count B.;
but the steward alone lived there. The Countess had visited her domain
once only, just after her marriage, and she then only lived there about
a month. However, in the second spring of my retirement, there was a
report that the Countess, with her husband, would come to spend the
summer on her estate; and they arrived at the beginning of June.
The advent of a rich neighbour is an important event for residents in
the country. The landowners and the people of their household talk of
it for a couple of months beforehand, and for three years afterwards.
As far as I was concerned, I must confess, the expected arrival of
a young and beautiful neighbour affected me strongly. I burned with
impatience to see her; and the first Sunday after her arrival I started
for the village, in order to present myself to the Count and Countess
as their near neighbour and humble servant.
The footman showed me into the Count's study, while he went to
inform him of my arrival. The spacious room was furnished in a most
luxurious manner. Against the walls stood enclosed bookshelves well
furnished with books, and surmounted by bronze busts. Over the marble
mantelpiece was a large mirror. The floor was covered with green
cloth, over which were spread rugs and carpets.
Having got unaccustomed to luxury in my own poor little corner, and not
having beheld the wealth of other people for a long while, I was awed;
and I awaited the Count with a sort of fear, just as a petitioner from
the provinces awaits in an ante-room the arrival of the minister. The
doors opened, and a man about thirty-two, and very handsome, entered
the apartment. The Count approached me with a frank and friendly look.
I tried to be self-possessed, and began to introduce myself, but he
forestalled me.
We sat down. His easy and agreeable, conversation soon dissipated my
nervous timidity. I was already passing into my usual manner, when
suddenly the Countess entered, and I became more confused than ever.
She was, indeed, beautiful. The Count presented me. I was anxious to
appear at ease, but the more I tried to assume an air of unrestraint,
the more awkward I felt myself becoming. They, in order to give me time
to recover myself and get accustomed to my new acquaintances, conversed
with one another, treating me in good neighbourly fashion without
ceremony. Meanwhile, I walked about the room, examining the books and
pictures. In pictures I am no _connoisseur_; but one of the Count's
attracted my particular notice. It represented a view in Switzerland
was not, however, struck by the painting, but by the fact that it was
shot through by two bullets, one planted just on the top of the other.
"A good shot," I remarked, turning to the Count.
"Yes," he replied, "a very remarkable shot."
"Do you shoot well?" he added.
"Tolerably," I answered, rejoicing that the conversation had turned
at last on a subject which interested me.' "At a distance of thirty
paces I do not miss a card; I mean, of course, with a pistol that I am
accustomed to."
"Really?" said the Countess, with a look of great interest. "'And you,
my dear, could you hit a card at thirty paces?"
"Some day," replied the Count, "we will try. In my own time I did not
shoot badly. But it is four years now since I held a pistol in my hand."
"Oh," I replied, "in that case, I bet, Count, that you will not hit a
card even at twenty paces. The pistol demands daily practice. I know
that from experience. In our regiment I was reckoned one of the bests
shots. Once I happened not to take a pistol in hand for a whole month;
I had sent my own to the gunsmith's. Well, what do you think, Count?
The first time I began again to shoot I four times running missed
a bottle at twenty paces. The captain of our company, who was a wit,
happened to be present, and he said to me: 'Your hand, my friend,
refuses to raise itself against the bottle! No, Count, you must not
neglect to practise, or you will soon lose all skill. The best shot I
ever knew used to shoot every day, and at least three times every day,
before dinner. This was as much his habit as the preliminary glass of
vodka."
[Illustration: "SILVIO! _YOU_ KNEW SILVIO?"]
The Count and Countess seemed pleased that I had begun to talk.
"And what sort of a shot was he?" asked the Count.
"This sort, Count. If he saw a fly settle on the wall--you smile,
Countess, but I assure you it is a fact. When he saw the fly, he would
call out, 'Kuska, my pistol!' Kuska brought him the loaded pistol. A
crack, and the fly was crushed into the wall!"
"That is astonishing!" said the Count. "And what was his name?"
"Silvio was his name."
"Silvio!" exclaimed the Count, starting from his seat. "_You_ knew
Silvio?"
"How could I fail to know him? We were comrades; he was received at our
mess like a brother officer. It is now about five years since I last
had tidings of him. Then you, Count, also knew him?"
"I knew him very well. Did he never tell you of one very extraordinary
incident in his life?"
"Do you mean the slap in the face, Count, that he received from
a blackguard at a ball?" "He did not tell you the name of this
blackguard?"
"No, Count, he did not. Forgive me," I added, guessing the truth,
"forgive me--I did not--could it really have been you?"
"It was myself," replied the Count, greatly agitated. "And the shots in
the picture are a memento of our last meeting."
"Oh, my dear," said the Countess, "for God's sake do not relate it! It
frightens me to think of it."
"No," replied the Count; "I must tell him all. He knows how I insulted
his friend. He shall also know how Silvio revenged himself."
The Count pushed a chair towards me, and with the liveliest interest I
listened to the following story:--
"Five years ago," began the Count, "I got married. The honeymoon I
spent here, in this village. To this house I am indebted for the
happiest moments of my life, and for one of its saddest remembrances.
"One afternoon we went out riding together. My wife's horse became
restive. She was frightened, got off the horse, handed the reins over
to me; and walked home. I rode on before her. In the yard I saw a
travelling carriage, and I was told that in my study sat a man who
would not give his name, but simply said that he wanted to see me on
business. I entered the study, and saw in the darkness a man, dusty and
unshaven. He stood there, by the fireplace. I approached him, trying to
recollect his face.
"'You don't remember me, Count?' he said, in a tremulous voice.
"'Silvio!' I cried, and I confess I felt that my hair was standing on
end.
"'Exactly so,' he added. 'You owe me a shot; I have come to claim it.
Are you ready?'
"A pistol protruded from his side pocket.
"I measured twelve paces, and stood there in that corner, begging him
to fire quickly, before my wife came in.
"He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were brought in. I locked
the doors, gave orders that no one should enter, and again called upon
him to fire. He took out his pistol and aimed.
"I counted the seconds.... I thought of her ... A terrible moment
passed! Then Silvio lowered his hand.
"'I only regret,' he said, that the pistol is not loaded with
cherry-stones. My bullet is heavy; and it always seems to me that an
affair of this kind is net a duel, but a murder. I am not accustomed
to aim at unarmed men. Let us begin again from the beginning. Let us
cast lots as to who shall fire first.'
"My head went round. I think I objected. Finally, however, we loaded
another pistol and rolled up two pieces of paper. These he placed
inside his cap; the one through which, at our first meeting, I had put
the bullet. I again drew the lucky number.
"'Count, you have the devil's luck,' he said, with a smile which I
shall never forget.
"I don't know what I was about, or how it happened that he succeeded in
inducing me. But I fired and hit that picture."
The Count pointed with his finger to the picture with the shot-marks
His face had become red with agitation. The Countess was whiter than
her own handkerchief; and I could not restrain an exclamation.
"I fired," continued the Count, "and, thank Heaven, missed. Then
Silvio--at this moment he was really terrible--then Silvio raised his
pistol to take aim at me.
"Suddenly the door flew open, Masha rushed into the room. She threw
herself upon my neck with a loud shriek. Her presence restored to
me-all my courage.
"'My dear,' I said to her, 'don't you see that we are only joking? How
frightened you look! Go and drink a glass of water and then come back;
I will introduce you to an old friend and comrade.'
Masha was still in doubt.
[Illustration: "MASHA THREW HERSELF AT HIS FEET"]
"'Tell me; is my husband speaking the truth?' she asked, turning to the
terrible Silvio. 'Is it true that you are only joking?'
"'He is always joking. Countess,' Silvio replied. 'He once in a joke
gave me a slap in the face; in joke he put a bullet through this cap
while I was wearing it; and in joke, too, he missed me when he fired
just now. And now _I_ have a fancy for a joke.'
"With these words he raised his pistol as if to shoot me down before
her eyes."
Masha threw herself at his feet.
'Rise, Masha! For shame!' I cried, in my passion. 'And you, sir, cease
to amuse yourself at the expense of an unhappy woman. Will you fire or
not?'
"'I will not,' replied Silvio. 'I am satisfied. I have witnessed your
agitation--your terror. I forced you to fire at me. That is enough; you
will remember me. I leave you to your conscience.'
"He was now about to go; but he stopped at the door, looked round
at the picture which my shot had passed through, fired at it almost
without taking aim, and disappeared.
"My wife had sunk down fainting. The servants had not ventured to stop
Silvio, whom they looked upon with terror. He passed out to the steps,
called his coachman, and before I could collect myself drove off."
The Count was silent. I had now heard the end of the story of which
the beginning had long before surprised me. The hero of it I never saw
again. I heard, however, that Silvio, during the rising of Alexander
Ipsilanti, commanded a detach of insurgents and was killed in action.
THE SNOWSTORM.
Towards the end of 1811, at a memorable period for Russians, li
Story 3. THE SNOWSTORM
n domain of Nenaradova the kind-hearted Gravril R. He was
celebrated in the whole district for his hospitality and his genial
character. Neighbours constantly visited him to have something to eat
and drink, and to play at five-copeck boston with his wife, Praskovia.
Some, too, went to have a look at their daughter, Maria; a tall pale
girl of seventeen. She was an heiress, and they desired her either for
themselves or for their sons.
Maria had been brought up on French novels, and consequently was in
love. The object of her affection was a poor ensign in the army, who
was now at home in his small village on leave of absence. As a matter
of course, the young man reciprocated Maria's passion. But the parents
of his beloved, noticing their mutual attachment, forbade their
daughter even to think of him, while they received him worse than an
ex-assize judge.
[Illustration: "THE LOVERS MET IN THE PINE WOOD."]
Our lovers corresponded, and met alone daily in the pine wood or by
the old roadway chapel. There they vowed everlasting love, inveighed
against fate, and exchanged various suggestions. Writing and talking in
this way, they quite naturally reached the following conclusion:--
If we cannot exist apart from each other, and if the tyranny of
hard-hearted parents throws obstacles in the way of our happiness, then
can we not manage without them?
Of course, this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man; but
it pleased the romantic imagination of Maria immensely.
Winter set in and put a stop to their meetings. But their
correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir begged Maria in
every letter to give herself up to him that they might get married
secretly, hide for a while, and then throw themselves at the feet of
the parents, who would of course in the end be touched by their heroic
constancy and say to them, "Children, come to our arms!"
Maria hesitated a long while, and out of many different plans proposed,
that of flight was for a time rejected. At last, however, she
consented. On the appointed day she was to decline supper, and retire
to her room under the plea of a headache. She and her maid, who was in
the secret, were then to go out into the garden by the back stairs,
and beyond the garden they would find a sledge ready for them, would
get into it and drive a distance of five miles from Nenaradova, to the
village of Jadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir would be
waiting for them.
On the eve of the decisive day, Maria did not sleep all night; she was
packing and tying up linen and dresses. She wrote, moreover, a long
letter to a friend of hers, a sentimental young lady; and another to
her parents. Of the latter, she took leave in the most touching terms.
She excused the step she was taking by reason of the unconquerable
power of love, and wound up by declaring that she should consider it
the happiest moment of her life when she was allowed to throw herself
at the feet of her dearest parents. Sealing both letters with a Toula
seal, on which were engraven two flaming hearts with an appropriate
inscription, she at last threw herself upon her bed before daybreak
and dozed off, though even then she was awake tied from one moment
to another by terrible thoughts. First it seemed to her that at the
moment of entering the sledge in order to go and get married her father
stopped her, and with cruel rapidity dragged her over the snow and
threw her into a dark bottomless cellar, down which she fell headlong
with an indescribable sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir,
lying on the grass, pale and bleeding; with his dying breath he
implored her to make haste and marry him. Other hideous and senseless
visions floated before her one after another. Finally she rose paler
than usual, and with, a real headache.
[Illustration: "SHE BURST INTO TEARS."]
Both her father and her mother remarked her indisposition. Their
tender anxiety and constant inquiries, "What is the matter with you,
Masha--are you ill?" cut her to the heart. She tried to pacify them and
to appear cheerful; but she could not. Evening set in. The idea that
she was passing the day for the last time in the midst of her family
oppressed her. In her secret heart she took leave of everybody, of
everything which surrounded her.
Supper was served; her heart beat violently. In a trembling voice she
declared that she did not want any supper, and wished her father and
mother good-night. They kissed her, and as usual blessed her; and she
nearly wept.
Reaching her own room she threw herself into an easy chair and burst
into tears. Her maid begged her to be calm and take courage. Everything
was ready. In half-an-hour Masha would leave for ever her parents'
house, her own room, her peaceful life as a young girl.
Out of doors the snow was falling, the wind howling. The shutters
rattled and shook. In everything she seemed to recognise omens and
threats.
Soon the whole home was quiet and asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a
shawl, put on a warm cloak, and with a box in her hand passed out on
to the back staircase. The maid carried two bundles after her. They
descended into the garden. The snowstorm raged: a strong wind blew
against them as if trying to stop the young culprit. With difficulty
they reached the end of the garden. In the road a sledge awaited them.
The horses from cold would not stand still. Vladimir's coachman was
walking to and fro in front of them, trying to quiet them. He helped
the young lady and her maid to their seats, and packing away the
bundles and the dressing-case took up the reins, and the horses flew
forward into the darkness of the night.
* * * * *
Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and of Tereshka the
coachman, let us return to the young lover.
Vladimir had spent the whole day in driving. In the morning he had
called on the Jadrino priest, and, with difficulty, came to terms with
him. Then he went to seek for witnesses from amongst the neighbouring
gentry. The first on whom he called was a former cornet of horse,
Dravin by name, a man in his forties, who consented at once. The
adventure, he declared, reminded him of old times and of his larks
when he was in the Hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stop to dinner
with him, assuring him that there would be no difficulty in getting
the other two witnesses. Indeed, immediately after dinner in came
the surveyor Schmidt, with a moustache and spurs, and the son of a
captain-magistrate, a boy of sixteen, who had recently entered the
Uhlans. They not only accepted Vladimir's proposal, but even swore that
they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced
them with delight, and drove off to get everything ready.
It had long been dark. Vladimir despatched his trustworthy Tereshka
to Nenaradova with his two-horsed sledge, and with appropriate
instructions for the occasion. For himself he ordered the small sledge
with one horse, and started alone without a coachman for Jadrino, where
Maria ought to arrive in a couple of hours. He knew the road, and the
drive would only occupy twenty minutes.
But Vladimir had scarcely passed from the enclosure into the open field
when the wind rose, and soon there was a driving snowstorm so heavy and
so severe that he could not see. In a moment the road was covered with
snow. All landmarks disappeared in the murky yellow darkness, through
which fell white flakes of snow. Sky and earth became merged into one.
Vladimir, in the midst of the field, tried in vain to get to the road.
The horse walked on at random, and every moment stepped either into
deep snow or into a rut, so that the sledge was constantly upsetting.
Vladimir tried at least not to lose the right direction; but it seemed
to him that more than half an hour had passed, and he had not yet
reached the Jadrino wood. Another ten minutes passed, and still the
wood was invisible. Vladimir drove across fields intersected by deep
ditches. The snowstorm did not abate, and the sky did not clear. The
horse was getting tired and the perspiration rolled from him like hail,
in spite of the fact that every moment his legs were disappearing in
the snow.
At last Vladimir found that he was going in the wrong direction. He
stopped; began to reflect, recollect, and consider; till at last he
became convinced that he ought to have turned to the right. He did so
now. His horse could scarcely drag along. But he had been more than
an hour on the road, and Jadrino could not now be far. He drove and
drove, but there was no getting out of the field. Still snow-drifts and
ditches. Every moment the sledge was upset, and every moment Vladimir
had to raise it up.
Time was slipping by, and Vladimir grew seriously anxious. At last in
the distance some dark object could be seen.
Vladimir turned in its direction, and as he drew near found it was a
wood.
"Thank Heaven," he thought, "I am now near the end."
He drove by the side of the wood, hoping to come at once upon the
familiar road, or, if not, to pass round the wood. Jadrino was situated
immediately behind it.
He soon found the road, and passed into the darkness of the wood, now
stripped by the winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was
smooth, the horse picked up courage, and Vladimir was comforted.
He drove and drove, but still Jadrino was not to be seen; there was no
end to the wood. Then to his horror he discovered that he had got into
a strange wood. He was in despair. He whipped his horse, and the poor
animal started off at a trot. But it soon got tired, and in a quarter
of an hour, in spite of all poor Vladimir's efforts, could only crawl.
Gradually the trees became thinner, and Vladimir drove out of the wood,
but Jadrino was not to be seen. It must have been about midnight.
Tears gushed from the young man's eyes. He drove on at random; and now
the weather abated, the clouds dispersed, and before him was a wide
stretch of plain, covered with a white billowy carpet. The night was
comparatively clear, and he could see a small village a short distance
off, which consisted of four or five cottages. Vladimir drove towards
it. At the first door he jumped out of the sledge, ran up to the
window, and tapped. After a few minutes a wooden, shutter was raised,
and an old man stuck out his grey beard.
"What do you want?"
"How far is Jadrino?"
"How far is Jadrino?"
"Yes, yes! Is it far?"
"Not far; about ten miles."
At this answer Vladimir clutched hold of his hair, and stood
motionless, like a man condemned to death.
"Where do you come from?" added the man. Vladimir had not the courage
to reply.
"My man," he said, "can you procure me horses to Jadrino?"
"We have no horses," answered the peasant.
"Could I find a guide? I will pay him any sum he likes."
"Stop!" said the old man, dropping the shutter; "I will send my son out
to you; he will conduct you."
Vladimir waited. Scarcely a minute had passed when he again knocked.
The shutter was lifted and a beard was seen.
"What do you want?"
"What about your son?"
"He'll come out directly: he is putting on his boots. Are you cold?
Come in and warm yourself."
"Thanks! Send out your son quickly."
The gate creaked; a youth came out with a cudgel, and walked on in
front, at one time pointing out the road, at another looking for it in
a mass of drifted snow.
"What o'clock is it?" Vladimir asked him.
"It will soon be daylight," replied the young-peasant. Vladimir spoke
not another word.
The cocks were crowing, and it was light when they reached Jadrino. The
church was closed. Vladimir paid the guide, and drove into the yard of
the priest's house. In the yard his two-horsed sledge was not to be
seen. What news awaited him?
* * * * *
But let us return to the kind proprietors of Nenaradova, and see what
is going on there.
Nothing.
The old people awoke, and went into the sitting-room, Gavril in a
night-cap and flannel jacket, Praskovia in a wadded dressing-gown. The
samovar was brought in, and, Gavril sent the little maid to ask Maria
how she was and how she had slept. The little maid returned, saying
that her young lady had slept badly, but that she was better now, and
that she would come into the sitting-room in a moment. And indeed the
door opened, and Maria came in and wished her papa and mamma good
morning.
"How is your head-ache, Masha?" (familiar for Mary) inquired Gavril.
"Better, papa; answered Masha.
"The fumes from the stoves must have given you your head-ache,"
remarked Praskovia.
"Perhaps so, mamma," replied Masha.
The day passed well enough, but in the night Masha was taken ill. A
doctor was sent for from town. He came towards evening and found the
patient delirious. Soon she was in a severe fever, and in a fortnight
the poor patient was on the brink of the grave.
No member of the family knew anything of the flight from home. The
letters written by Masha the evening before had been burnt; and the
maid, fearing the wrath of the master and mistress, had not breathed
a word. The priest, the ex-cornet, the big moustached surveyor,
and the little lancer were equally discreet, and with good reason.
Tereshka, the coachman, never said too much, not even in his drink.
Thus the secret was kept better than it might have been by half a dozen
conspirators.
But Maria herself, in the course of her long fever, let out her secret,
nevertheless, her words were so disconnected that her mother, who never
left her bedside, could only make out from them that her daughter
was desperately in love with Vladimir, and that probably love was
the cause of her illness. She consulted her husband and some of her
neighbours, and at last it was decided unanimously that the fate of
Maria ought not to be interfered with, that a woman must not ride away
from the man she is destined to marry, that poverty is no crime, that
a woman has to live not with money but with a man, and so on. Moral
proverbs are wonderfully useful on such occasions, when we can invent
little or nothing in our own justification.
Meanwhile the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen
for a long time in the house of Gravril, so frightened had he been by
his previous reception. It was now resolved to send and announce to
him the good news which he could scarcely expect: the consent of her
parents to his marriage with Maria.
But what was the astonishment of the proprietors of Nenaradova when,
in answer to their invitation, they received an insane reply. Vladimir
informed them he could never set foot in their house, and begged them
to forget an unhappy man whose only hope now was in death. A few days
afterwards they heard that Vladimir had left the place and joined the
army.
A long time passed before they ventured to tell Masha, who was now
recovering. She never mentioned Vladimir. Some months later, however,
finding his name in the list of those who had distinguished themselves
and been severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted, and it was feared
that the fever might return. But, Heaven be thanked! the fainting fit
had no bad results.
* * * * *
Maria experienced yet another sorrow. Her father died, leaving her the
heiress of all his property. But the inheritance could not console her.
She shared sincerely the affliction of her mother, and vowed she would
never leave her.
Suitors clustered round the charming heiress; but she gave no one the
slightest hope. Her mother sometimes tried to persuade her to choose a
companion in life; but Maria shook her head, and grew pensive.
Vladimir no longer existed. He had died at Moscow on the eve of the
arrival of the French. His memory was held sacred by Maria, and she
treasured up everything that would remind her of him; books he had
read, drawings which he had made; songs he had sung, and the pieces of
poetry which he had copied out for her.
The neighbours, hearing all this, wondered at her fidelity, and awaited
with curiosity the arrival of the hero who must in the end triumph over
the melancholy constancy of this virgin Artemis.
Meanwhile, the war had been brought to a glorious conclusion, and our
armies were returning from abroad. The people ran to meet them. The
music played, by the regimental bands consisted of war songs, "Vive
Henri-Quatre," Tirolese waltzes and airs from Joconde. Nourished on
the atmosphere of winter, officers who had started on the campaign
mere striplings returned grown men, and covered with decorations. The
soldiers conversed gaily among themselves, mingling German and French
words every moment in their speech. A time never to be forgotten--a
time of glory and delight! How quickly beat the Russian heart at
the words, "Native land!" How sweet the tears of meeting! With what
unanimity did we combine feelings of national pride with love for the
Tsar! And for him, what a moment!
The women--our Russian women--were splendid then. Their usual coldness
disappeared. Their delight was really intoxicating when, meeting the
conquerors, they cried, "Hurrah!" And they threw up their caps in the
air.
Who of the officers of that period does not own that to the Russian
women he was indebted for his best and most valued reward? During this
brilliant period Maria was living with her mother in retirement, and
neither of them saw how, in both the capitals, the returning troops
were welcomed. But in the districts and villages the general enthusiasm
was, perhaps, even greater.
[Illustration: "A TIME OF GLORY AND DELIGHT."]
In these places the appearance of an officer became for him a veritable
triumph. The accepted lover in plain clothes fared badly by his side.
We have already said that, in spite of her coldness, Maria was
still, as before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to fall in the
rear when there arrived at her castle the wounded young colonel
of Hussars--Burmin by name--with the order of St. George in his
button-hole, and an interesting pallor on his face. He was about
twenty-six. He had come home on leave to his estates, which were close
to Maria's villa. Maria paid him such attention as none of the others
received. In his presence her habitual gloom disappeared. It could not
be said that she flirted with him. But a poet, observing her behaviour,
might have asked, "S' amor non è, che dunque?"
Burmin was really a very agreeable young man. He possessed just the
kind of sense that pleased women: a sense of what is suitable and
becoming. He had no affectation, and was carelessly satirical. His
manner towards Maria was simple and easy. He seemed to be of a quiet
and modest disposition; but rumour said that he had at one time been
terribly wild. This, however, did not harm him in the opinion of Maria,
who (like all other young ladies) excused, with pleasure, vagaries
which were the result of impulsiveness and daring.