I went upstairs and looked out of the window. His carriage drove up, but he did not get in. I leaned out to look into the porch. He was standing there, stroking his beard into his mouth, and biting it. I was afraid he might turn round, and so I moved away from the window, and at the same moment I heard his step on the stairs. He was running up quickly, impetuously. How I knew I cannot say, but I went to the door and stood still, waiting. My heart ceased to beat; it seemed to stand still, and my breast heaved painfully, yet joyfully. Why I knew I cannot say. But I knew. He might very well have run upstairs and said, “I beg your pardon, I forgot my cigarettes,” or something like that. That might very well have happened. What should I have done then? But no, that was impossible. What was to be—was. His face was solemn, timid, determined, and joyful. His eyes shone, his lips quivered. He had his overcoat on, and held his hat in his hand. We were alone—everyone was on the veranda, “Marie Alexandrovna,” he said, stopping on the last step, “it’s best to have it over once for all than to go on in misery, and perhaps to upset you.” I felt ill at ease, but painfully happy. Those dear eyes, that beautiful forehead, those trembling lips, so much more used to smiling, and the timidity of the strong energetic figure! I felt sobs rising to my throat. I expect he saw the expression on my face.
“Marie Alexandrovna, you know what I want to tell you, don’t you?”
“I don’t know …” I began. “Yes, I do.”
“Yes,” he went on, “you know what I mean to ask you, and do not dare.” He broke off, and then, suddenly, as though angry with himself: “Well, what is to be, will be. Can you love me as I love you; be my wife. Yes or no?”
I could not speak. Joy suffocated me. I held out my hand. He took it and kissed it. “Is it really yes? Truly? Yes? You knew, didn’t you. I have suffered so long. I need not go away?”
“No, no.”
I said that I loved him, and we kissed; and that first kiss seemed strange and unpleasant rather than pleasant, our lips just touching the other’s face, as though by chance. He went down and sent away his carriage, and I ran off to mother. She went to father, who came out of his room. It was all over—we were engaged. It was past one when he left, and he will come again tomorrow, and the wedding will be in a month. He wanted it to be next week, but mother would not hear of it.
It was fifty-seven years ago. The war was just over. The Voronov household was busy with wedding preparations. The second daughter, Marie, was engaged to Alexis Lutkovsky. They had known each other since childhood. They had played and danced together. Now he had returned from Sevastopol, with the rank of lieutenant.
At the very height of the war he had left the civil service to join a regiment as an ensign. On his return he could not make up his mind what to do. He felt nothing but contempt for military service, especially in the Guards, and did not want to go on with it in time of peace. But an uncle wanted him to be his aide-de-camp in Kiev. A cousin offered him a post at Constantinople. His ex-chief asked him to go back to his former post. He had plenty of friends and relatives, and they were all fond of him. They were not quite fond enough of him to miss him when he was not there, but they were fond enough to say when he appeared (at least most of them), “Ah, Alexis! how jolly!” He was never in anyone’s way, and most people liked to have him about, though for very different reasons. He could tell stories, and sing or play the guitar in first-rate fashion. But, above all, he never gave himself any airs. He was clever, good-looking, good-natured, and sympathetic. While he was looking round and discussing where and with whom he should work, and while he was thinking the matter over and weighing it very carefully, notwithstanding his seeming indifference, he met the Voronovs in Moscow. They invited him to their country-house, where he went and stayed a week; then left, and a week later returned and proposed.
He was accepted
