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I don't tell you about it because one can't talk about it. . . . Such a life, such a life! . . . "Kisotchka did not finish. She clenched her teeth and moaned as though she were doing her utmost not to scream with pain. "'Such a life! she repeated with horror, with the cadence and the southern, rather Ukrainian accent which particularly in women gives to emotional speech the effect of singing.
If you come across a sensible and serious woman, whose face has an expression of weary submission and goodwill, who is genuinely delighted at your presence, and, above all, respects you, you may as well turn back. To succeed in that case needs longer than one day. "And by evening light Kisotchka seemed even more charming than by day.
All this I recognised distinctly, but at the same time I was troubled by an oppressive and unpleasant dread that Kisotchka would turn back, and that I should not manage to say to her what had to be said. Never at any other time in my life have thoughts of a higher order been so closely interwoven with the basest animal prose as on that night. . . . It was horrible!
We walked about until the reflection of the sunset had died away from the windows of the summer villas. "'Come in and have some tea, Kisotchka suggested. 'The samovar must have been on the table long ago. . . . I am alone at home, she said, as her villa came into sight through the green of the acacias.
I glanced at the book and recognised it as 'Malinin and Burenin's Arithmetical Examples. It was open, as I now remember, at the 'Rules of Compound Interest. "'To whom are you giving lessons? I asked Kisotchka. "'Nobody, she answered. 'I am just doing some. . . . I have nothing to do, and am so bored that I think of the old days and do sums. "'Have you any children?
It did not express pain, nor anxiety, nor misery nothing of what was expressed by her words and her tears. . . . I must own that, probably because I did not understand it, it looked to me senseless and as though she were drunk. "'I can't bear it, muttered Kisotchka in the voice of a crying child. 'It's too much for me, Nikolay Anastasyitch. Forgive me, Nikolav Anastasyitch.
The doings of far, vanished days, the days of long ago. . . . I remember this Kisotchka, a thin little high-school girl of fifteen or sixteen, when she was something just for a schoolboy's taste, created by nature especially for Platonic love. What a charming little girl she was!
And in spite of my disorderly life I must observe that I could not bear telling lies. "I remember that Kisotchka sat down at my feet, laid her head on my knees, and, looking at me with shining, loving eyes, asked: "'Kolya, do you love me? Very, very much?
"The door creaked, two voices came now from the passage and I saw two men pass the door that led into the dining-room: one a stout, solid, dark man with a hooked nose, wearing a straw hat, and the other a young officer in a white tunic. As they passed the door they both glanced casually and indifferently at Kisotchka and me, and I fancied both of them were drunk.
At the same time I felt that the affair would not come off. . . . "We went into the house. I remember that in the middle of the room which Kisotchka called the dining-room there was a round table, supported for some reason on six legs, and on it a samovar and cups. At the edge of the table lay an open book, a pencil, and an exercise book.
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