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