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 with great pleasure. It was a good match. He became engaged.
“There’s nothing to be particularly pleased about,” said old Voronov to his wife, who was standing near his desk looking at him wistfully.
“He is good-natured.”
“Good-natured, indeed! That’s not the point. But, as a matter of fact, he has lived: he has lived a good deal. I know the Lutkovsky stock. What has he got except good intentions and his service? What we can give them will not provide for them.”
“But they love one another, and they have been so frank about it,” she said. She was so gentle and so mild.
“Yes, of course, he’s all right. They’re all alike, but I wanted someone better for Marie. She is such an openhearted, tender little soul. There was something else I had wished for. But it can’t be helped. Come.” And they left the room together.
Just at first father seemed displeased. No, not exactly displeased, but sad, not quite himself. I know him. Just as though he did not like him. I cannot understand it; I am not the only one. It is not because I am engaged to him, but nobility, truthfulness, and purity are so clearly