“That we must go to Petersburg,” he said; “there is nothing for us to do here just now.”
“As you please,” I said.
He took me in his arms and kissed me.
“You must forgive me,” he said; “for I am to blame.”
That evening I played to him for a long time, while he walked about the room. He had a habit of muttering to himself; and when I asked him what he was muttering, he always thought for a moment and then told me exactly what it was. It was generally verse, and sometimes mere nonsense, but I could always judge of his mood by it. When I asked him now, he stood still, thought an instant, and then repeated two lines from Lérmontov:
He in his madness prays for storms, And dreams that storms will bring him peace.
“He is really more than human,” I thought; “he knows everything. How can one help loving him?”
I got up, took his arm, and began to walk up and down with him, trying to keep step.
“Well?” he asked, smiling and looking at me.
“All right,” I whispered. And then a sudden fit of merriment came over us both: our eyes laughed, we took longer and longer steps, and rose higher and higher on tiptoe. Prancing in this manner, to the profound dissatisfaction of the butler and astonishment of my mother-in-law, who was playing patience in the parlour, we proceeded through the house till we reached the dining room; there we stopped, looked at one another, and burst out laughing.