reads splendidly.”
“To be quite frank, Marie, I expect Father’s character sometimes makes things trying for you, doesn’t it?” Prince Andréy asked suddenly.
Princess Márya was first surprised and then aghast at this question.
“For me? For me? … Trying for me! …” said she.
“He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he’s getting very trying,” said Prince Andréy, apparently speaking lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister.
“You are good in every way, André, but you have a kind of intellectual pride,” said the princess, following the train of her own thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation—“and that’s a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I am.”
Her brother shook his head incredulously.
“The only thing that is hard for me … I will tell you the truth, André … is Father’s way of treating religious subjects. I don’t understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a monk he received and had a long talk with.”
“Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your powder,” said Prince Andréy banteringly yet tenderly.
“Ah! mon ami , I only pray, and