what are you . . . ? I mean that woman whose little girl is said to have, you know, in the water, in winter – well, are you listening? Are you? So she’s the one who cooked all this up for me. “You must be bored,” she says. “Have some fun.” I really am a gloomy, dull sort. You think I’m cheerful? I’m not, I’m gloomy. I just sit harmlessly in the corner and three days might pass before you get a word out of me. That Resslich’s a handful, I can tell you. Can you believe it? She thinks I’ll get bored, drop my wife and go away, so she’ll get the wife and put her into circulation; among our class, that is – the posher the better. There’s this invalid father, she says, a retired civil servant, sits in his armchair and hasn’t moved his legs in three years. There’s also a mother, she says, a sensible lady. The son’s got a position somewhere out in the sticks – no help from him. One daughter’s married and stays away, then there’s two little nephews to take care of (as if they didn’t have enough on their plate already), plus the girl they’ve taken out of school before finishing, their last daughter, just sixteen next month, which, as it happens, is also the date she can be given away. To me. So off we went. It’s simply hilarious over there. I introduce myself: landowner, widower, bearer of a well-known surname, well-connected, moneyed . . . So what if I’m fifty and she’s only fifteen? Who cares about that? All rather tempting, isn’t it? Rather tempting, eh? Ha-ha! You should have seen me chatting away to Papa and Mama! The very sight of me would have been worth good money. Out she comes, curtseying and wearing – can you imagine? – a short little frock, like a bud still waiting to open; and blushes and lights up like the dawn (they’d told her, of course). I don’t know whether women’s faces do much for you, but for me, these sixteen years, these still-childish eyes, this shyness and these bashful tears – for me, that’s better than any beauty, not to mention the fact that she herself is simply exquisite. That lovely fair hair of hers, done up in those sweet little lamb’s curls, those chubby little lips, those little legs – just adorable! . . . Well, we were introduced. I announced I was in a hurry on account of certain domestic circumstances and the very next day – that is, the day before yesterday – we were blessed. Now, as soon as I arrive, I sit her on my knees and just keep her there . . . So there she is, lighting up like the dawn, and there am I, showering her with kisses. Mama, needless to say, keeps telling her that this is your husband and this is the done thing. In short, bliss! And actually, being a fiancé, as I am now, is probably even better than being a husband! La nature et la vérité,17 you might call it! Ha-ha! We’ve talked a couple of times and she’s certainly not stupid. Sometimes she’ll steal a glance at me – and it burns like fire. You know, her sweet little face is like Raphael’s Madonna. The Sistine Madonna,18 after all, has a quite fantastical face, the face of a sorrowing holy fool – don’t you think? Well, it’s a bit like that. No sooner were we blessed than I lavished fifteen hundred roubles on her the very next day: a set of diamonds and another of pearls, as well as a silver beauty case – about this size, containing all sorts of goodies. It was enough to make even the Madonna’s face glow. Yesterday, when I sat her on my knees – without so much as a by-your-leave – she flushed bright red and out spurted little tears, which she tried to hide, though she was burning inside. Everyone went out for a moment and we were left to our own devices; suddenly she threw herself on my neck (the first time she’d done so), wrapped her two little arms around me, kissed me and vowed to be an obedient, faithful and loving wife, to make me happy, to devote her whole life to me, every single minute, to sacrifice everything, everything, and in return desired my respect and nothing more. “Nothing else,” she said. “No