ing one foot, and, with his head a little bent,
looked with beaming face at the princess without
speaking and evidently not thinking about
her at all. Anatole was not quick-witted, nor
ready or eloquent in conversation, but he had
the faculty, so invaluable in society, of composure and imperturbable self-possession. If a
man lacking in self-confidence remains dumb
on a first introduction and betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of such silence and an
anxiety to find something to say, the effect is
bad. But Anatole was dumb, swung his foot, and
smilingly examined the princess' hair. It was
evident that he could be silent in this way for
a very long time. "If anyone finds this silence
inconvenient, let him talk, but I don't want
to," he seemed to say. Besides this, in his behavior to women Anatole had a manner which
particularly inspires in them curiosity, awe, and even love a supercilious consciousness of
his own superiority. It was as if he said to them:
"I know you, I know you, but why should I
bother about you? You'd be only too glad, of
course." Perhaps he did not really think this
when he met women even probably he did
not, for in general he thought very little but
his looks and manner gave that impression.
The princess felt this, and as if wishing to show him that she did not even dare expect to interest him, she turned to his father. The conversation was general and animated, thanks to Princess Lise's voice and little downy lip that
lifted over her white teeth. She met Prince Vasíli with that playful manner often employed
by lively chatty people, and consisting in the
assumption that between the person they so
address and themselves there are some semi-private, long-established jokes and amusing
reminiscences, though no such reminiscences
really exist just as none existed in this case.
Prince Vasíli readily adopted her tone and the
little princess also drew Anatole, whom she
hardly knew, into these amusing recollections
of things that had never occurred. Mademoiselle Bourienne also shared them and even
Princess Mary felt herself pleasantly made to
share in these merry reminiscences.
"Here at least we shall have the benefit of your company all to ourselves, dear prince," said the little princess (of course, in French) to Prince Vasili. "It's not as at Annette's[1] receptions where you always ran away; you remember cette chere Annette!"
"Ah, but you won't talk politics to me like Annette!"
"And our little tea table?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Why is it you were never at Annette's?" the little princess asked Anatole. "Ah, I know, I know," she said with a sly glance, "your brother Hippolyte told me about your goings on. Oh!" and she shook her finger at him, "I have even heard of your doings in Paris!"
"And didn't Hippolyte tell you?" asked Prince Vasili, turning to his son and seizing the little princess' arm as if she would have run away and he had just managed to catch her, "didn't he tell you how he himself was pining for the dear princess, and how she showed him the door? Oh, she is a pearl among women, Princess," he added, turning to Princess Mary.
When Paris was mentioned, Mademoiselle Bourienne for her part seized the opportunity of joining in the general current of recollections.
She took the liberty of inquiring whether it was long since Anatole had left Paris and how he had liked that city. Anatole answered the Frenchwoman very readily and, looking at her with a smile, talked to her about her native land. When he saw the pretty little Bourienne, Anatole came to the conclusion that he would not find Bald Hills dull either. "Not at all bad!" he thought, examining her, "not at all bad, that little companion! I hope she will bring her along with her when we're married, la petite est gentille"[2]
The old prince dressed leisurely in his study, frowning and considering what he was to do. The coming of these visitors annoyed him. "What are Prince Vasili and that son of his to me? Prince Vasili is a shallow braggart and his son, no doubt, is a fine specimen," he grumbled to himself. What angered him was that the coming of these visitors revived in his mind an unsettled question he always tried to stifle, one about which he always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever bring himself to part from his daughter and give her to a husband. The prince never directly asked himself that question, knowing beforehand that he would have to answer it justly, and justice clashed not only with his feelings but with the very possibility of life. Life without Princess Mary, little as he seemed to value her, was unthinkable to him. "And why should she marry?" he thought. "To be unhappy for certain. There's Lise, married to Andrew a better husband one would think could hardly be found nowadays but is she contented with
