Chapter 34

MÍTYA _and_ LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_At the door_] Stop, don't be silly! [_Through the door the girls are heard laughing_] They won't let me out! Oh, what girls! [_Walks away from the door_] They're always up to something.

MÍTYA. [_Hands her a chair_] Be seated, Lyubóv Gordéyevna, and talk to me for just a moment. I'm very glad to see you in my room.

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Why are you glad? I don't understand.

MÍTYA. Oh, why!--It is very pleasant for me to see on your side such consideration; it is above my deserts to receive it from you. This is the second time I have had the good fortune--

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. There's nothing in that! I came here, sat awhile, and went away again. That means nothing. Maybe I'll go away again at once.

MÍTYA. Oh, no! Don't go!--Why should you! [_Takes the paper out of his pocket_] Permit me to present to you my work, the best I can do--from my heart.

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. What is this?

MÍTYA. I made these verses just for you.

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Trying to hide her joy_] Still, it may be just some sort of foolishness--not worth reading.

MÍTYA. That I cannot judge, because I wrote it myself, and without studying besides.

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Read it.

MÍTYA. Directly.

_Seats himself at the table, and takes the paper_: LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _approaches very near to him_.

"In the meadow no grasses wither, And never a flower doth fade; However a fair lad fadeth That once was a lusty blade.

He loved a handsome damsel; For that his grief is great, And heavy his misfortune, For she came of high estate.

The lad's heart is breaking, But vain his grief must be, Because he loved a damsel Above his own degree.

When all the night is darkened The sun may not appear; And so the pretty maiden. She may not be his dear."

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Sitting and reflecting for some time_] Give it here. [_Takes the paper and hides it, then rises_] Now I will write something for you.

MÍTYA. You!

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Only I don't know how to do it in verse, but--just plain Russian.

MÍTYA. I shall regard such a kindness from you as a great happiness to myself. [_Gives her paper and pen_] Here they are.

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. It's a great pity that I write so abominably. [_She writes_; MÍTYA _tries to look_] Only don't you look, or I'll stop writing and tear it up.

MÍTYA. I won't look. But kindly condescend to permit me to reply, in so far as I am able, and to write some verses for you on a second occasion.

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Laying down the pen_] Write if you wish--only I've inked all my fingers; if I'd only known, I'd better not have written.

MÍTYA. May I have it?

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Well, take it; only don't dare to read it while I'm here, but after, when I've gone.

_Folds together the paper and gives it to him; he conceals it in his pocket_.

MÍTYA. It shall be as you wish.

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [_Rises_] Will you come up-stairs to us?

MÍTYA. I will--this minute.

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Good-by.

MÍTYA. To our pleasant meeting!

LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA _goes to the door; from the doorway_ LYUBÍM KÁRPYCH _comes in_.