Aria Kirilovna was sitting in her room, embroidering at her frame before the open window. She did not entangle her threads like Conrad’s mistress, who, in her amorous distraction, embroidered a rose with green silk. Under her needle, the canvas repeated unerringly the design of the original; but in spite of that, her thoughts did not follow her work—they were far away.
Suddenly an arm passed silently through the window, placed a letter upon the frame and disappeared before Maria Kirilovna could recover herself. At the same moment a servant entered to call her to Kirila Petrovitch. Trembling very much, she hid the letter under her fichu and hastened to her father in his study.
Kirila Petrovitch was not alone. Prince Vereisky was sitting in the room with him. On the appearance of Maria Kirilovna, the Prince rose and silently bowed, with a confusion that was quite unusual in him.
“Come here, Masha,” said Kirila Petrovitch: “I have a piece of news to tell you which I hope will please you very much. Here is a sweetheart for you: the Prince proposes for your hand.”
Masha was dumfounded; a deadly pallor overspread her countenance. She was silent. The Prince approached her, took her hand, and with a tender look, asked her if she would consent to make him happy. Masha remained silent.
“Consent? Of course she will consent,” said Kirila Petrovitch; “but you know, Prince, it is difficult for a girl to say such a word as that. Well, children, kiss one another and be happy.”
Masha stood motionless; the old Prince kissed her hand. Suddenly the tears began to stream down her pale cheeks. The Prince frowned slightly.
“Go, go, go!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “dry your tears and come back to us in a merry humour. They all weep at the moment of being betrothed,” he continued, turning to Vereisky; “it is their custom. Now, Prince, let us talk about business, that is to say, about the dowry.”
Maria Kirilovna eagerly took advantage of the permission to retire. She ran to her room, locked herself in and gave way to her tears, already imagining herself the wife of the old Prince. He had suddenly become repugnant and hateful to her. Marriage terrified her, like the block, like the grave.
“No, no,” She repeated in, despair; “I would rather go into a convent, I would rather marry Doubrovsky....”