I married Vassili.
My father, more the Terrible O'Rourke than ever, at once refused to have anything to do with me. He denied me his kiss and his forgiveness. I was very unhappy.
“Oh, don't bother your head about that tiresome old man,” said Vassili, much annoyed by my tears.
As for my mother, she could only entreat Vassili to be kind and gentle with me.
“Take care of her, Vassili,” she implored. “I have given her to you lest she should die of a broken heart: but she is really too young to be any one's wife—she is but a child! I do not know whether you understand me. Remember she is not yet a woman. She is a child.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Vassili, without paying much attention. “That's all right. I shall tweak her nose if she is naughty.”
“And if I am good?” I asked, lifting ecstatic eyes to his handsome nonchalant face.
“If you are good you shall have sweets and kisses!” and he laughed, showing all his white teeth.
“Promise me, Vassili, that you will always sing my favorite song: 'Oh distant steppes, oh savage plains,' to me, and to no one else.”