“Enough of that, Véretyeff,”—she repeated.
“To jest away life,”—went on Véretyeff, half rising;—“but you are imagining me as worse than I am; you are wasting your life in seriousness. Do you know, Másha, you remind me of a scene from Púshkin’s ‘Don Juan.’ You have not read Púshkin’s ‘Don Juan’?”
“No.”
“Yes, I had forgotten, you see, that you do not read verses.—In that poem guests come to a certain Laura; she drives them all away and remains alone with Carlos. The two go out on the balcony; the night is wonderful. Laura admires, and Carlos suddenly begins to demonstrate to her that she will grow old in course of time.—‘Well,’ replies Laura, ‘it may be cold and rainy in Paris now, but here, with us, “the night is redolent of orange and of laurel.” Why make guesses at the future?’ Look around you, Másha; is it not beautiful here? See how everything is enjoying life, how young everything is. And aren’t we young ourselves?”
Véretyeff approached Márya Pávlovna; she did not move away from him, but she did not turn her head toward him.
“Smile, Másha,”—he went on;—“only with your kind smile, not with your usual grin. I love your kind smile. Raise your proud, stern eyes.—What ails you? You turn away. Stretch out your hand to me, at least.”
“Akh, Véretyeff,”—began Másha;—“you know that I do not understand how to express myself. You have told me about that Laura. But she was a woman, you see.... A woman may be pardoned for not thinking of the future.”
“When you speak, Másha,”—returned Véretyeff,—“you blush incessantly with self-love and modesty: the blood fairly flows in a crimson flood into your cheeks. I’m awfully fond of that in you.”
Márya Pávlovna looked Véretyeff straight in the eye.
“Farewell,”—she said, and threw her scarf over her head.