"I didn't think it pleasant either. But you ... you are so young still!"
He was already regaining his self-control and feeling ashamed of himself. He was a child, like his mother, an ailing, feeble, hysterical child at times. That was his hysteria, that dread of old age. And he was looking for consolation to his mother, who was not a mother!...
No, he regained his self-control, was ashamed of himself:
"Oh, yes ... I'm young still!" he made an effort to say, indifferently.
"And you're going to be married: your life is only just beginning ..."
"Because I'm getting married?"
"Yes, because you're getting married. If only you are happy, dear, and not ... not as your mother ..."
He gave a little start, but smiled. He regained his self-control now and at the same time regained his control over his mother, to whom he had looked for a moment for consolation and who had always petted him. And he fondled her in his turn and gave her a fervent kiss:
"Poor little creatures that we are!" he said. "We sometimes act and think so strangely! We are very ill and very old ... even though we are still young.... Mamma, I must have a serious talk with you some day ... serious, you know. Not now, another time: I must get on now with my work. Leave me to myself now and be calm ... and good. Really, I'm all right again.... And don't you go on behaving like a little fury!"
She laughed inwardly, with mischievous delight: