The old prince was dressing deliberately in his room, scowling and ruminating on what he was to do. The arrival of these visitors angered him. “What’s Prince Vassily to me, he and his son？ Prince Vassily is a braggart, an empty-headed fool, and a nice fellow the son is, I expect,” he growled to himself. What angered him was that this visit revived in his mind the unsettled question, continually thrust aside, the question in regard to which the old prince always deceived himself. That question was whether he would ever bring himself to part with his daughter and give her to a husband. The prince could never bring himself to put this question directly to himself, knowing beforehand that if he did he would have to answer it justly, but against justice in this case was ranged more than feeling, the very possibility of life. Life without Princess Marya was unthinkable to the old prince, little as in appearance he prized her. “And what is she to be married for？” he thought; “to be unhappy, beyond a doubt. Look at Liza with Andrey （and a better husband, I should fancy, it would be difficult to find nowadays）, but she’s not satisfied with her lot.
And who would marry her for love？ She’s plain and ungraceful. She’d be married for her connections, her wealth. And don’t old maids get on well enough？ They are happier really！” So Prince Nikolay Andreivitch mused, as he dressed, yet the question constantly deferred demanded an immediate decision. Prince Vassily had brought his son obviously with the intention of making an offer, and probably that day or the next he would ask for a direct answer. The name, the position in the world, was suitable. “Well, I’m not against it,” the prince kept saying to himself, “only let him be worthy of her. That’s what we shall see. That’s what we shall see,” he said aloud, “that’s what we shall see,” and with his usual alert step he walked into the drawing-room, taking in the whole company in a rapid glance. He noticed the change in the dress of the little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne’s ribbon, and the hideous way in which Princess Marya’s hair was done, and the smiles of the Frenchwoman and Anatole, and the isolation of his daughter in the general talk. “She’s decked herself out like a fool！” he thought, glancing vindictively at his daughter. “No shame in her; while he doesn’t care to speak to her！”
He went up to Prince Vassily.
“Well, how d’ye do, how d’ye do, glad to see you.”
“For a friend that one loves seven versts is close by,” said Prince Vassily, quoting the Russian proverb, and speaking in his usual rapid, self-confident, and familiar tone. “This is my second, I beg you to love him and welcome him, as they say.”
Prince Nikolay Andreivitch scrutinised Anatole.
“A fine fellow, a fine fellow！” he said. “Well, come and give me a kiss,” and he offered him his cheek. Anatole kissed the old man, and looked at him with curiosity and perfect composure, waiting for some instance of the eccentricity his father had told him to expect.
The old prince sat down in his customary place in the corner of the sofa, moved up an armchair for Prince Vassily, pointed to it, and began questioning him about political affairs and news. He seemed to be listening with attention to what Prince Vassily was saying, but glanced continually at Princess Marya.
“So they’re writing from Potsdam already？” He repeated Prince Vassily’s last words, and suddenly getting up, he went up to his daughter.
“So it was for visitors you dressed yourself up like this, eh？” he said. “Nice of you, very nice. You do your hair up in some new fashion before visitors, and before visitors, I tell you, never dare in future to change your dress without my leave.”
“It was my fault…” stammered the little princess, flushing.
“You are quite at liberty,” said the old prince, with a scrape before his daughter-in-law, “but she has no need to disfigure herself—she’s ugly enough without that.” And he sat down again in his place, taking no further notice of his daughter, whom he had reduced to tears.
“On the contrary, that coiffure is extremely becoming to the princess,” said Prince Vassily.
“Well, my young prince, what’s your name？” said the old prince, turning to Anatole. “Come here, let us talk to you a little and make your acquaintance.”
“Now the fun’s beginning,” thought Anatole, and with a smile he sat down by the old prince.
“That’s it; they tell me, my dear boy, you have been educated abroad. Not taught to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Tell me, are you serving now in the Horse Guards？” asked the old man, looking closely and intently at Anatole.
“No, I have transferred into the line,” answered Anatole, with difficulty restraining his laughter.
“Ah！ a good thing. So you want to serve your Tsar and your country, do you？ These are times of war. Such a fine young fellow ought to be on service, he ought to be on service. Ordered to the front, eh？”
“No, prince, our regiment has gone to the front. But I’m attached. What is it I’m attached to, papa？” Anatole turned to his father with a laugh.
“He is a credit to the service, a credit. What is it I’m attached to！ Ha-ha-ha！” laughed the old prince, and Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly the old prince frowned. “Well, you can go,” he said to Anatole. With a smile Anatole returned to the ladies.
“So you had him educated abroad, Prince Vassily？ Eh？” said the old prince to Prince Vassily.
“I did what I could, and I assure you the education there is far better than ours.”
“Yes, nowadays everything’s different, everything’s new-fashioned. A fine fellow！ a fine fellow！ Well, come to my room.” He took Prince Vassily’s arm and led him away to his study.
Left alone with the old prince, Prince Vassily promptly made known to him his wishes and his hopes.
