My first romantic love

nes and pages of the famous text-book passed before my eyes in vain. I read ten times over the words: ‘Julius Caesar was distinguished by warlike courag

et, and God knows whether you’ll get through the examination.

mured almost in despair. ‘What

ly as ever. It never seemed to have struck her that she was a princess. Zinaïda on the other hand was rigid, almost haughty in her demeanour, every inch a princess. There was a cold immobility and dignity in her face. I should not have recognised it; I should not have known her smiles, her glances, though I thought her exquisite in this new aspect too. She wore a light barége dress with pale blue flowers on it; her hair fell in long curls down her cheek in the English fashion; this style went well with the cold expression of her face. My father sat beside her during d

t day. ‘And fancy, what she has to be co

any grisettes,’ my father observ

only how can you form a

ntion whatever. Soon after din

a doleful sing-song to my mother and father. ‘I’ve no help for it! There were days, bu

ence of death. Zinaïda’s treatment of me had crushed me utterly. What was my astonishment, when, as she passed me, she whispered quickly with her former kind expr