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Whenever she is alone with her uncle this
story is present to her mind, and she is quite at
a loss to understand how this man, who has
experienced such awful things, can be so calm and
cheerful now, as if nothing had happened; that
he can play chess with her, make paper boats,
and fire up at an article in the paper. Now and
then she feels a morbid desire to speak to her
uncle about the forbidden subject; she will sit
staring at him, trying to imagine this tall, strong
and wise man, trembling before this little beauty
of a wife, weeping and kissing her hands while
she tears his books and papers, and takes off her
little slipper to box his ears. Once, and once
only, was the temptation too strong for her to
resist.
It was evening, and they were alone in the
library; her uncle was sitting on the sofa, as
usual, reading a book; Tania was playing with
her ball; at last she got tired, and sat down on
the sofa beside him, leaning her head on his
shoulder, and her thoughts took the usual turn.
Peter Sergejevitsch put down his book, passed
his hand over her hair, and said kindly, ‘What
is my little girl thinking of so deeply?’
‘Uncle, weren’t you very unhappy with your
wife?’ Tania bursts out almost involuntarily.
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