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Tania found no words to express her delight
and surprise; the two sisters were clasped in a
fond embrace, they smiled with tears in their
eyes, and whispered all kind of follies to one
another.
Of course it was out of the question to tell
anybody else of Aniuta’s success; her mother
would be terribly frightened, and reveal all to
her husband, and in his eyes the step Aniuta
had taken would be a downright crime. Poor
Ivan Sergejevitsch, he had an aversion for lady
authors, and almost thought them capable of
excesses that had nothing whatever to do with
literature. It was, indeed, the very irony of fate
that he should be the father of an authoress!
He had only known one ‘blue-stocking,’ he
said, the Countess Rostoptschin (a great poetess).
He had met her in Moscow at the time when she
was a brilliant and celebrated beauty, and had
all the young noblemen at her feet, himself
amongst the number. Many years later he saw
her again abroad, in Baden-Baden, at the green
table. ‘I could not believe my eyes,’ Ivan
Sergejevitsch used to say when he told this story,
‘when I saw the countess come in, followed by
a host of vagabonds, all talking and joking in
the most familiar way. She went up to the
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