THE WEDDING
By Fiodor M. Dostoyevsky
The other day I saw a wedding… But no！ I would rather tellyou about a Christmas tree. The wedding was superb. I liked itimmensely. But the other incident was still finer. I don’t knowwhy it is that the sight of the wedding reminded me of theChristmas tree. This is the way it happened：
Exactly five years ago， on New Year’s Eve， I was invitedto a children’s ball by a man high up in the business world，who had his connections， his circle of acquaintances， andhis intrigues. So it seemed as though the children’s ball wasmerely a pretext for the parents to come together and discussmatters of interest to themselves， quite innocently and casually.
I was an outsider， and， as I had no special matters to air， Iwas able to spend the evening independently of the others.
There was another gentleman present who like myself hadjust stumbled upon this affair of domestic bliss. He was thefirst to attract my attention. His appearance was not that ofa man of birth or high family. He was tall， rather thin， veryserious， and well dressed. Apparently he had no heart for thefamily festivities. The instant he went off into a corner byhimself the smile disappeared from his face， and his thickdark brows knitted into a frown. He knew no one except thehost and showed every sign of being bored to death， bravelysustaining the role of thorough enjoyment to the end. Later Ilearned that he was a provincial， had come to the capital onsome important， brain-racking business， had brought a letterof recommendation to our host， and our host had taken himunder his protection， not at all con amore. It was merely out ofpoliteness that he had invited him to the children’s ball.
They did not play cards with him， they did not offer himcigars. No one entered into conversation with him. Possiblythey recognised the bird by its feathers from a distance. Thus，my gentleman， not knowing what to do with his hands， wascompelled to spend the evening stroking his whiskers. Hiswhiskers were really fine， but he stroked them so assiduouslythat one got the feeling that the whiskers had come into theworld first and afterwards the man in order to stroke them.
There was another guest who interested me. But he was ofquite a different order. He was a personage. They called himJulian Mastakovich. At first glance one could tell he was anhonoured guest and stood in the same relation to the host asthe host to the gentleman of the whiskers. The host and hostesssaid no end of amiable things to him， were most attentive，wining him， hovering over him， bringing guests up to beintroduced， but never leading him to any one else. I noticedtears glisten in our host’s eyes when Julian Mastakovichremarked that he had rarely spent such a pleasant evening.
Somehow I began to feel uncomfortable in this personage’spresence. So， after amusing myself with the children， five ofwhom， remarkably well-fed young persons， were our host’s， Iwent into a little sitting-room， entirely unoccupied， and seatedmyself at the end that was a conservatory and took up almosthalf the room.
The children were charming. They absolutely refused toresemble their elders， notwithstanding the efforts of mothersand governesses. In a jiffy they had denuded the Christmastree down to the very last sweet and had already succeeded inbreaking half of their playthings before they even found outwhich belonged to whom.
One of them was a particularly handsome little lad， darkeyed，curly-haired， who stubbornly persisted in aiming at mewith his wooden gun. But the child that attracted the greatestattention was his sister， a girl of about eleven， lovely as aCupid. She was quiet and thoughtful， with large， full， dreamyeyes. The children had somehow offended her， and she leftthem and walked into the same room that I had withdrawninto. There she seated herself with her doll in a corner.
“Her father is an immensely wealthy business man，” theguests informed each other in tones of awe. “Three hundredthousand rubles set aside for her dowry already.”
As I turned to look at the group from which I heard this newsitem issuing， my glance met Julian Mastakovich’s. He stoodlistening to the insipid chatter in an attitude of concentratedattention， with his hands behind his back and his head inclinedto one side.
All the while I was quite lost in admiration of the shrewdnessour host displayed in the dispensing of the gifts. The littlemaid of the many-rubied dowry received the handsomestdoll， and the rest of the gifts were graded in value accordingto the diminishing scale of the parents’ stations in life. Thelast child， a tiny chap of ten， thin， red-haired， freckled， cameinto possession of a small book of nature stories withoutillustrations or even head and tail pieces. He was the child ofgoverness. She was a poor widow， and her little boy， clad in asorry-looking little nankeen jacket， looked thoroughly crushedand intimidated. He took the book of nature stories andcircled slowly about the children’s toys. He would have givenanything to play with them. But he did not dare to. You couldtell he already knew his place.
I like to observe children. It is fascinating to watch theindividuality in them struggling for self-assertion. I could seethat the other children’s things had tremendous charm for thered-haired boy， especially a toy theatre， in which he was soanxious to take a part that he resolved to fawn upon the otherchildren. He smiled and began to play with them. His one andonly apple he handed over to a puffy urchin whose pocketswere already crammed with sweets， and he even carriedanother youngster pickaback—all simply that he might beallowed to stay with the theatre.
