hip. This unfortunate man is, like myself, proposing to devote the
summer to literary work. He is writing the "Memoirs of a Military
Man." Like me, he begins his honourable labours every morning, but
before he has written more than "I was born in . . ." some Varenka
or Mashenka is sure to appear under his balcony, and the wounded
hero is borne off under guard.

All the party sitting on the terrace are engaged in preparing some
miserable fruit for jam. I make my bows and am about to beat a
retreat, but the young ladies of various colours seize my hat with
a squeal and insist on my staying. I sit down. They give me a plate
of fruit and a hairpin. I begin taking the seeds out.

The young ladies of various colours talk about men: they say that
So-and-So is nice-looking, that So-and-So is handsome but not nice,
that somebody else is nice but ugly, and that a fourth would not
have been bad-looking if his nose were not like a thimble, and so
on.

"And you, _Monsieur Nicolas_," says Varenka's mamma, turning to me,
"are not handsome, but you are attractive. . . . There is something
about your face. . . . In men, though, it's not beauty but intelligence
that matters," she adds, sighing.

The young ladies sigh, too, and drop their eyes . . . they agree
that the great thing in men is not beauty but intelligence. I steal
a glance sideways at a looking-glass to ascertain whether I really
am attractive. I see a shaggy head, a bushy beard, moustaches,
eyebrows, hair on my cheeks, hair up to my eyes, a perfect thicket
with a solid nose sticking up out of it like a watch-tower. Attractive!