They had taken a country house for the summer near the Kalouga gate, facing the Neskutchny gardens. His manuscript contained the following story:- I I was sixteen then.

A fortnight later they were together again, and Vladimir Petrovitch kept his word. If you’ll allow me, I’ll write out all I remember and read it you.’ His friends at first would not agree, but Vladimir Petrovitch insisted on his own way. or no I won’t tell the story I’m no hand at telling a story I make it dry and brief, or spun out and affected. ‘Ah!’ said the master of the house and Sergei Nikolaevitch with one voice: ‘So much the better.

Can’t you enliven us with something, Vladimir Petrovitch?’ ‘My first love, certainly, was not quite an ordinary one,’ responded, with some reluctance, Vladimir Petrovitch, a man of forty, with black hair turning grey. I must confess, gentlemen, in bringing up the subject of first love, I reckoned upon you, I won’t say old, but no longer young, bachelors. My story can be told in a couple of words. ‘There was nothing much of interest about my first love either I never fell in love with any one till I met Anna Nikolaevna, now my wife - and everything went as smoothly as possible with us our parents arranged the match, we were very soon in love with each other, and got married without loss of time. The details of our relations have slipped out of my memory, and even if I remembered them, whom could they interest?’ ‘Then how’s it to be?’ began the master of the house. To speak accurately, the first and last time I was in love was with my nurse when I was six years old but that’s in the remote past. I was eighteen when I had my first flirtation with a charming young lady, but I courted her just as though it were nothing new to me just as I courted others later on. ‘I had no first love,’ he said at last ‘I began with the second.’ ‘How was that?’ ‘It’s very simple. It’s your turn, Sergei Nikolaevitch.’ Sergei Nikolaevitch, a round little man with a plump, light-complexioned face, gazed first at the master of the house, then raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘And so it’s settled,’ he observed, sitting back farther in his easy-chair and lighting a cigar ‘each of us is to tell the story of his first love.

The master of the house rang and ordered the remains of the supper to be cleared away. There was left in the room only the master of the house and Sergei Nikolaevitch and Vladimir Petrovitch.

First love ivan