The Christmas Tree and the Wedding

I squeezed my way through the crowd and saw a marvelous beauty, who could scarcely have reached her first season. But the beauty was pale and melancholy. She looked preoccupied; I even fancied that her eyes were red with recent weeping. The classic severity of every feature of her face gave a certain dignity and seriousness to her beauty. But through that sternness and dignity, through that melancholy, could be seen the look of childish innocence; something indescribably naïve, fluid, youthful, which seemed mutely begging for mercy.

He longed to play with other children, but did not dare; it was evident that he already felt and understood his position.

I like to observe children. It is fascinating to watch the individuality in them struggling for self-assertion.

He did not play cards, cigars were not offered to him, everyone avoided entering into the conversation with him, most likely recognizing the bird from its feathers; and so my gentleman was forced to sit the whole evening stroking his whiskers simply to have something to do with his hands.

One could see that he was fearfully bored, but that he was valiantly keeping up the part of the man perfectly happy and enjoying himself.

I was an outsider; I had no interesting matter to contribute, and so I spent the evening rather independently.