I sat down and read 'On the Hills of Georgia.'
'"That the heart cannot choose but love,"' repeated Zinaida.
'That's where poetry's so fine; it tells us what is not, and what's not only better than what is, but much more like the truth, "cannot choose but love," – it might want not to, but it can't help it.' She was silent again, then all at once she started and got up.
'Come along.
Meidanov's indoors with mamma, he brought me his poem, but I deserted him.
His feelings are hurt too now ... I can't help it! you'll understand it all some day ... only don't be angry with me!'
Zinaida hurriedly pressed my hand and ran on ahead.
We went back into the lodge.
Meidanov set to reading us his 'Manslayer,' which had just appeared in print, but I did not hear him.
He screamed and drawled his four-foot iambic lines, the alternating rhythms jingled like little bells, noisy and meaningless, while I still watched Zinaida and tried to take in the import of her last words.