and too little imagination to take complete enjoyment in the game of Robinson. The game consisted in performing scenes from the "Swiss Family Robinson," which we had lately read.
"Well, why, pray, do you not want to give us that pleasure?" insisted the girls. "You may be Charles, or Ernest, or the father, — whichever you wish," said Kátenka, trying to raise him from the ground by the sleeve of his blouse.
"Really, I don't feel like it, it is tiresome!" said Volódya, stretching himself and at the same time smiling with self-satisfaction.
"I should have preferred to stay at home, if nobody wants to play," said Lyúbochka, through tears.
She was a great blubberer.
"Well, let us have it; only, please, stop weeping, — I can't bear it!"
Volódya's condescension gave us very little pleasure; on the contrary, his lazy and weary look destroyed all the charm of the game. When we seated ourselves on the ground and, imagining that we were rowing out to catch fish, began to row with all our might, Volódya sat down with crossed arms and in a pose which had nothing in common with the attitude of a fisherman. I told him so; but he answered that we should gain nothing from swinging our arms more or less, and that we should not get far away anyhow. I involuntarily agreed with him. When I imagined that, holding a stick over my shoulder, I was going into the woods to hunt, Volódya lay flat on his back, with his hands behind his head, and told me that he was going there too. Such actions and words cooled our zest for the game, and were extremely unpleasant, the more so since, in reality, we could not help admitting that Volódya acted wisely.
I know myself that with a stick it is not possible to kill a bird, or even to shoot at all. That is only a game.
