Thus, the carriage that took us to church would have been deemed old-fashioned anywhere but at Woroïno, but there I think a new carriage would have been much more shocking; and if my mother’s dresses lasted a little too long, no one paid any attention to that either. We Géras were simply the last of our line in this very ancient land of northern Bohemia. One might have thought that we no longer existed, that invisible men of eminence, much more imposing than we, continued to fill with their images the mirrors of our house. I want to avoid any impression of straining after an effect, especially at the end of a paragraph. But one might say that in a certain sense it is the living members of old families who seem to be the ghosts of the dead.

You must forgive me for lingering so long over that Woroïno of olden times, but I loved it very much. That is a weakness of mine, no doubt, for I suppose one should not attach oneself so much to anything, at least not to anything in particular. It is not that we were terribly happy; at least, joy scarcely existed there. I do not remember ever having heard laughter, even the laughter of a young girl, which was not suppressed. One does not laugh much in old families. In the end, one gets used to speaking only in a low voice, as if afraid of awakening memories that are really better left to sleep in peace. But we were not unhappy either, and I should also admit that I never saw tears there. It is just that we were always a bit sad. That came more from character than from circumstance, and everyone around me agreed that it was possible to be happy without ceasing to be sad.