Pushkin's son

Anna fluttered out of the carriage, her knees trembling—it was her first time out. Princess Vyazemskaya adjusted her daughter's curls and whispered:
"The main thing, my dear, is to keep your back straight, but not stiffly. And don't even think about blushing if someone invites you to a mazurka. Young people are terrified of that."

As soon as she crossed the threshold of the ballroom, Anna was immersed in the glitter of uniforms and diamonds, but suddenly froze. A gentleman of about twenty-five stood by a column—swarthy, with curly, dark-blond hair and light, almost transparent eyes set in an African-skinned face. He was the spitting image of Pushkin, only younger and more robust.
"Mama," Anna whispered under her breath, grabbing the princess by the fan. "Who is this?"

Princess Vyazemskaya squinted short-sightedly, raising her lorgnette to her eyes.

"Ah, this..." she drawled, lowering her voice to a half-whisper. "This is Artem Alexandrovich Pushkin."

"Pushkin?" Anna's heart skipped a beat. "A relative of Alexander Sergeyevich?"

"Ah, that..." the princess lowered her voice. "Artem Alexandrovich Pushkin. A son, but an illegitimate one. But before the duel, the poet, sensing doom, acknowledged the infant and gave him his surname—he feared the line would end. The world grumbled, and now they say: sharp-tongued, just like his father, only without the resounding fame."

Before the duel, Pushkin seemed to sense doom and, instead of hiding his sin, acknowledged the boy's actions. He treated him like a baby, like a straw. Sveta,
The young man caught Anna's gaze, turned sharply, and, noticing the genuine admiration in her eyes, walked straight toward her. He bowed, and his voice took on that same "African" lilt:

"Madam, I notice that you are looking at me as if you were recalling an unfinished stanza. Dare I ask you to waltz, or are you afraid that the shadow of a great name will trample your feet?"

Anna, forgetting all her mother’s instructions, blushed, but did not pull her hands away.

"What should I be afraid of if a shadow cannot be heavier than a living person?" she answered quietly, placing her palm in his hot, dry one.