Maria Ivanovna, as she went out to get supper ready, thought to herself that Fate could surely have nothing but happiness in store for so beautiful and charming a girl as her darling Lida.
Sarudine and Tanaroff went to the piano in the drawing-room, while Lida reclined lazily in the rocking-chair on the veranda. Novikoff, mute, walked up and down on the creaking boards of the veranda floor, furtively glancing at Lida’s face, at her firm, full bosom, at her little feet shod in yellow shoes, and her dainty ankles. But she took no heed of him nor of his glances, so enthralled was she by the might and magic of a first passion. She shut her eyes, and smiled at her thoughts.
In Novikoff’s soul there was the old strife; he loved Lida, yet he could not be sure of her feelings towards himself. At times she loved him, so he thought; and again, there were times when she did not. If he thought “yes,” how easy and pleasant it seemed for this young, pure, supple body to surrender itself to him. If he thought “no,” such an idea was foul and detestable; he was angry at his own lust, deeming himself vile, and unworthy of Lida.
At last be determined to be guided by chance.
“If I step on the last board with my right foot, then I’ve got to propose; and if with the left, then—”
He dared not even think of what would happen in that case.
He trod on the last board with his left foot. It threw him into a cold sweat; but he instantly reassured himself.
“Pshaw! What nonsense! I’m like some old woman! Now then; one, two, three—at three I’ll go straight up to her, and speak. Yes, but what am I going to say? No matter! Here goes! One, two, three! No, three times over! One, two, three! One, two—”
His brain seemed on fire, his mouth grew parched, his heart beat so violently that his knees shook.
“Don’t stamp like that!” exclaimed Lida, opening her eyes. “One can’t hear anything.”
Only then was Novikoff aware that Sarudine was singing.
The young officer had chosen that old romance,
I loved you once! Can you forget?
Love in my heart is burning yet.
He did not sing badly, but after the style of untrained singers who seek to give expression by exaggerated tone-colour. Novikoff found nothing to please him in such a performance.
“What is that? One of his own compositions?” asked he, with unusual bitterness.
“No! Don’t disturb us, please, but sit down!” said Lida, sharply. “And if you don’t like music, go and look at the moon!”
Just then the moon, large, round and red, was rising above the black treetops. Its soft evasive light touched the stone steps, and Lida’s dress, and her pensive, smiling face. In the garden the shadows had grown deeper; they were now sombre and profound as those of the forest.
Novikoff sighed, and then blurted out.
“I prefer you to the moon,” thinking to himself, “that’s an idiotic remark!”
Lida burst out laughing.
“What a lumpish compliment!” she exclaimed.
“I don’t know how to pay compliments,” was Novikoff’s sullen rejoinder.
“Very well, then, sit still and listen,” said Lida, shrugging her shoulders, pettishly.
But you no longer care, I know,
Why should I grieve you with my woe?
The tones of the piano rang out with silvery clearness through the green, humid garden. The moonlight became more and more intense and the shadows harder. Crossing the grass, Sanine sat down under a linden-tree and was about to light a cigarette. Then he suddenly stopped and remained motionless, as if spellbound by the evening calm that the sounds of the piano and of this youthfully sentimental voice in no way disturbed, but rather served to make more complete.
“Lidia Petrovna!” cried Novikoff hurriedly, as if this particular moment must never be lost. “Well?” asked Lida mechanically, as she looked at the garden and the moon above it and the dark boughs that stood out sharply against its silver disc.
“I have long waited—that is—I have been anxious to say something to you,” Novikoff stammered out.
Sanine turned his head round to listen.
“What about?” asked Lida, absently.
Sarudine had finished his song and after a pause began to sing again. He thought that he had a voice of extraordinary beauty, and he much liked to hear it.
Novikoff felt himself growing red, and then pale. It was as if he were going to faint.
“I—look here—Lidia Petrovna—will you be my wife?”
As he stammered out these words he felt all the while that he ought to have said something very different and that his own emotions should have been different also. Before he had got the words out he was certain that the answer would be “no”; and at the same time he had an impression that something utterly silly and ridiculous was about to occur.
Lida asked mechanically, “Whose wife?” Then suddenly, she blushed deeply, and rose, as if intending to speak. But she said nothing and turned aside in confusion. The moonlight fell full on her features.
“I—love you!” stammered Novikoff.
For him, the moon no longer shone; the evening air seemed stifling, the earth, he thought, would open beneath his feet.
“I don’t know how to make speeches—but—no matter, I love you very much!”
(“Why, very much?” he thought to himself, “as if I were alluding to ice-cream.”)
Lida played nervously with a little leaf that had fluttered down into her hands. What she had just heard embarrassed her, being both unexpected and futile; besides, it created a novel feeling of disagreeable restraint between herself and Novikoff whom from her childhood she had always looked upon as a relative, and whom she liked.
“I really don’t know what to say! I had never thought about it.”
Novikoff felt a dull pain at his heart, as if it would stop beating. Very pale, he rose and seized his cap.
“Goodbye,” he said, not hearing the sound of his own voice. His quivering lips were twisted into a meaningless smile.
“Are you going? Goodbye!” said Lida, laughing nervously and proffering
