And so the evening was a great success. The young folks, as usual, either joined the others, or were by themselves. Beaumont joined them a couple of times; a couple of times Viéra Pavlovna would draw him from them and their serious conversation.
They talked a great deal; but there was, after all, very little serious discussion.
All were sitting together.
“Well, what was the result? Was it good or bad?” asked one of the young men, who had taken the tragical attitude.
“She is rather worse than better,” said Viéra Pavlovna.
“What do you mean, Viérotchka?” asked Katerina Vasílyevna.
“At all events, it is unavoidable in life,” said Beaumont.
“It is an inevitable fate,” said Kirsánof, in affirmation.
“It is an excellently bad thing; consequently, it is excellent,” said the one who asked.
The other three young fellows nodded their heads, and said, “Bravo, Nikítin!”
The young folks were by themselves.
“I did not know him, Nikítin; but you knew him, didn’t you?” asked Mosolof.
“I was a little boy then, but I saw him.”
“But how does it seem to you now, as you look back? do they tell the truth? Would he accept her friendship?”
“No.”
“And haven’t you seen him since?”
“No. However, Beaumont was at that time in America.”
“Really! Karl Yakovlich, come here just a moment. Did you meet in America that Russian of whom we are speaking?”
“No.”
“It should be time for him to come back.”
“Yes.”
“What an idea came into my head,” said Nikítin; “he would make a nice match for her.”
“Gentlemen, some of you come and sing with me,” said Viéra Pavlovna.—“So two of you want to come? So much the better!”
Mosolof and Nikítin stayed behind.
“I can show you an interesting thing, Nikítin,” said Mosolof.—“What do you think—is she sleeping?”
“No.”
“Only don’t tell! You can tell her after you get better acquainted with her; but nobody else. She would not like it.”
The windows of the apartment were low.
“This window, you see, is near the fire.” Mosolof looked.
“That’s it; do you see?”
The lady in mourning had moved her chair to the table, and was sitting down: with her left elbow she leaned on the table, the palm of her hand supported her drooping head, hiding her cheek and part of her hair. Her right hand was resting on the table, and her fingers were drumming mechanically, as though she were playing some tune. The lady’s face had a fixed expression of melancholy, sorrowful but still more stern. Her eyebrows were lifting and drooping, lifting, drooping.
“Is it always so, Mosolof?”
“You see. However, let us come away, else we’ll catch cold. It’s already quarter-past ten.”
“What a heartless fellow you are!” said Nikítin, looking keenly into his comrade’s eyes as they passed by the lamp in the entry.
“You are getting sentimental, little brother. Is this your experience?”
Lunch was ready.
“What splendid vodka this is,” said Nikítin; “how strong it is! It takes away your breath.”
“Ekh! little winch! your eyes are already red,” said Mosolof. All began to make fun of Nikítin in the same way.
“It’s only because it choked me, but I can generally drink,” said he, in justification. They began to look at their watches. “It’s only eleven o’clock; we can count on half an hour more; we shall have time.”
In half an hour Katerina Vasílyevna went to wake the lady in mourning. She was met by her on the threshold, stretching herself after her nap.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Splendidly.”
“And how do you feel?”
“Magnificently. I told you it was a mere trifle; I got tired because I fooled too much. Now I shall be more staid.”
But, no, she could succeed in being staid. In five minutes she was already charming Pólozof, and ordering round the young men, and was drumming out a march, or something of the sort, with the handles of two forks on the table. Then she was in a hurry to leave; but the others, who had got into a gale from her renewed riot, did not want to go.
“Are the horses ready?” she asked, getting up from the lunch table.
“Not yet. We have just sent to have them put in.”
“You good-for-nothings! But if this is so, come, Viéra Pavlovna, sing us something; I have been told that you have a splendid voice.”
Viéra Pavlovna sang.
“I shall often ask you to sing,” said the lady in mourning.
“Now it’s your turn! now it’s your turn!” they all cried. But they had hardly time to urge her before she was seated at the piano.
“Well, all right, only I can’t sing; but that makes no difference. I don’t care for anything. Now, mesdames and messieurs, I am not going to sing for your sake, but for my children. Children, don’t you laugh at your ma!” At the same time she struck the chords which lead to the accompaniment. “Children, don’t you dare to laugh, for I shall sing with feeling.” And, trying to bring out the notes as squeaky as possible, she sang:—
“Moans the dark blue—”
The young people roared with laughter at such an unexpected method, and the rest of the company also laughed. And the songstress herself could not refrain from joining; but, suppressing her merriment, she continued, twice as squeaky as before:—
“Moans the dark blue little pigeon,116
Moans all day and moans all night
For his sweetheart—”
But at this word her voice really trembled and choked. “It doesn’t go, and it’s just as well that it doesn’t go. But if this doesn’t go, something else will—something better? Listen, children, to your mother’s advice: Don’t fall in love, and know that you have no right to marry.”
Then she sang in a strong, full contralto:—
“In our towns, a host of beauties are;
In each twilight eye there shines a star.
Happy fate regards them all sincerely,
But—
“This but is stupid, children—
But the brave young fellow loves too dearly.
