Thus passed a month, and maybe somewhat more; and if anyone had reckoned, he would have found that during this month his friendliness to the Lopukhófs had not diminished a hair’s breadth; but fourfold less time he spent with them, and simultaneously he reduced to almost a half the time that he used to spend with Viéra Pavlovna. One month more, and while their former friendship still remained, the friends would see each other but little, and the thing would have its hat on.
Lopukhóf’s eyes were sharp; don’t they really see anything? No; not a thing.
But Viéra Pavlovna? and Viéra Pavlovna notices nothing. But does she notice no change in herself? Viéra Pavlovna notices no change in herself. Only Viéra Pavlovna dreams a dream.
XIX
Viéra Pavlovna’s Third Dream
And Viéra Pavlovna dreams a dream.
After tea, she had a talk with her mílenki, and went to her room to lie down—not to sleep; it was too early to sleep. Why, it was only half-past nine; no, she did not even undress; she only lay down to read. And here she is reading as she lies on her little bed; but the book falls away from her eyes, and Viéra begins to think: “What is the reason that lately I have been feeling lonesome occasionally; or not exactly lonesome, or does it merely seem so? No; it is not lonesome, but I only just happened to remember that I wanted to go to the opera this evening: but this Kirsánof, attentive fellow that he is, went too late to get tickets; he might have known that when Bosio35 is singing, it is impossible to get two-ruble tickets at eleven o’clock. Of course he cannot be blamed; he must have been working till five o’clock, surely till five o’clock, though he didn’t confess it; and yet he is to blame. No; after this, I’d better ask the mílenki to get tickets, and I guess I’d better go to the opera with my mílenki, too; mílenki would never be so stupid as to let me go without tickets, and he is always glad to go with me; my mílenki is such a sweet fellow! And on account of this Kirsánof, I have missed hearing Traviata. I would go every night to the opera, if there were opera, no matter how bad it might be, provided only Bosio sang the chief role; if I had such a voice as Bosio, it seems to me I would sing all day long. I wonder if I could get acquainted with her. How could I manage it? That artillerist is well acquainted with Tamberlík.36 Could it be done through him? No; it is impossible; what an absurd thought! What is the good of getting acquainted with Bosio? Would she sing for me? Of course she has to save her voice.
“And how did Bosio succeed in learning Russian? How purely she pronounces! But what absurd words! Where could she have found such wretched poetry? Yes; she must have studied out of the same grammar which I did; those verses were quoted in it to illustrate the use of quotation marks. How stupid it is to quote such verses in a grammar! though it would not be so bad if the poetry were better; but there is no need of thinking about the meaning of the verses; all one needs to do is to hear her sing:—
‘The hours of pleasure
Make the most of;
The years of youth
Give up to love.’37
“What ridiculous poetry! wrong accent in the second line: make the most of! of, uv! But what a voice and what feeling she puts into her singing; and her voice is vastly sweeter than it used to be—incomparably better! It is wonderful! How could it improve so much? And here I was wondering how I could get acquainted with her, and she herself has come to call upon me. How did she find out that I wanted her to?”
“Yes; you came to call on me a long time ago,” says Bosio, and she speaks Russian.
“I called upon you, Bosio? How could I have called upon you when I was not acquainted with you? But I am very, very glad to see you.”
Viéra Pavlovna pushed aside her bed-curtain, so as to give Bosio her hand; but the cantatrice laughs, and it seems that it is not Bosio at all, but de Merrick in the role of the gypsy “Rigoletto”; only the gayety of the laughter is de Merrick’s, but the voice is still Bosio’s, and she runs away and hides herself behind the bed-curtain. How disagreeable, that this bed-curtain hides her—and before there was no bed-curtain at all: where did it come from?
“Do you know why I came to you?” And she laughs, as though she were de Merrick and at the same time Bosio.
“Who are you? You are not de Merrick, are you?”
“No.”
“Are you Bosio?”
The songstress laughs. “You learn rapidly; but now it will be necessary for us to attend to what brought me here. I want to read your diary with you.”
“I do not keep a diary; I never kept one.”
“Look here; what is that lying on this little table?”
Viéra Pavlovna looks; on the table near the bedstead is lying a copybook with the inscription, “V. L.’s Diary.” Where did this copybook come from? Viéra Pavlovna takes it, opens it; the book is written in her own hand—but when?
“Read the last page,” says Bosio.
Viéra Pavlovna reads: “Again I am often obliged to stay alone whole evenings. But that’s nothing; I am used to it.”
“Is that all?” asks Bosio.
“That’s all.”
“No; you did not read it all.”
“There is nothing more written there.”
“You cannot deceive me,” says the visitor. “What
