"Like a blade of grass my heart has withered."The two voices mingled and floated over the water in melodious, full sounds, which quivered from excess of power. One of them was complaining of the unbearable pain in the heart, and intoxicated by the poison of its plaint, it sobbed with melancholy and impotent grief; sobbed, quenching with tears the fire of the suffering. The other--the lower, more masculine voice--rolled powerfully through the air, full of the feeling of bloody mortification and of readiness to avenge. Pronouncing the words distinctly, the voice came from her breast in a deep stream, and each word reeked with boiling blood, stirred up by outrage, poisoned by offence and mightily demanding vengeance.
"I will requite him,"
sang Vassa, plaintively, closing her eyes.
"I will inflame him, I'll dry him up,"
Sasha promised sternly and confidently, wafting into the air strong, powerful tones, which sounded like blows. And suddenly, changing the tempo of the song and striking a higher pitch, she began to sing, as slowly as her sister, voluptuous and exultant threats:
"Drier than the raging wind, Drier than the mown-down grass, Oi, the mown and dried-up grass."Resting his elbows on the table, Foma bent his head, and with knitted brow, gazed into the face of the woman, into her black, half-shut eyes Staring fixedly into the distance, her eyes flashed so brightly and malignantly that, because of their light, the velvety voice, that burst from the woman's chest, seemed to him also black and flashing, like her eyes. He recalled her caresses and thought:
"How does she come to be such as she is? It is even fearful to be with her."Ookhtishchev, sitting close to his lady, an expression of happiness on his face, listened to the song and was radiant with satisfaction. The gentleman with the side whiskers and Zvantzev were drinking wine, softly whispering something as they leaned toward each other. The red-headed woman was thoughtfully examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand, holding it in her own, and the jolly girl became sad. She drooped her head low and listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched by it. From the fire came the peasant. He stepped carefully over the boards, on tiptoe; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his broad, bearded face was now transformed into a smile of astonishment and of a naive delight.
"Eh! but feel, my kind, brave man!"
entreated Vassa, plaintively, nodding her head. And her sister, her chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song in powerful triumphant notes:
"The yearning and the pangs of love!"
When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and seating herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and powerful hand.
"Well, was it a nice song?"
"It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.
The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still full of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm he felt awkward and ashamed before the other people.
"Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!" shouted Ookhtishchev, and the others were clapping their hands. But she paid no attention to them, and embracing Foma authoritatively, said:
"Well, make me a present of something for the song.""Very well, I will," Foma assented.
"What?"
"You tell me."
"I'll tell you when we come to town. And if you'll give me what Ilike--Oh, how I will love you!"
"For the present?" asked Foma, smiling suspiciously. "You ought to love me anyway."She looked at him calmly and, after a moment's thought, said resolutely:
"It's too soon to love you anyway. I will not lie. Why should Ilie to you? I am telling you frankly. I love you for money, for presents. Because aside from money, men have nothing. They cannot give anything more than money. Nothing of worth. I know it well already. One can love merely so. Yes, wait a little--I'll know you better and then, perhaps, I may love you free of charge. And meanwhile, you mustn't take me amiss. I need much money in my mode of life."Foma listened to her, smiled and now and then quivered from the nearness of her sound, well-shaped body. Zvantzev's sour, cracked and boring voice was falling on his ears. "I don't like it. Icannot understand the beauty of this renowned Russian song. What is it that sounds in it? Eh? The howl of a wolf. Something hungry, wild. Eh! it's the groan of a sick dog--altogether something beastly. There's nothing cheerful, there's no chic to it; there are no live and vivifying sounds in it. No, you ought to hear what and how the French peasant sings. Ah! or the Italian.""Excuse me, Ivan Nikolayevich," cried Ookhtishchev, agitated.
"I must agree with you, the Russian song is monotonous and gloomy. It has not, you know, that brilliancy of culture," said the man with the side whiskers wearily, as he sipped some wine out of his glass.
"But nevertheless, there is always a warm heart in it," put in the red-haired lady, as she peeled an orange.
The sun was setting. Sinking somewhere far beyond the forest, on the meadow shore, it painted the entire forest with purple tints and cast rosy and golden spots over the dark cold water. Foma gazed in that direction at this play of the sunbeams, watched how they quivered as they were transposed over the placid and vast expanse of waters, and catching fragments of conversation, he pictured to himself the words as a swarm of dark butterflies, busily fluttering in the air. Sasha, her head resting on his shoulder, was softly whispering into his ear something at which he blushed and was confused, for he felt that she was kindling in him the desire to embrace this woman and kiss her unceasingly.
Aside from her, none of those assembled there interested him--while Zvantzev and the gentleman with the side whiskers were actually repulsive to him.
"What are you staring at? Eh?" he heard Ookhtishchev's jestingly-stern voice.
The peasant, at whom Ookhtishchev shouted, drew the cap from his head, clapped it against his knee and answered, with a smile:
