“You are in a peculiar mood now, and you are an angel, anyhow, but to-morrow you’ll see the matter in a different light.”
“At any rate, let us postpone it, Pashenka.” And she led the way back to the meeting room.
Many of the company knew of the expected announcement, and when they heard that it was not to take place they felt sorely disappointed. When the business of the meeting had been disposed of, a Terrorist named Sablin waggishly drank the health of Mlle. Yavner and the social revolution, to the accompaniment of the rapturous band of the first floor, and then he began to improvise burlesque verses on her as a newcomer, with allusions to her power over Pavel. This revolutionist was one of the “twin poets” of the party, his muse, which had a weakness for satire, being the gayer of the two. The “grave bard,” whose name was Morosoff, was in Switzerland now. The two were great chums. As always, Sablin was the great convivial spirit of the company. When he was not versifying, he was making jokes, telling anecdotes or trying to speak Little-Russian to Purring Cat, who, being from Little Russia, answered his questions with smiling passivity. Some of his rhymes related to Purring Cat’s interminable side-whiskers, Zachar’s habit of throwing out his chest as he walked, the reticence of the tall man with the Tartarian face, and, above all, the Janitor’s explosions of wrath when one “was not continually leering around for spies.”
The Janitor cursed him good-humouredly, without stuttering, and resumed his discussion with a man who looked like the conventional image of Christ, and with Urie, the tall blond man with typical Great-Russian features who had introduced Pavel to the Nihilist world and whom he still called “Godfather.” The gay poet then took to versifying on the “three blond beards” of this trio.
Zachar made the most noise, dancing cossack hops till the floor shook under his feet, singing at the top of his lungs, filling the large room with deafening guffaws. Baska, the light complexioned “housewife” of the dynamite shop, who looked like a peasant woman, was the greatest giggler of all the women present. Grisha, her passport husband at that shop, and her real husband—a thin man with Teutonic features, known among the revolutionists as “the German”—were also there.
Sophia, the daughter of the former governor of St. Petersburg, sat by Clara’s side, smiling her hearty good wishes upon her. She looked like a happy little girl, Sophia, her prominent cheeks aglow, and her clear blue self-possessed eyes full of affection and sweet-spirited penetration. She was engaged to Zachar, and Pavel’s courtship had enlisted her tender interest. There were several other women at the gathering, two or three of them decidedly good-looking.
There was an unpublished poem, “Virgin Soil,” by the “gay bard,” which Clara had heard him recite and which portrayed, among other things, a Nihilist woman becoming a mother in her isolated cell. Her child is wrested from her arms to perish, and she goes insane. The episode, which is part of a bitter satire on a certain official, is based on fact. As Clara now thought of it and beheld the demented woman nursing a rag, a shudder passed through her frame.
“Cheer up, Clara! Cheer up!” Zachar thundered. “We don’t want any long faces to-night.”
Clara smiled, a sorry smile, and Zachar went on hopping and laughing. But when Sophia stroked her hand, smilingly, Clara buried her face in her bosom and gave way to a quick sob.