“No, darling, I am not singing. You only imagine it. You are ill; you are feverish. Calm yourself.”
········
“Vassili, where is my baby?”
“At home in Kieff, with grandmama. Dear grandmama is taking such good care of him!”
“And why are we not with him? Where are we?”
“Why? Why? Where is Pegli? What are we doing at Pegli?”
“Come now, dearest; you know—we came to Italy because I wanted to sing—”
“Ah, you see! You wanted to sing! Why do you want to sing when the baby is crying? The baby is so helpless. Why did you take me away from him? You sing, you sing so loud that I cannot hear my baby crying. Don't sing!”
But even as I speak I see that Vassili has his round mouth open again and he sings and sings, and the white spiders run over the scarlet counterpane and come close to my face—and the white spiders are my hands. I shriek and shriek to have them taken away. But the baby is crying and Vassili is singing and no one hears me.