YASHA. [Sings softly] “Oh, will you understand
My soul’s deep restlessness?”
[In the drawing-room a figure in a grey top-hat and in baggy check trousers is waving its hands and jumping about; there are cries of “Bravo, Charlotta Ivanovna!”]
DUNYASHA. [Stops to powder her face] The young mistress tells me to dance—there are a lot of gentlemen, but few ladies—and my head goes round when I dance, and my heart beats, Fiers Nicolaevitch; the Post-office clerk told me something just now which made me catch my breath. [The music grows faint.]
FIERS. What did he say to you?
DUNYASHA. He says, “You’re like a little flower.”
YASHA. [Yawns] Impolite.... [Exit.]
DUNYASHA. Like a little flower. I’m such a delicate girl; I simply love words of tenderness.
FIERS. You’ll lose your head.
[Enter EPIKHODOV.]
EPIKHODOV. You, Avdotya Fedorovna, want to see me no more than if I was some insect. [Sighs] Oh, life!