“I'll wring the neck of whoever comes!… I'm so happy, Tina.… Two years have passed since last we met.…”
Somebody began to play the piano in the ballroom.
“Akh! Moskva, Moskva, Moskva, white-stoned Moskva!” … several voices sang in chorus.
“You see, they are all singing there.… Nobody will come in.…”
“Yes, yes.…”
The meeting with Tina took away my drowsiness.… Ten minutes later she led me into the ballroom, where the chorus was standing in a semi-circle.… The Count, sitting astride on a chair, was beating time with his hands.… Pshekhotsky stood behind his chair, looking with astonished eyes at these singing birds. I tore his balalaika out of Karpov's hands, struck the chords, and—
“Down the Volga.… Down the mother Volga.”
“Down the Vo‑o‑o‑lga!” the chorus chimed in.
“Ay, burn, speak … speak …”
I waved my hand, and in an instant with the rapidity of lightning there was another transition.…