There is a short silence. Then a thin voice is heard. It is the girl, slender as a young birch, with the sharp, cheerful little face, who is speaking.
“My God! What strength! What eloquence!”
Mikhail Lvovich slowly turns his face toward her. He smiles severely and says nothing.
The girl has her hands clasped across her knees. It is an extremely pretty pose. Her face has suddenly assumed a very grave air, breathing passionate entreaty and fiery determination. She exclaims fervently:
“Let’s all sing the chorus! Mikhail Lvovich will teach us. You will teach us, Mikhail Lvovich, won’t you?”
“Very well,” Mikhail Lvovich replies with his usual severe dignity.
He casts his dull, heavy gaze round the crowded circle of delighted young faces. He alone sits with his back to the open glade and to the witching moon. His face, now in the shade, has become even more significant. And his whole bearing is one of imposing solemnity.
The faces of the younger people are white in the moonlight. Their garments are luminously bright. Their voices are brilliantly clear. In their simple trust there is the sense of an avowal.
“Well, let us begin!” exclaims the slender girl, somewhat agitated.
Mikhail Lvovich raises his hand with a solemn gesture and begins: