“It really was I,”—said Márya Pávlovna;—“only, I was not declaiming anything; I never declaim.”
“Perhaps it seemed so to me,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“but....”
“It did seem so to you?”—remarked Márya Pávlovna, coldly.
“What’s ‘The Upas-Tree’?”—inquired Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
“Why, don’t you know?”—retorted Astákhoff.—“Do you mean to say you don’t remember Púshkin’s verses: ‘On the unhealthy, meagre soil’?”
“Somehow I don’t remember.... That upas-tree is a poisonous tree, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Like the datura.... Dost remember, Másha, how beautiful the datura were on our balcony, in the moonlight, with their long, white blossoms? Dost remember what fragrance poured from them,—so sweet, insinuating, and insidious?”
“An insidious fragrance!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Yes; insidious. What are you surprised at? They say it is dangerous, but it is attractive. Why can evil attract? Evil should not be beautiful.”