“Oh, what theories!”—remarked Piótr Alexyéitch;—“how far away we have got from verses!”
“I recited those verses yesterday evening to Márya Pávlovna,” interposed Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“and they pleased her greatly.”
“Akh, please recite them,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
“Certainly, madam.”
And Astákhoff recited “The Upas-Tree.”
“Too bombastic,”—ejaculated Véretyeff, as though against his will, as soon as Vladímir Sergyéitch had finished.
“The poem is too bombastic?”
“No, not the poem.... Excuse me, it seems to me that you do not recite with sufficient simplicity. The thing speaks for itself; however, I may be mistaken.”
“No, thou art not mistaken,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, pausing between her words.
“Oh, yes; that is a matter of course! In thy eyes I am a genius, an extremely gifted man, who knows everything, can do everything; unfortunately, he is overcome with laziness; isn’t that so?”