“But to what end?”—interrupted Másha.
“What do you mean by that? What is one to live on then?”
“But isn’t it possible to get along without liquor?”
“No, it is not; we are all damaged, rumpled. There’s passion ... it produces the same effect. That’s why I love you.”
“Like wine.... I’m much obliged to you.”
“No, Másha, I do not love you like wine. Stay, I’ll prove it to you sometime,—when we are married, say, and go abroad together. Do you know, I am planning in advance how I shall lead you in front of the Venus of Milo. At this point it will be appropriate to say:
“And when she stands with serious eyes
Before the Chyprian of Milos—
Twain are they, and the marble in comparison
Suffers, it would seem, affront....
“What makes me talk constantly in poetry to-day? It must be that this morning is affecting me. What air! ’Tis exactly as though one were quaffing wine.”
“Wine again,”—remarked Márya Pávlovna.
“What of that! A morning like this, and you with me, and not feel intoxicated! ‘With serious eyes....’ Yes,”—pursued Véretyeff, gazing intently at Márya Pávlovna,—“that is so.... For I remember, I have beheld, rarely, but yet I have beheld these dark, magnificent eyes, I have beheld them tender! And how beautiful they are then! Come, don’t turn away, Másha; pray, smile at least ... show me your eyes merry, at all events, if they will not vouchsafe me a tender glance.”