“But you might sing to us,”—went on Vladímir Sergyéitch, turning to Márya Pávlovna;—“you have such a fine voice.”
She did not answer him.
“And how is your mother?”—Vladímir Sergyéitch inquired of Ipátoff, not knowing what to talk about.
“Thank God! she gets on nicely, considering her ailments. She came over in her little carriage to-day. She’s a broken tree, I must tell you—creak, creak, and the first you know, some young, strong sapling falls over; but she goes on standing and standing. Ekh, ha, ha!”
Márya Pávlovna dropped her hands in her lap, and bowed her head.
“And, nevertheless, her existence is hard,”—began Ipátoff again;—“rightly is it said: ‘old age is no joy.’”
“And there’s no joy in being young,”—said Márya Pávlovna, as though to herself.
Vladímir Sergyéitch would have liked to return home that night, but it was so dark out of doors that he could not make up his mind to set out. He was assigned to the same chamber, up-stairs, in which, three months previously, he had passed a troubled night, thanks to Egór Kapítonitch....
“Does he snore now?”—thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he recalled his drilling of his servant, and the sudden appearance of Márya Pávlovna in the garden....
Vladímir Sergyéitch walked to the window, and laid his brow against the cold glass. His own face gazed dimly at him from out of doors, as though his eyes were riveted upon a black curtain, and it was only after a considerable time that he was able to make out against the starless sky the branches of the trees, writhing wildly in the gloom. They were harassed by a turbulent wind.