“Thou art always playing pranks, Nádya,”—she said.
“Didn’t I speak the truth about thee? I am ready to appeal to all.... Well, enough, enough, I won’t do it again. But I will say again,”—went on Nadézhda Alexyéevna, addressing Vladímir Sergyéitch,—“that it is a pity you are going away. We have a jeune premier, it is true; he calls himself so, but he is very bad.”
“Who is he? permit me to inquire.”
“Bodryakóff the poet. How can a poet be a jeune premier? In the first place, he dresses in the most frightful way; in the second place, he writes epigrams, and gets shy in the presence of every woman, even in mine. He lisps, one of his hands is always higher than his head, and I don’t know what besides. Tell me, please, M’sieu Astákhoff, are all poets like that?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch drew himself up slightly.
“I have never known a single one of them, personally; but I must confess that I have never sought acquaintance with them.”
“Yes, you certainly are a positive man. We shall have to take Bodryakóff; there’s nothing else to be done. Other jeunes premiers are even worse. That one, at all events, will learn his part by heart. Másha, in addition to tragic rôles, will fill the post of prima donna.... You haven’t heard her sing, have you, M’sieu Astákhoff?”
“No,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, displaying his teeth in a smile; “and I did not know....”
“What is the matter with thee to-day, Nádya?”—said Márya Pávlovna, with a look of displeasure.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna sprang to her feet.