“Are you a Little Russian?”—Vladímir Sergyéitch asked her.
“I am a native of Little Russia,” she replied, and began to sing “Humming, humming.”
At first she uttered the words in an indifferent manner; but the mournfully passionate lay of her fatherland gradually began to stir her, her cheeks flushed scarlet, her glance flashed, her voice rang out fervently. She finished.
“Good heavens! How well thou hast sung that!”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, bending over the keys.—“What a pity that my brother was not here!”
Márya Pávlovna instantly dropped her eyes, and laughed with her customary bitter little laugh.
“You must give us something more,”—remarked Ipátoff.
“Yes, if you will be so good,”—added Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Excuse me, I will not sing any more to-day,”—said Márya Pávlovna, and left the room.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna gazed after her, first reflected, then smiled, began to pick out “The farm-hand is sowing the grain” with one finger, then suddenly began to play a brilliant polka, and without finishing it, struck a loud chord, clapped to the lid of the piano, and rose.
“‘Tis a pity that there is no one to dance with!”—she exclaimed.—“It would be just the thing!”