“No; she thinks all that sort of thing is made up—is all false; and she does not like that.”
“A strange reproach!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch. “Made up! How could it be otherwise? But, after all, what are composers for?”
“Well, there, that’s exactly the point; but I am sure you cannot be fond of poetry.”
“On the contrary, I love good verses, when they really are good and melodious, and—how shall I say it?—when they present ideas, thoughts....”
Márya Pávlovna rose.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna turned swiftly toward her.
“Whither art thou going, Másha?”
“To put the children to bed. It is almost nine o’clock.”
“But cannot they go to bed without thee?”
But Márya Pávlovna took the children by the hand and went away with them.