“Along the Volga river A little boat is flo-o-oating.”
The brunette, snapping her large, stern eyes with contempt, said, without looking at her: “We feel gloomy enough without this.”
“Don’t touch her. Let her sing!” entreated Foma, kindly, looking into his lady’s face. He was pale some spark seemed to flash up in his eyes now and then, and an indefinite, indolent smile played about his lips.
“Let us sing in chorus!” suggested the man with the side whiskers.
“No, let these two sing!” exclaimed Ookhtishchev with enthusiasm. “Vera, sing that song! You know, ‘I will go at dawn.’ How is it? Sing, Pavlinka!”
The giggling girl glanced at the brunette and asked her respectfully:
“Shall I sing, Sasha?”
“I shall sing myself,” announced Foma’s companion, and turning toward the lady with the birdlike face, she ordered:
“Vassa, sing with me!”
Vassa immediately broke off her conversation with Zvantzev, stroked her throat a little with her hand and fixed her round eyes on the face of her sister. Sasha rose to her feet, leaned her hand against the table, and her head lifted haughtily, began to declaim in a powerful, almost masculine voice: