“Life on earth is bright to him, Who knows no cares or woe, And whose heart is not consumed By passion’s ardent glow!”
Her sister nodded her head and slowly, plaintively began to moan in a deep contralto:
“Ah me! Of me the maiden fair.”
Flashing her eyes at her sister, Sasha exclaimed in her low-pitched notes:
“Like a blade of grass my heart has withered.”
The two voices mingled and floated over the water in melodious, full sounds, which quivered from excess of power. One of them was complaining of the unbearable pain in the heart, and intoxicated by the poison of its plaint, it sobbed with melancholy and impotent grief; sobbed, quenching with tears the fire of the suffering. The other—the lower, more masculine voice—rolled powerfully through the air, full of the feeling of bloody mortification and of readiness to avenge. Pronouncing the words distinctly, the voice came from her breast in a deep stream, and each word reeked with boiling blood, stirred up by outrage, poisoned by offence and mightily demanding vengeance.
“I will requite him,”
sang Vassa, plaintively, closing her eyes.
“I will inflame him,
I’ll dry him up,”
Sasha promised sternly and confidently, wafting into the air strong, powerful tones, which sounded like blows. And suddenly, changing the tempo of the song and striking a higher pitch, she began to sing, as slowly as her sister, voluptuous and exultant threats: