The subtly infernal enchantment of girl and music was felt by everybody; but several among the illuminati and the fair ultra-modernettes had now reached their limit of breadth and tolerance, and were becoming 212 bored and self-conscious, when abruptly Marya’s figure straightened to a lovely severity, her mouth opened sweetly as a cherub’s, and, looking up like a little, ruddy bird, she sang one of the ancient Kolyadki, Vanya alone understanding as his long, thin fingers wandered instinctively into an improvised accompaniment:
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I
“Young tears Your fears disguise; He is not coming! Sweet lips Let slip no sighs; Cease, heart, your drumming! He is not coming, [A]Lada! He is not coming. Lada oy Lada! “Gaze not in wonder,–– Yonder no rider comes; Hark how the kettle-drums Mock his hoofs’ thunder; Hark to their thudding, Pretty breasts budding,–– Setting the Buddhist bells Clanking and banging,–– Wheels at the hidden wells Clinking and clanging! (Lada oy Lada!) Plough the flower under; Tear it asunder! “Young eyes In swift surprise, What terror veils you? Clear eyes, Who gallops here? 213 What wolf assails you? What horseman hails you, Lada! What pleasure pales you? Lada oy Lada! “Knight who rides boldly, May Erlik impale you,–– Your mother bewail you, If you use her coldly! Health to the wedding! Joy to the bedding! Set all the Christian bells Swinging and ringing–– Monks in their stony cells Chanting and singing (Lada oy Lada!) Bud of the rose, Gently unclose!” |
Marya, her gemmed fingers bracketed on her hips, the last sensuous note still afloat on her lips, turned her head so that her rounded chin rested on her bare shoulder; and looked at Shotwell. He rose, applauding with the others, and found a chair for her.
But when she seated herself, she addressed Ilse on the other side of him, leaning so near that he felt the warmth of her hair.
“Who was it wrestled with Loki? Was it Hel, goddess of death? Or was it Thor who wrestled with that toothless hag, Thokk?”
Ilse explained.
The conversation became general, vaguely accompanied by Vanya’s drifting improvisations, where he still sat at the piano, his lost gaze on Marya.
Bits of the chatter around him came vaguely to Shotwell––the birth-control lady’s placid inclination toward 214 obstetrics; Wardner on concentration, with Palla listening, bending forward, brown eyes wide and curious and snowy hands framing her face; Ilse partly turned where she was seated, alert, flushed, half smiling at what John Estridge, behind her shoulder, was saying to her,––some improvised nonsense, of which Jim caught a fragment:
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“If he who dwells in Midgard With cunning can not floor her, What hope that Mistress Westgard Will melt if I implore her? “And yet I’ve come to Asgard, And hope I shall not bore her If I tell Mistress Westgard How deeply I adore her–––” |
Through the hum of conversation and capricious laughter, Vanya’s vague music drifted like wind-blown thistle-down, and his absent regard never left Marya, where she rested among the cushions in low-voiced dialogue with Jim.