The samovár gurgled joyfully, rising importantly in all its beauty and sparkle from the snow-white of the table-cloth; the nice white loaves of bread smelt good and very tempting; and fresh, soft-boiled eggs seemed just waiting to be cracked over the nose with a spoon. And Maria Petrovna, sailing out of the nursery with her old wrap over her shoulders, spoke kindly: “Well, children, you must be quite hungry?”
Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He entered the dimly lighted salon and paced it with a slow tread, smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand and purred: “Angel, Angel Marguerite!”
Then he returned to the dining-room, approached Xenia Pavlovna, silently kissed her on the head, and again went into the salon, where he continued purring.
“You had better eat and leave ‘Angel Marguerite’ for after,” said Maria Petrovna, thrusting her head into the doorway of the salon.
“In a moment! In a moment!” Iván Mikhailovich replied with vexation, and continued walking, wholly surrendering himself to vague emotions and recollections and the feeling of tender sadness for the past.
Afterward they all three had tea and spoke very amiably, and a good and peaceful feeling filled their hearts. Xenia Pavlovna changed her evening dress for a white capote with sleeves resembling wings, and let down her hair. She visited the nursery several times, and, sinking on her knees before the three little beds, she gazed with a mother’s passion and tenderness at the sleeping babies with their full, chubby little arms and sweet, carefree faces, and it seemed to her that here were sleeping the little angels, pure, gentle, helpless, and great in their purity, that had carried Marguerite into heaven.
“You look like Marguerite in prison,” remarked her husband, leaning on his arm and gazing at his wife long and attentively, and it seemed to him as if a whole chapter of his life had disappeared and before him was a sweet, young maiden with golden hair, whom one longed to love, to adore forever.
And under this glance Xenia Pavlovna lowered her eyes, smiled, and felt that somewhere far down at the very bottom of her soul the broken, unfinished song of her youthful heart sounded like a mountain echo.
Iván Mikhailovich who, generally supping at home in his shirt-sleeves, now felt constrained to take off his coat, endeavored to lend to his gestures and motions as much elegance and grace as possible, and was amiable and courteous at table, even to his mother-in-law.
“Shall I hand you the butter?” he asked, anticipating her wish.