Màrya (singing softly as she works).
“Black colour, sad colour,
Yet for ever dear to me.”
(Breaks off, stops working, and meditates.)
MÀRYA: “THERE! LOOK! OH! HE BOWED TO US! OH! THE WICKED MAN!”
There! The summer’s nearly over; here we have September already, and you just sit cooped up within four walls, for all the world like a nun, and don’t dare to look out of window. That’s an interesting life for a young lady! (A pause.) I daresay! It’s all very well to shut us up and turn the key on us; but I know what we’ll do! We’ll ask leave to go to midnight mass at the convent, and then we’ll put on our best things and go off to the park or somewhere. There’s nothing for it, one has to do things on the sly. (Goes on embroidering; a pause.) I wonder how it is that Vasìli Gavrìlych hasn’t passed by once to-day? (Looks out of window.) Sister! sister! There’s an officer riding past! Sister! Quick! With a white plume!
Matryòna (runs into the room). Where, sister, where?
Màrya. There! Look! (They look out.) Oh! he bowed to us! Oh! the wicked man! (They hide behind the window-curtains.)
Matryòna. How handsome he is!