The Man Who Was Afraid [83]
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:
"Drier than the raging wind, Drier than the mown-down grass, Oi, the mown and dried-up grass."
Resting his elbows on the table, Foma bent his head, and with knitted brow, gazed into the face of the woman, into her black, half-shut eyes Staring fixedly into the distance, her eyes flashed so brightly and malignantly that, because of their light, the velvety voice, that burst from the woman's chest, seemed to him also black and flashing, like her eyes. He recalled her caresses and thought:
"How does she come to be such as she is? It is even fearful to be with her."
Ookhtishchev, sitting close to his lady, an expression of happiness on his face, listened to the song and was radiant with satisfaction. The gentleman with the side whiskers and Zvantzev were drinking wine, softly whispering something as they leaned toward each other. The red-headed woman was thoughtfully examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand, holding it in her own, and the jolly girl became sad. She drooped her head low and listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched by it. From the fire came the peasant. He stepped carefully over the boards, on tiptoe; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his broad, bearded face was now transformed into a smile of astonishment and of a naive delight.
"Eh! but feel, my kind, brave man!"
entreated Vassa, plaintively, nodding her head. And her sister, her chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song in powerful triumphant notes:
"The yearning and the pangs of love!"
When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and seating herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and powerful hand.
"Well, was it a nice song?"
"It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.
The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still full of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm he felt awkward and ashamed before the other people.
"Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!" shouted Ookhtishchev, and the others were clapping their hands. But she paid no attention to them, and embracing Foma authoritatively, said:
"Well, make me a present of something for the song."
"Very well, I will," Foma assented.
"What?"
"You tell me."
"I'll tell you when we come to town. And if you'll give me what I like--Oh, how I will love you!"
"For the present?" asked Foma, smiling suspiciously. "You ought to love me anyway."
She looked at him calmly and, after a moment's thought, said resolutely:
"It's too soon to love you anyway. I will not lie. Why should I lie to you? I am telling you frankly. I love you for money, for presents. Because aside from money, men have nothing. They cannot give anything more than money. Nothing of worth. I know it well already. One can love merely so. Yes, wait a little--I'll know you better and then, perhaps, I may love you free of charge. And meanwhile, you mustn't take me amiss. I need much money in my mode of life."
Foma listened to her, smiled and now and then quivered from the nearness of her sound, well-shaped body. Zvantzev's sour, cracked and boring voice was falling on his ears. "I don't like it. I cannot understand the beauty of this renowned Russian song. What is it that sounds in it? Eh? The howl of a wolf. Something hungry, wild. Eh! it's the groan of a sick dog--altogether something beastly. There's nothing cheerful, there's no chic to it; there are no live and vivifying sounds in it. No, you ought to hear what and how the French peasant sings.
"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:
"Drier than the raging wind, Drier than the mown-down grass, Oi, the mown and dried-up grass."
Resting his elbows on the table, Foma bent his head, and with knitted brow, gazed into the face of the woman, into her black, half-shut eyes Staring fixedly into the distance, her eyes flashed so brightly and malignantly that, because of their light, the velvety voice, that burst from the woman's chest, seemed to him also black and flashing, like her eyes. He recalled her caresses and thought:
"How does she come to be such as she is? It is even fearful to be with her."
Ookhtishchev, sitting close to his lady, an expression of happiness on his face, listened to the song and was radiant with satisfaction. The gentleman with the side whiskers and Zvantzev were drinking wine, softly whispering something as they leaned toward each other. The red-headed woman was thoughtfully examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand, holding it in her own, and the jolly girl became sad. She drooped her head low and listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched by it. From the fire came the peasant. He stepped carefully over the boards, on tiptoe; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his broad, bearded face was now transformed into a smile of astonishment and of a naive delight.
"Eh! but feel, my kind, brave man!"
entreated Vassa, plaintively, nodding her head. And her sister, her chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song in powerful triumphant notes:
"The yearning and the pangs of love!"
When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and seating herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and powerful hand.
"Well, was it a nice song?"
"It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.
The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still full of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm he felt awkward and ashamed before the other people.
"Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!" shouted Ookhtishchev, and the others were clapping their hands. But she paid no attention to them, and embracing Foma authoritatively, said:
"Well, make me a present of something for the song."
"Very well, I will," Foma assented.
"What?"
"You tell me."
"I'll tell you when we come to town. And if you'll give me what I like--Oh, how I will love you!"
"For the present?" asked Foma, smiling suspiciously. "You ought to love me anyway."
She looked at him calmly and, after a moment's thought, said resolutely:
"It's too soon to love you anyway. I will not lie. Why should I lie to you? I am telling you frankly. I love you for money, for presents. Because aside from money, men have nothing. They cannot give anything more than money. Nothing of worth. I know it well already. One can love merely so. Yes, wait a little--I'll know you better and then, perhaps, I may love you free of charge. And meanwhile, you mustn't take me amiss. I need much money in my mode of life."
Foma listened to her, smiled and now and then quivered from the nearness of her sound, well-shaped body. Zvantzev's sour, cracked and boring voice was falling on his ears. "I don't like it. I cannot understand the beauty of this renowned Russian song. What is it that sounds in it? Eh? The howl of a wolf. Something hungry, wild. Eh! it's the groan of a sick dog--altogether something beastly. There's nothing cheerful, there's no chic to it; there are no live and vivifying sounds in it. No, you ought to hear what and how the French peasant sings.