Although the plan seemed wild and fantastic to her father, he gave his consent.
“Yes, of course you may,” he answered when she asked if she might have the victoria. “Drive to Khodinka and send it back.”
“All right.”
She went up to him, and he blessed her, as was his custom, and she kissed his big white hand, and they separated.
There was no talk of anything but the morrow’s festival among the cigarette-makers in the lodgings let by the notorious Marie Yakovlevna. Several of Emelian Tagodin’s friends had met in his room to discuss when they should start.
“It’s not worth while going to bed at all. You’ll only oversleep yourself,” said Yakov, a bright youth who occupied a space behind a wooden partition.
“Why not have a little sleep?” retorted Emelian. “We’ll start at dawn. Everyone says that’s the thing to do.”
“Well, if we are going to bed, it’s time we went.”
“But, Emelian, mind you call us if we don’t wake up in time.”
Emelian promised he would, and, taking a reel of silk from a drawer in the table, drew the lamp nearer, and began to sew a missing button on his summer overcoat. When he had finished this job he laid out his best clothes and cleaned his boots, and, after saying several prayers—“Our Father,” “Hail Mary,” etc. , the meaning of which he had never fathomed, and had not even been interested in—he took off his boots, and lay down on the crumpled, creaking bed.