mallet said something melodiously coherent. Ekh, if he only had children! If—well, if he only had a nice mistress instead of that bloated old woman, who made his flesh crawl merely by what she said; by her words about the Princess, and about some pious nun or other named Polikarpia, who was called in the town “Polukarpia.” But it was too late, too late.
Unfastening the embroidered collar of his shirt, Tikhon Ilitch, with a bitter smile, felt of his throat behind the ears. Those hollows were the first sign of old age; his head was assuming the shape of a horse’s head! But otherwise things were not so bad. He bent his head, thrust his fingers into his beard. And his beard was grey, dry, dishevelled. Yes, enough—enough, Tikhon Ilitch!
He drank, grew intoxicated, set his jaws more and more tightly, stared more intently than ever at the wick of the lamp, burning with an even flame. Think of it! You couldn’t go to see your own brother—the pigs prevented, like the swine they were! And if they would let him, there would still be small cause for joy. Kuzma would read him a lecture, the Bride would stand with lips pressed tight and drooping eyelashes. Why, those lowered eyelids alone were enough to make a man take to his heels!
His heart sank within him, ached; a pleasing mist clouded his brain. Where had he heard that song?—
“My tiresome evening’s come; I know not what to do. My friend belov’d is come, He fondles me, loves me true.”
Ah, yes, it was in Lebedyan, at the posting station. The young girls, lace-makers, were sitting on a winter evening and singing. There they sat, weaving their lace and never raising their eyelashes; they sang in deep, ringing voices:
“He kisses me, embraces me, Then takes his leave of me. …”