Chapter 11 eleven

That evening the regulars gathered at Tasekin's house.I am one of them. The conversation turned to Maidanov's long poem; Zinaida sincerely praised it. "However, do you know," she said to him, "that if I were a poet I would take up other subjects. Maybe it's all nonsense, and sometimes strange ideas come into my head, especially It's just before dawn, when I can't sleep, when the sky starts to look pink and gray. And I'll, like...you're not going to laugh at me, are you?" "No! No!" We all shouted in unison. "I will describe," she went on, crossing her hands on her chest and staring at one side, "a group of young girls sailing on a large boat at night on a quiet river. The moonlight is bright, and they also They all wore white clothes, white flower crowns on their heads, and sang songs, listen to me, as if they were singing songs of praise."

"I understand, I understand, please continue," Maidanov whispered meaningfully as if he had fallen into fantasy. "Suddenly—there was noise and laughter on the shore, torches appeared, drums thumping... a group of Bacchanalian priestesses ran, sang, and shouted. The description of the scenery is your business Yes, Monsieur Poet... But I'd like to paint the torches red and smoky, and make the eyes of the priestesses glisten under the corolla, which should be dark. But don't forget the tiger skin And goblets, and gold, lots and lots of gold." "Where should the gold be kept?" asked Maidanov, flinging back his straight hair and opening his nostrils.

"Where? On their shoulders, on their arms, on their feet, anywhere. It is said that ancient women wore gold anklets on their ankles.The priestesses beckoned the girls on board to come to them.The girls didn't sing the hymn anymore, they couldn't go on, but the girls didn't move: they all sailed down the river to the shore.At this moment one of them suddenly stood up quietly... It will take a long time to describe how she stood up quietly in the moonlight, and how surprised her companions were... She stepped over On the ship's side, the priestesses surrounded her and quickly pulled her into the night, into the darkness... You can imagine the smoke and chaos here.At this moment, only the screams of her companions were heard, and her wreath was still on the shore. "

Zinaïda was silent. (Ah! She's in love!" I thought again.) "Is that all?" Maidanov asked. "That's all," she replied. "That can't be the subject of a whole long poem," he said sternly, "but I can borrow your idea for a lyric." "Romantic?" asked Malewsky; "Romantic, of course, and written in Byronic verse." "In my opinion, Hugo is better than Byron," said the young earl casually, "and more interesting to write." "Hugo is a first-rate novelist," Maidanov objected. "My friend Donkosyev, in his Spanish novel El Trovador..." "Oh, this is The book with the question marks upside down?"

Zinaïda interrupted him. "Yes. It's a Spanish custom. I mean Donkoshyev..." "Hey! You're arguing about classicism and romanticism again," Zinaida interrupted him again. , "Why don't we play..." "Play Fantawild?" Lu Shen answered her words. "No, we're tired of the Fantasia game; let's play with metaphors. (It's a game Zinaïda herself conceived: first name one thing, and then each try to compare it with another , whoever makes the most appropriate analogy wins the prize.) She went to the window.The sun was just setting; high in the sky were long, bright red clouds.

"What do these clouds look like?" Zinaida asked, and before we could answer she said: "I think they look like red sails on a golden ship that Cleopatra went to meet Antony. Maida Do you remember, Nove, that you told me this story not long ago?" We all, like Polonius in Hamlet, think that these clouds are exactly like these Zhufans, and think that none of us has found the most suitable analogy. "How old was Anthony then?" asked Zinaïda. "Probably young people," Malewski said. "Yes, a young man," Maidanov assured. "Excuse me," cried Lushin, "he's past forty."

"It's past forty," Zinaïda repeated, looking briefly at him. I will be home soon. "She's in love," I whispered involuntarily. "But who is she in love with?"