Embarrassed, Myshlaevsky changed his tune.
'Don't get upset, Mr Opera-singer.
I get carried away . . . you know me.'
'Funny way you have . . .'
'Gentlemen, please be quiet . . .' Nikolka gave a warning look and tapped his foot on the floor.
They all stopped and listened.
Voices were coming from Vasilisa's apartment below.
They could just make out the sound of Vasilisa laughing cheerfully, though a shade hysterically.
As if in reply, Wanda said something in a confident, ringing voice.
Then they quietened down a little, the voices burbling on for a while.
'How extraordinary', said Nikolka thoughtfully. 'Vasilisa has visitors.
People to see him.
And at a time like this.
A real party too, by the sound of it.'
'He's weird all right, is your Vasilisa', grunted Myshlaevsky. #
It was around midnight that Alexei fell asleep after his injection, and Elena settled down in the armchair by his bedside.
Meanwhile, a council of war was taking place in the drawing-room.
It was decided that they should all stay for the night.
Firstly, it was pointless to try and go anywhere at night, even with papers that were in order.
Secondly, it would be better for Elena if they stayed - they could help in case it was needed.
And above all, at a time like this it was better not to be at home, but to be out visiting.
An even more pressing reason was that there was no alternative; here at least they could play whist.
'Do you play?' Myshlaevsky asked Lariosik.
Lariosik blushed, looked embarrassed, and said hastily that he did play, but very, very badly . . . that he hoped they wouldn't swear at him in the way his partner, the tax inspector, used to swear at him in Zhitomir . . . that he had been through a terrible crisis, but that here in Elena Vasilievna's house he was regaining his spirits, that Elena Vasilievna was a quite exceptional person and that it was so warm and cosy here, especially the cream-colored blinds on all the windows, which made you feel insulated from the outside world . ..
And as for that outside world - you had to agree it was filthy, bloody and senseless.
'Do you write poetry, may I ask?' Myshlaevsky asked, staring intently at Lariosik.
'Yes, I do', Lariosik said modestly, blushing.
'I see, . . .
Sorry I interrupted you . . .
Senseless, you were saying.
Please go on.'
'Yes, senseless, and our wounded souls look for peace somewhere like here, behind cream-colored blinds . . .'
'Well, as for peace, I don't know what things are like in Zhitomir, but I don't think you'll find it here, in the City ...
Better give your throat a good wetting with vodka before we start, or you'll feel very dry.
May we have some candles?
Excellent.
In that case someone will have to stand down.
Playing five-handed, with one dummy, is no good . . .'
'Nikolka plays like a dummy, anyway', put in Karas.
'What? What a libel!
Who lost hands down last time?
You revoked.'
'The right place to live is behind cream-colored blinds.
I don't know why, but everyone seems to laugh at poets . . .'
'God forbid . . .
Why did you take my question amiss?
I've nothing against poets.
I admit I don't read poetry but . . .'
'And you've never read any other books either except for the artillery manual and the first fifteen pages of Roman law . . . the war broke out on page sixteen and he gave it up . . .'
'Nonsense, don't listen to him . . .