The
melodious voice blended with the thin, musical hum of the samovar.
The clear, simple narrative of savage people who lived in caves and
killed the beasts with stones floated and quivered like a dainty
ribbon in the room. It sounded like a tale, and the mother looked
up to her son occasionally, wishing to ask him what was illegal in
the story about wild men. But she soon ceased to follow the narrative
and began to scrutinize the guests, unnoticed by them or her son.
Pavel sat at Natasha's side. He was the handsomest of them all.
Natasha bent down, very low over the book. At times she tossed back
the thin curls that kept running down over her forehead, and lowered
her voice to say something not in the book, with a kind look at the
faces of her auditors. The Little Russian bent his broad chest over
a corner of the table, and squinted his eyes in the effort to see
the worn ends of his mustache, which he constantly twirled.
Vyesovshchikov sat on his chair straight as a pole, his palms resting
on his knees, and his pockmarked face, browless and thin-lipped,
immobile as a mask. He kept his narrow-eyed gaze stubbornly fixed
upon the reflection of his face in the glittering brass of the
samovar.
Pages:
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60