.."
Rovinskaya got up and said with sincere, warm tears in her eyes:
"Of course, we'll go away, and the lesson of Mlle. Marguerite will
prove of benefit to us. Your time will be paid for--take care of
it, Volodya. Still, you sang so much for us, that you must allow
me to sing for you as well."
Rovinskaya went up to the piano, took a few chords, and suddenly
began to sing the splendid ballad of Dargomyzhsky:
"We parted then with pride--
Neither with sighs nor words
Proffered I thee reproach of jealousy ...
We went apart for aye,
Yet only if with thee
I might but chance to meet! ..
Ah, that with thee I might but chance to meet!
"I weep not nor complain--
To fate I bend my knee...
I know not, if you loved,
So greatly wronging me?
Yet only if with thee
I might but chance to meet! ...
Ah, that with thee I might but chance to meet!"
This tender and passionate ballad, executed by a great artiste,
suddenly reminded all these women of their first love; of their
first fall; of a late leave-taking at a dawn in the spring, in the
chill of the morning, when the grass is gray from the dew, while
the red sky paints the tips of the birches a rosy colour; of last
embraces, so closely entwined, and of the unerring heart's
mournful whispers: "No, this will not be repeated, this will not
be repeated!" And the lips were then cold and dry, while the damp
mist of the morning lay upon the hair.
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