A far greater success as a pedagogue enjoyed Nijeradze. His guitar
and mandolin always hung in the dining room, secured to the nails
with ribbons. The guitar, with its soft, warm sounds, drew Liubka
more than the irritating, metallic bleating of the mandolin. When
Nijeradze would come to them as a guest (three or four times a
week, in the evening), she herself would take the guitar down from
the wall, painstakingly wipe it off with a handkerchief, and hand
it over to him. He, having fussed for some time with the tuning,
would clear his throat, put one leg over the other, negligently
throw himself against the back of the chair, and begin in a
throaty little tenor, a trifle hoarse, but pleasant and true:
"The trea-cha-rous sa-ound av akissing
Resahounds through the quiet night air;
Tuh all fla-ming hearts it is pleasing,
And given tuh each lovin' pair.
For a single mohoment of mee-ting ..."
And at this he would pretend to swoon away from his own singing,
shut his eyes, toss his head in the passionate passages or during
the pauses, tearing his right hand away from the strings; would
suddenly turn to stone, and for a second would pierce Liubka's
eyes with his languorous, humid, sheepish eyes.
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