“Where? on their shoulders and arms and legs—everywhere. They say in ancient times women wore gold rings on their ankles. The Bacchantes call the girls in the boat to them. The girls have ceased singing their hymn—they cannot go on with it, but they do not stir, the river carries them to the bank. And suddenly one of them slowly rises…. This you must describe nicely: how she slowly gets up in the moonlight, and how her companions are afraid…. She steps over the edge of the boat, the Bacchantes surround her, whirl her away into night and darkness…. Here put in smoke in clouds and everything in confusion. There is nothing but the sound of their shrill cry, and her wreath left lying on the bank.” Zinaïda ceased. (“Oh! she is in love!” I thought again.) “And is that all?” asked Meidanov. “That’s all.” “That can’t be the subject of a whole poem,” he observed pompously, “but I will make use of your idea for a lyrical fragment.” “In the romantic style?” queried Malevsky. “Of course, in the romantic style—Byronic.” “Well, to my mind, Hugo beats Byron,” the young count observed negligently; “he’s more interesting.” “Hugo is a writer of the first class,” replied Meidanov; “and my friend, Tonkosheev, in his Spanish romance, _El Trovador_ …” “Ah! is that the book with the question-marks turned upside down?” Zinaïda interrupted. “Yes. That’s the custom with the Spanish. I was about to observe that Tonkosheev …” “Come! you’re going to argue about classicism and romanticism again,” Zinaïda interrupted him a second time.” We’d much better play… “Forfeits?” put in Lushin. “No, forfeits are a bore; at comparisons.” (This game Zinaïda had invented herself. Some object was mentioned, every one tried to compare it with something, and the one who chose the best comparison got a prize.) She went up to the window. The sun was just setting; high up in the sky were large red clouds. “What are those clouds like?” questioned Zinaïda; and without waiting for our answer, she said, “I think they are like the purple sails on the golden ship of Cleopatra, when she sailed to meet Antony. Do you remember, Meidanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?” All of us, like Polonius in _Hamlet_, opined that the clouds recalled nothing so much as those sails, and that not one of us could discover a better comparison. “And how old was Antony then?” inquired Zinaïda. “A young man, no doubt,” observed Malevsky. “Yes, a young man,” Meidanov chimed in in confirmation. “Excuse me,” cried Lushin, “he was over forty.” “Over forty,” repeated Zinaïda, giving him a rapid glance…. I soon went home. “She is in love,” my lips unconsciously repeated…. “But with whom?” XII The days passed by. Zinaïda became stranger and stranger, and more and more incomprehensible. One day I went over to her, and saw her sitting in a basket-chair, her head pressed to the sharp edge of the table. She drew herself up … her whole face was wet with tears.