"Sing something else, Sinotschka!" cried Lialia; "or, better still,
recite one of your own poems."
"So you're a poetess, too?" asked Ivanoff. "How many gifts does the
good God bestow upon his creatures!"
"Is that a bad thing?" asked Sina in confusion.
"No, it's a very good thing," replied Sanine.
"If a girl's got youth and good looks, what does she want with poetry,
I should like to know?" observed Ivanoff.
"Never mind! Recite something, Sinotschka, do!" cried Lialia, amorous
and tender.
Sina smiled, and looked away self-consciously before she began to
recite in her clear, musical voice the following lines: Oh! love, my own true love,
To thee I'll never tell it,
Never to thee I'll tell my burning love!
But I will close these amorous eyes,
And they shall guard my secret well.
Only by days of yearning is it known.
The calm blue nights, the golden stars,
The dreaming woods that whisper in the night,
These, yes, they know it, but are dumb;
They will not show the mystery of my great love.
Once more there was great enthusiasm, and they all loudly applauded
Sina, not because her little poem was a good one, but because it was
expressive of their mood, and because they were all longing for love
and love's delicious sorrow.
"O Night, O Day! O lustrous eyes of Sina, I pray you tell me that it is
I, the happy man!" cried Ivanoff ecstatically in a deep bass voice
which startled them all.
"Well, I can assure you that it is not you," replied Semenoff.
"Ah! woe is me!" wailed Ivanoff; and everybody laughed.
"Are my verses bad?" Sina asked Yourii.
He did not think that they had much originality, for they reminded him
of hundreds of similar effusions. But Sina was so pretty and looked at
him with those dark eyes of hers in such a pleading way that he gravely
replied: "I thought them quite charming and melodious."
Sina smiled, surprised that such praise could please her so much.
"Ah I you don't know my Sinotschka yet!" said Lialia, "she is all that
is beautiful and melodious."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Ivanoff.
"Yes, indeed I do!" persisted Lialia. "Her voice is beautiful and
melodious, and so are her poems; she herself is a beauty; her name,
even, is beautiful and melodious."
"Oh! my goodness! What more can you say than that!" cried Ivanoff. "But
I am quite of your opinion."