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Then he went to his piano, as it seemed, unconsciously opened it, and tried to pick out by ear the melody of Tchaykovsky's song; but he slammed it to again directly in vexation, and went up to his aunt to her special room, which was for ever baking hot, smelled of mint, sage, and other medicinal herbs, and was littered up with such a multitude of rugs, side-tables, stools, cushions, and padded furniture of all sorts, that any one unused to it would have found it difficult to turn round and oppressive to breathe in it.
She was called back ... not very soon, she reappeared, with the same hesitating steps approached the piano, and whispering a couple of words to the accompanist, who picked out and put before him another piece of music, began Tchaykovsky's song: 'No, only he who knows the thirst to see.... This song she sang differently from the first in a low voice, as though she were tired ... and only at the line next the last, 'He knows what I have suffered, broke from her in a ringing, passionate cry.
She's going to sing a song of Glinka's ... and of Tchaykovsky's; and then she'll recite the letter from Yevgeny Oniegin. Well; will you take a ticket? 'And when will it be? 'To-morrow ... to-morrow, at half-past one, in a private drawing-room, in Ostozhonka.... I will come for you. A five-rouble ticket?... Here it is ... no, that's a three-rouble one.
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