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Updated: June 23, 2025
Kseniya was tired to death, but endeavoured to appear fresh and cheerful. She passed the coffee round, and then fetched a bottle of liqueur. They sat almost in silence; what talk they exchanged was desultory. "One more year dropped into Eternity," Arkhipov said, sombrely. "Yes, a year nearer to death, a year further from birth," rejoined Polunin. Kseniya Ippolytovna was seated opposite him.
Misty, vaporous, tormenting shadows danced and twisted oddly in the shifting glimmer: in the tenebrous half-light the occupants looked grey, weary, and haggard, their faces strangely distorted by the alternate rise and fall of the shadows. Arkhipov's bald head with its tightly stretched skin resembled a greatly elongated skull. "Listen to me, you Arkhipovs," Kseniya cried brokenly.
Kseniya Ippolytovna had known them a long time: they had been acquaintances even before Arkhipov's marriage. As he greeted her now, he kissed her hand and began speaking about foreign countries principally Germany, which he knew and admired. They passed into the study, where they argued and conversed: they had nothing much to talk about really.
The old butler called Kseniya Ippolytovna at eight; then served her with coffee. After she had taken it, he said austerely: "You will have to go round the house and arrange things, Barina; then go into the study to read books and work out the expenses and write out recipes for your house-party. The old gentry always did that."
One long past summer, Polunin and Kseniya Ippolytovna used to greet the glowing dawn together. At sundown, when the birch-trees exhaled a pungent odour and the crystal sickle of the moon was sinking in the west, they bade adieu until the morrow on the cool, dew-sprinkled terrace, and Polunin passionately kissed as he believed the pure, innocent lips of Kseniya Ippolytovna.
The moon rose.... The stars shone brilliantly. The snow was dead- white. The river Volga was deserted. It was dark and still by the old Cathedral. The frost was hard and crisp, crackling underfoot. The two young girls, Kseniya and Lena, with Sergius and the general, were returning to the mansion to fetch their handsleighs and toboggan down the slope to the river.
I drink to the sacred " she broke off abruptly, sat down and hung her head. Somebody cried: "Hurrah!" To someone else it seemed that Kseniya was weeping. The clock began to chime, the guests shouted "Hurrah!" clinked glasses, and drank. Then they sang, while some rose and carried round glasses to those of the guests who were still sober and those who were only partially intoxicated. They bowed.
Kseniya Ippolytovna mounted the steps and rang, although Polunin had already opened the door for her. The hall was large, bright, and cold. As she entered, the sunrays fell a moment on the windows and the light grew warm and waxy, lending to her face as Polunin thought a greenish-yellow tint, like the skin of a peach, and infinitely beautiful.
"No, wait," continued the mocking voice at the other end of the line; "here is something more from Annensky: 'We are the heisha-girls of lantern-light!... 'And what seemed to them music brought them torment'; and again: 'But Cypris has nothing more sacred than the words I love, unuttered by us' ..." "That is unjust, Kseniya." "Unjust!" She laughed stridently; then suddenly was silent.
Kseniya Ippolytovna established herself in her mother's rooms. She told the one ancient retainer that the household should be conducted as in her parents' day, with all the old rules and regulations.
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