piano, and on the stage, everywhere in threes; and the first
performance was fixed for the thirteenth, and now the first rehearsal
was on a Monday, an unlucky day. All part of the war against
superstition! All the devotees of the scenic art were gathered
together; the eldest, the middle, and the youngest sisters were
walking about the stage, reading their parts in exercise books.
Apart from all the rest stood Radish, motionless, with the side of
his head pressed to the wall as he gazed with adoration at the
stage, waiting for the rehearsal to begin. Everything as it used
to be.

I was making my way to my hostess; I had to pay my respects to her,
but suddenly everyone said "Hush!" and waved me to step quietly.
There was a silence. The lid of the piano was raised; a lady sat
down at it screwing up her short-sighted eyes at the music, and my
Masha walked up to the piano, in a low-necked dress, looking
beautiful, but with a special, new sort of beauty not in the least
like the Masha who used to come and meet me in the spring at the
mill. She sang: "Why do I love the radiant night?"

It was the first time during our whole acquaintance that I had heard
her sing. She had a fine, mellow, powerful voice, and while she
sang I felt as though I were eating a ripe, sweet, fragrant melon.
She ended, the audience applauded, and she smiled, very much pleased,
making play with her eyes, turning over the music, smoothing her
skirts, like a bird that has at last broken out of its cage and
preens its wings in freedom. Her hair was arranged over her ears,
and she had an unpleasant, defiant expression in her face, as though
she wanted to throw down a challenge to us all, or to shout to us
as she did to her horses: "Hey, there, my beauties!"