Iván Mikhailovich who, generally supping at home in his shirt-sleeves, now felt constrained to take off his coat, endeavored to lend to his gestures and motions as much elegance and grace as possible, and was amiable and courteous at table, even to his mother-in-law.
“Shall I hand you the butter?” he asked, anticipating her wish.
“You are acting just as if you had come on a visit,” Maria Petrovna remarked, and, taking the butter with a pleasant smile, said: “Merci!”
“Well, good night, my Marguerite!” said Iván Mikhailovich, approaching his wife and once more gazing attentively into her eyes; then he kissed her hand and cheek.
“Good night, my Faust!” jokingly replied Xenia Pavlovna, kissing her husband on the lips.
Then Iván Mikhailovich pressed Maria Petrovna’s hand and went into the bedroom.
The blue hanging-lamp flooded the chamber with a soft, tender, soothing, bluish light, and it was so peacefuland cozy. Iván Mikhailovich undressed, and, taking off his boots, still continued to sing from “Faust” in a tender falsetto:
“’Tis life alone to be near thee,Thine only, all thine own!”
“’Tis life alone to be near thee,Thine only, all thine own!”
“’Tis life alone to be near thee,Thine only, all thine own!”