..
and always so hypercritical too. Oh, you amuse me! I'm French, you
see--not Russian at all; these poor people see through nothing--but we
French!"
After dinner there was a strange scene. We all moved into the long,
over-decorated drawing-room. We sat about, admired the pictures (a
beautiful one by Somoff I especially remember--an autumn scene with
eighteenth-century figures and colours so soft and deep that the effect
was inexpressibly delicate and mysterious), talked and then fell into
one of those Russian silences that haunt every Russian party. I call
those silences "Russian," because I know nothing like them in any other
part of the world. It is as though the souls of the whole company
suddenly vanished through the windows, leaving only the bodies and
clothes. Every one sits, eyes half closed, mouths shut, hands
motionless, host and hostess, desperately abandoning every attempt at
rescue, gaze about them in despair.
The mood may easily last well into the morning, when the guests, still
silent, will depart, assuring everybody that they have enjoyed
themselves immensely, and really believing that they have; or it may
happen that some remark will suddenly be made, and instantly back
through the windows the souls will come, eagerly catching up their
bodies again, and a babel will arise, deafening, baffling, stupefying.
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