ed something in her ears.

'Mischievous things, young people,' Anna Vassilyevna observed gaily to
Uvar Ivanovitch.

He flourished his fingers in reply.

'What a girl Zoya Nikitishna is!' said Bersenyev to Elena.

'And Shubin? What of him?' she answered.

Meanwhile the whole party went into the arbour, well known as Pleasant
View arbour, and stopped to admire the view of the Tsaritsino lakes.
They stretched one behind the other for several miles, overshadowed by
thick woods. The bright green grass, which covered the hill sloping
down to the largest lake, gave the water itself an extraordinarily vivid
emerald colour. Even at the water's edge not a ripple stirred the
smooth surface. One might fancy it a solid mass of glass lying heavy and
shining in a huge font; the sky seemed to drop into its depths, while
the leafy trees gazed motionless into its transparent bosom. All were
absorbed in long and silent admiration of the view; even Shubin was
still; even Zoya was impressed. At last, all with one mind, began to
wish to go upon the water. Shubin, Insarov, and Bersenyev raced each
other over the grass. They succeeded in finding a large painted boat
and two boatmen, and beckoned to the ladies. The ladies stepped into
the boat; Uvar Ivanovitch cautiously lowered himself into it after
them. Great was the mirth while he got in and took his seat. 'Look out,
master, don't drown us,' observed one of the boatmen, a snubnosed
young fellow in a gay print shirt. 'Get along, you swell!' said Uvar
Ivanovitch. The boat pushed off. The young men took up the oars, but
Insarov was the oniy one of them who could row. Shubin suggested that
they should sing some Russian song in chorus, and struck up: 'Down
the river Volga'... Bersenyev, Zoya, and even Anna Vassilyevna, joined
in--Insarov could not sing--but they did not keep together; at the third
verse the singers were all wrong. Only Bersenyev tried to go on in
the bass, 'Nothing on the waves is seen,' but he, too, was soon in
difficulties. The boatmen looked at one another and grinned in silence.

'Eh?' said Shubin, turning to them, 'the gentlefolks can't sing, you
say?' The boy in the print shirt only shook his head. 'Wait a little
snubnose,' retorted Shubin, 'we will show you. Zoya Nikitishna, sing us
_Le lac_ of Niedermeyer. Stop rowing!' The wet oars stood still, lifted
in the air like wings, and their splash died away with a tuneful drip;
the boat drifted on a little, then stood st