ered with a sigh, _poveretti_! (poor things!)
After dinner they set off for the theatre.

They were giving an opera of Verdi's, which though, honestly speaking,
rather vulgar, has already succeeded in making the round of all the
European theatres, an opera, well-known among Russians, _La Traviata_.
The season in Venice was over, and none of the singers rose above the
level of mediocrity; every one shouted to the best of their abilities.
The part of Violetta was performed by an artist, of no renown, and
judging by the cool reception given her by the public, not a favourite,
but she was not destitute of talent. She was a young, and not very
pretty, black-eyed girl with an unequal and already overstrained voice.
Her dress was ill-chosen and naively gaudy; her hair was hidden in a
red net, her dress of faded blue satin was too tight for her, and thick
Swedish gloves reached up to her sharp elbows. Indeed, how could she,
the daughter of some Bergamese shepherd, know how Parisian _dames aux
camelias_ dress! And she did not understand how to move on the stage;
but there was much truth and artless simplicity in her acting, and she
sang with that passion of expression and rhythm which is only vouchsafed
to Italians. Elena and Insarov were sitting alone together in a dark box
close to the stage; the mirthful mood which had come upon them in the
academy _delle Belle Arti_ had not yet passed off. When the father of
the unhappy young man who had fallen into the snares of the enchantress
came on to the stage in a yellow frock-coat and a dishevelled white wig,
opened his mouth awry, and losing his presence of mind before he had
begun, only brought out a faint bass _tremolo_, they almost burst into
laughter. ... But Violetta's acting impressed them.

'They hardly clap that poor girl at all,' said Elena, 'but I like her
a thousand times better than some conceited second-rate celebrity who
would grimace and attitudinise all the while for effect. This girl seems
as though it were all in earnest; look, she pays no attention to the
public.'

Insarov bent over the edge of the box, and looked attentively at
Violetta.

'Yes,' he commented, 'she is in earnest; she's on the brink of the grave
herself.'

Elena was mute.

The third act began. The curtain rose--Elena shuddered at the sight of
the bed, the drawn curtains, the glass of medicine, the shaded lamps.
She recalled the near past. 'What of the future? What of the present?'
flashed a