On my wedding night, in the hotel at Kharkoff, I summoned the
chambermaid. She knocked and entered. She was a pert, pretty creature,
and after surveying me from head to foot she threw a rapid glance at
Vassili. He was seated in an armchair, lighting a cigarette.
"What is your name?" he asked the girl.
"Rosalia, at your service, sir," she replied.
"Very good, Rosalia," said my husband. "This evening we shall do without
you. Possibly in a day or two I may wish to see you again."
The girl laughed, made a slight curtsey, and went out, closing the door
behind her.
"But who is going to do my hair?" I asked, feeling very much out of
countenance and shy at remaining alone with him.
"Never mind about your hair," said Vassili. "Don't be so tedious. You're
a little bore." And he kissed me.
Then he sat down and smoked his cigarette, watching me out of narrowed
eyelids as I wandered about the room in great trepidation and
embarrassment. I was about to kneel down by the bedside to say my
prayers, when he suddenly grasped my wrist and held it tightly.
"What are you doing now?" he inquired.
"I am going to say my prayers," I replied.
"Don't bother about your prayers," he said. "Try not to be such an awful
little bore. Really you are quite insufferable."
But I would not have missed my prayers for the world. At home prayers
had always been a matter of great importance. Olga and I used to say
them aloud in unison morning and evening. And now that Olga was far away
I must say them alone. I buried my face in my hands and said them
devoutly, with all my heart.
They were, I admit, numerous and long; and they were in many languages,
for every nurse or governess that came to us in Otrada had taught us new
ones; and Olga and I were afraid to leave any out, lest God should be
offended; we were also rather doubtful as to which language He
understood the best.