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And Viéra Pavlovna dreams a dream.
After tea, she had a talk with her mílenki, and went to her room to lie down -- not to sleep; it was too early to sleep. Why, it was only half-past nine; no, she did not even undress; she only lay down to read. And here she is reading as she lies on her little bed; but the book falls away from her eyes, and Viéra begins to think: "What is the reason that lately I have been feeling lonesome occasionally; or not exactly lonesome, or does it merely seem so? No; it is not lonesome, but I only just happened to remember that I wanted to go to the opera this evening: but this Kirsánof, attentive fellow that he is, went too late to get tickets; he might have known that when Bosio35 is singing, it is impossible to get two-ruble tickets at eleven o'clock. Of course he cannot be blamed; he must have been working till five o'clock, surely till five o'clock, though he didn't confess it; and yet he is to blame. No; after this, I'd better ask the mílenki to get tickets, and I guess I'd better go to the opera with my mílenki, too; mílenki would never be so stupid as to let me go without tickets, and he is always glad to go with me; my mílenki is such a sweet fellow! And on account of this Kirsánof, I have missed hearing Traviata. I would go every night to the opera, if there were opera, no matter how bad it might be, provided only Bosio sang the chief role; if I had such a voice as Bosio, it seems to me I would sing all day long. I wonder if I could get acquainted with her. How could I manage it? That artillerist is well acquainted with Tamberlík.36 Could it be done through him? No; it is impossible; what an absurd thought! What is the good of getting acquainted with Bosio? Would she sing for me? Of course she has to save her voice.