They did not insist further.  When Feodor had said, “Those are the orders,” there was room for nothing more, not even in the way of polite insistence.

But before going to their beds all went into the veranda, where liqueurs were served by the brave Ermolai, as always.  Matrena pushed the wheel-chair of the general there, and he kept repeating, “No, no.  No more such people.  No more police.  They only bring trouble.”

“Feodor!  Feodor!” sighed Matrena, whose anxiety deepened in spite of all she could do, “they watched over your dear life.”

“Life is dear to me only because of you, Matrena Petrovna.”

“And not at all because of me, papa?” said Natacha.

“Oh, Natacha!”

He took both her hands in his.  It was an affecting glimpse of family intimacy.

From time to time, while Ermolai poured the liqueurs, Feodor struck his band on the coverings over his leg.

“It gets better,” said he.  “It gets better.”

Then melancholy showed in his rugged face, and he watched night deepen over the isles, the golden night of St. Petersburg.  It was not quite yet the time of year for what they call the golden nights there, the “white nights,” nights which never deepen to darkness, but they were already beautiful in their soft clarity, caressed, here by the Gulf of Finland, almost at the same time by the last and the first rays of the sun, by twilight and dawn.

From the height of the veranda one of the most beautiful bits of the isles lay in view, and the hour was so lovely that its charm thrilled these people, of whom several, as Thaddeus, were still close to nature.  It was he, first, who called to Natacha: 

“Natacha!  Natacha!  Sing us your ‘Soir des Iles.’”

Natacha’s voice floated out upon the peace of the islands under the dim arched sky, light and clear as a night rose, and the guzla of Boris accompanied it.  Natacha sang: 

“This is the night of the Isles — at the north of the world.  The sky presses in its stainless arms the bosom of earth, Night kisses the rose that dawn gave to the twilight.  And the night air is sweet and fresh from across the shivering gulf, Like the breath of young girls from the world still farther north.  Beneath the two lighted horizons, sinking and rising at once, The sun rolls rebounding from the gods at the north of the world.  In this moment, beloved, when in the clear shadows of this
  rose-stained evening I am here alone with you,
Respond, respond with a heart less timid to the holy, accustomed
  cry of ‘Good-evening.’”

Ah, how Boris Nikolaievitch and Michael Korsakoff watched her as she sang!  Truly, no one ever can guess the anger or the love that broods in a Slavic heart under a soldier’s tunic, whether the soldier wisely plays at the guzla, as the correct Boris, or merely lounges, twirling his mustache with his manicured and perfumed fingers, like Michael, the indifferent.