And suddenly one of them slowly rises...
This you must describe nicely: how she slowly gets up in the moonlight, and how her companions are afraid...
She steps over the edge of the boat, the Bacchantes surround her, whirl her away into night and darkness...
Here put in smoke in clouds and everything in confusion.
There is nothing but the sound of their shrill cry, and her wreath left lying on the bank.'
Zinaida ceased. ('Oh! she is in love!' I thought again.)
'And is that all?' asked Meidanov.
'That's all.'
'That can't be the subject of a whole poem,' he observed pompously, 'but I will make use of your idea for a lyrical fragment.'
'In the romantic style?' queried Malevsky.