All the bridegroom said at dinner was, "So-and-so, for what reason do you not drink?" though So-and-so was often half-seas over. They drank to absent friends, to Freedom, to Truth, to English Literature—"Let us drink to English Literature, 'urrah!"—to Russian dancing, to Katia, to Katia's figure ("thank God she isn't like a telegraph pole"), to Katia's future happiness.
She changed her dress between dinner and dessert.
Some of the women present had a private view of the bride's linen—eight dozen chemises at a hundred and forty roubles the dozen, and all the rest on a similar scale.
"Fine batiste and lace," said an old lady present, rubbing her fingers together as if feeling the linen; "fine batiste that at the first wash goes into shreds from the chemicals the laundresses use. I wouldn't accept such garments as a gift. It is a sin to wear them. Nowadays, when you live in a city and the washerwoman won't wash naturally, the only thing to do is to wear cheap things and replace them continually."
What was interesting to me was the complete absence of attention on the part of the bridegroom. He could not have treated an enemy more negligently.
It even prompted the German governess, who had unfortunately got a little drunk with champagne, to cry out—
