"How are you? how are you, my dear cousin?" she exclaimed, with an almost lachrymose voice, dwelling on each word she uttered. "How glad I am to see you!"

"How are you, my good cousin?" replied Lavretsky, with a friendly pressure of her outstretched hand. "Is all well with you?"

"Sit clown, sit down, my dear Fedor Ivanovich. Oh, how delighted I am!

But first let me introduce my daughter Liza."

"I have already introduced myself to Lizaveta Mikhailovna,"

interrupted Lavretsky.

"Monsieur Panshine--Sergius Petrovich Gedeonovsky. But do sit down. I look at you, and, really, I can scarcely trust my eyes. But tell me about your health; is it good?"

"I am quite well, as you can see. And you, too, cousin--if I can say so without bringing you bad luck[A]--you are none the worse for these seven years."

[Footnote A: A reference to the superst.i.tion of the "evil eye," still rife among the peasants in Russia. Though it has died out among the educated cla.s.ses, yet the phrase, "not to cast an evil eye," is still made use of in conversation.]

"When I think what a number of years it is since we last saw one another," musingly said Maria Dmitrievna. "Where do you come from now?

Where have you left--that's to say, I meant"--she hurriedly corrected herself--"I meant to say, shall you stay with us long?"

"I come just now from Berlin," replied Lavretsky, "and to-morrow I shall go into the country--to stay there, in all probability, a long time."

"I suppose you are going to live at Lavriki?"

"No, not at Lavriki; but I have a small property about five-and-twenty versts from here, and I am going there."

"Is that the property which Glafira Petrovna left you?"

"Yes, that's it."

"But really, Fedor Ivanovich, you have such a charming house at Lavriki."

Lavretsky frowned a little.

"Yes--but I have a cottage on the other estate too; I don't require any more just now. That place is--most convenient for me at present."

Maria Dmitrievna became once more so embarra.s.sed that she actually sat upright in her chair, and let her hands drop by her side. Panshine came to the rescue, and entered into conversation with Lavretsky.

Maria Dmitrievna by degrees grew calm, leant back again comfortably in her chair, and from time to time contributed a word or two to the conversation. But still she kept looking at her guest so pitifully, sighing so significantly, and shaking her head so sadly, that at last he lost all patience, and asked her, somewhat brusquely, if she was unwell.

"No, thank G.o.d!" answered Maria Dmitrievna; "but why do you ask?"

"Because I thought you did not seem quite yourself."

Maria Dmitrievna a.s.sumed a dignified and somewhat offended expression.

"If that's the way you take it," she thought, "it's a matter of perfect indifference to me; it's clear that every thing slides off you like water off a goose. Any one else would have withered up with misery, but you've grown fat on it."

Maria Dmitrievna did not stand upon ceremony when she was only thinking to herself. When she spoke aloud she was more choice in her expressions.

And in reality Lavretsky did not look like a victim of destiny. His rosy-cheeked, thoroughly Russian face, with its large white forehead, somewhat thick nose, and long straight lips, seemed to speak of robust health and enduring vigor of const.i.tution. He was powerfully built, and his light hair twined in curls, like a boy's, about his head. Only in his eyes, which were blue, rather prominent, and a little wanting in mobility, an expression might be remarked which it would be difficult to define. It might have been melancholy, or it might have been fatigue; and the ring of his voice seemed somewhat monotonous.

All this time Panshine was supporting the burden of the conversation.

He brought it round to the advantages of sugar making, about which he had lately read two French pamphlets; their contents he now proceeded to disclose, speaking with an air of great modesty, but without saying a single word about the sources of his information.

"Why, there's Fedia!" suddenly exclaimed the voice of Marfa Timofeevna in the next room, the door of which had been left half open.

"Actually, Fedia!" And the old lady hastily entered the room.

Lavretsky hadn't had time to rise from his chair before she had caught him in her arms. "Let me have a look at you," she exclaimed, holding him at a little distance from her. "Oh, how well you are looking!

You've grown a little older, but you haven't altered a bit for the worse, that's a fact. But what makes you kiss my hand. Kiss my face, if you please, unless you don't like the look of my wrinkled cheeks. I dare say you never asked after me, or whether your aunt was alive or no. And yet it was my hands received you when you first saw the light, you good-for-nothing fellow! Ah, well, it's all one. But it was a good idea of yours to come here. I say, my dear," she suddenly exclaimed, turning to Maria Dmitrievna, "have you offered him any refreshment?"

"I don't want any thing," hastily said Lavretsky.

"Well, at all events, you will drink tea with us, _batyushka_.

Gracious heavens! A man comes, goodness knows from how far off, and no one gives him so much as a cup of tea. Liza, go and see after it quickly. I remember he was a terrible glutton when he was a boy, and even now, perhaps, he is fond of eating and drinking."

"Allow me to pay my respects, Maria Timofeevna," said Panshine, coming up to the excited old lady, and making her a low bow.

"Pray excuse me, my dear sir," replied Marfa Timofeevna, "I overlooked you in my joy. You're just like your dear mother," she continued, turning anew to Lavretsky, "only you always had your father's nose, and you have it still. Well, shall you stay here long?"

"I go away to-morrow, aunt."

"To where?".

"To my house at Vasilievskoe."

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow."

"Well, if it must be to-morrow, so be it. G.o.d be with you! You know what is best for yourself. Only mind you come and say good-bye." The old lady tapped him gently on the cheek. "I didn't suppose I should live to see you come back; not that I thought I was going to die--no, no; I have life enough left in me for ten years to come. All we Pestofs are long-lived--your late grandfather used to call us double-lived; but G.o.d alone could tell how long you were going to loiter abroad. Well, well! You are a fine fellow--a very fine fellow.

I dare say you can still lift ten poods[A] with one hand, as you used to do. Your late father, if you'll excuse my saying so, was as nonsensical as he could be, but he did well in getting you that Swiss tutor. Do you remember the boxing matches you used to have with him?

Gymnastics, wasn't it, you used to call them? But why should I go on cackling like this? I shall only prevent Monsieur Pan_shine_ (she never laid the accent on the first syllable of his name, as she ought to have done) from favoring us with his opinions. On the whole, we had much better go and have tea. Yes, let's go and have it on the terrace.

We have magnificent cream--not like what they have in your Londons and Parises. Come away, come away; and you, Fediouchka, give me your arm.

What a strong arm you have, to be sure! I shan't fall while you're by my side."

[Footnote A: The pood weighs thirty-six pounds.]

Every one rose and went out on the terrace, except Gedeonovsky, who slipped away stealthily. During the whole time Lavretsky was talking with the mistress of the house, with Panshine and with Marfa Timofeevna, that old gentleman had been sitting in his corner, squeezing up his eyes and shooting out his lips, while he listened with the curiosity of a child to all that was being said. When he left, it was that he might hasten to spread through the town the news of the recent arrival.

Here is a picture of what was taking place at eleven o'clock that same evening in the Kalitines' house. Down stairs, on the threshold of the drawing-room, Panshine was taking leave of Liza, and saying, as he held her hand in his:--

"You know who it is that attracts me here; you know why I am always coming to your house. Of what use are words when all is so clear?"

Liza did not say a word in reply--she did not ever smile. Slightly arching her eyebrows, and growing rather red, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, but did not withdraw her hand. Up stairs, in Marfa Timofeevna's room, the light of the lamp, which hung in the corner before the age-embrowned sacred pictures, fell on Lavretsky, as he sat in an arm-chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. In front of him stood the old lady, who from time to time silently pa.s.sed her hand over his hair. He spent more than an hour with her after taking leave of the mistress of the house, he scarcely saying a word to his kind old friend, and she not asking him any questions. And why should he have spoken? what could she have asked?

She understood all so well, she so fully sympathized with all the feelings which filled his heart.

VIII.