"What soul!"--she said, in a low tone, to Gedeonovsky.

"A sylph!"--repeated Gedeonovsky, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

Dinner-time arrived. Marfa Timofeevna came down-stairs when the soup was already standing on the table. She treated Varvara Pavlovna very coolly, replying with half-words to her amiabilities, and not looking at her. Varvara Pavlovna herself speedily comprehended that she could do nothing with the old woman, and ceased to address her; on the other hand, Marya Dmitrievna became more affectionate than ever with her guest: her aunt's discourtesy enraged her. However, Varvara Pavlovna was not the only person at whom Marfa Timofeevna refused to look: she never cast a glance at Liza, either, although her eyes fairly flashed. She sat like a stone image, all sallow, pale, with tightly compressed lips--and ate nothing. Liza seemed to be composed; and, as a matter of fact, all had become more tranquil in her soul; a strange insensibility, the insensibility of the man condemned to death, had come upon her. At dinner Varvara Pavlovna talked little: she seemed to have become timid once more, and spread over her face an expression of modest melancholy.

Gedeonovsky alone enlivened the conversation with his tales, although he kept casting cowardly glances at Marfa Timofeevna, and a cough and tickling in the throat seized upon him every time that he undertook to lie in her presence,--but she did not hinder him, she did not interrupt him. After dinner it appeared that Varvara Pavlovna was extremely fond of preference; this pleased Marya Dmitrievna to such a degree, that she even became greatly affected, and thought to herself:--"But what a fool Feodor Ivanitch must be: he was not able to appreciate such a woman!"

She sat down to play cards with her and Gedeonovsky, while Marfa Timofeevna led Liza off to her own rooms up-stairs, saying that she looked ill, that her head must be aching.

"Yes, she has a frightful headache,"--said Marya Dmitrievna, turning to Varvara Pavlovna, and rolling up her eyes.--"I myself have such sick-headaches...." Liza entered her aunt's room and dropped on a chair, exhausted. Marfa Timofeevna gazed at her for a long time, in silence, knelt down softly in front of her--and began, in the same speechless manner, to kiss her hands, in turn. Liza leaned forward, blushed, and fell to weeping, but did not raise Marfa Timofeevna, did not withdraw her hands: she felt that she had not the right to withdraw them, had not the right to prevent the old woman showing her contrition, her sympathy, asking her pardon for what had taken place on the day before; and Marfa Timofeevna could not have done with kissing those poor, pale, helpless hands--and silent tears streamed from her eyes and from Liza's eyes; and the cat Matros purred in the wide arm-chair beside the ball of yarn and the stocking, the elongated flame of the shrine-lamp quivered gently and flickered in front of the holy picture,--in the adjoining room, behind the door, stood Nastasya Karpovna, and also stealthily wiped her eyes, with a checked handkerchief rolled up into a ball.

XL

And, in the meantime, down-stairs in the drawing-room preference was in progress; Marya Dmitrievna won, and was in high spirits. A footman entered, and announced the arrival of Panshin.

Marya Dmitrievna dropped her cards, and fidgeted about in her chair; Varvara Pavlovna looked at her with a half-smile, then directed her gaze to the door. Panshin made his appearance, in a black frock-coat, with a tall English collar, b.u.t.toned up to the throat. "It was painful for me to obey, but you see I have come." That was what his freshly-shaved, unsmiling face expressed.

"Goodness, _Woldemar_,"--exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna:--"you always used to enter without being announced!"

Panshin replied to Marya Dmitrievna merely with a look, bowed courteously to her, but did not kiss her hand. She introduced him to Varvara Pavlovna; he retreated a pace, bowed to her with equal courtesy, but with a shade of elegance and deference, and seated himself at the card-table. The game of preference soon came to an end. Panshin inquired after Lizaveta Mikhailovna, learned that she did not feel quite well, and expressed his regrets; then he entered into conversation with Varvara Pavlovna, weighing and chiselling clearly every word, in diplomatic fashion, respectfully listening to her replies to the very end. But the importance of his diplomatic tone had no effect on Varvara Pavlovna, did not communicate itself to her. Quite the contrary: she gazed into his face with merry attention, talked in a free-and-easy way, and her delicate nostrils quivered slightly, as though with suppressed laughter. Marya Dmitrievna began to extol her talent; Panshin inclined his head as politely as his collar permitted, declared that "he was convinced of it in advance,"--and turned the conversation almost on Metternich himself. Varvara Pavlovna narrowed her velvety eyes, and saying, in a low tone: "Why, you also are an artist yourself, _un confrere_,"--added in a still lower tone: "_Venez!_"--and nodded her head in the direction of the piano. That one carelessly dropped word: "_Venez!_"--instantaneously, as though by magic, altered Panshin's entire aspect. His careworn mien vanished; he smiled, became animated, unb.u.t.toned his coat, and repeating: "What sort of an artist am I, alas!

But you, I hear, are a genuine artist"--wended his way, in company with Varvara Pavlovna, to the piano.

"Make him sing his romance:--'When the moon floats,'"--exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna.

"Do you sing?"--said Varvara Pavlovna, illuminating him with a bright, swift glance.--"Sit down."

Panshin began to decline.

"Sit down,"--she repeated, insistently tapping the back of the chair.

He sat down, coughed, pulled open his collar, and sang his romance.

"_Charmant!_"--said Varvara Pavlovna:--"you sing beautifully, _vous avez du style_,--sing it again."

She walked round the piano, and took up her stand directly opposite Panshin. He sang his romance again, imparting a melodramatic quiver to his voice. Varvara Pavlovna gazed intently at him, with her elbows propped on the piano, and her white hands on a level with her lips.

Panshin finished.

"_Charmant, charmante idee_,"--said she, with the calm confidence of an expert.--"Tell me, have you written anything for the female voice, for a mezzo-soprano?"

"I hardly write anything,"--replied Panshin;--"you see, I only do this sort of thing in the intervals between business affairs ... but do you sing?"

"Yes."

"Oh! do sing something for us,"--said Marya Dmitrievna.

Varvara Pavlovna pushed back her hair from her flushed cheeks with her hand, and shook her head.

"Our voices ought to go well together,"--she said, turning to Panshin:--"let us sing a duet. Do you know 'Son geloso,' or 'La ci darem,' or 'Mira la bianca luna'?"

"I used to sing 'Mira la bianca luna,'"--replied Panshin:--"but I have forgotten it long ago."

"Never mind, we will try it over in an undertone. Let me come."

Varvara Pavlovna sat down at the piano. Panshin stood beside her. They sang the duet in an undertone, Varvara Pavlovna correcting him several times; then they sang it aloud, then they repeated it twice: "Mira la bianca lu...u...una." Varvara Pavlovna's voice had lost its freshness, but she managed it very adroitly. Panshin was timid at first, and sang rather out of tune, but later on he warmed up, and if he did not sing faultlessly, at least he wriggled his shoulders, swayed his whole body, and elevated his hand now and then, like a genuine singer. Varvara Pavlovna played two or three little things of Thalberg's, and coquettishly "recited"

a French ariette. Marya Dmitrievna no longer knew how to express her delight; several times she was on the point of sending for Liza; Gedeonovsky, also, found no words and merely rocked his head,--but all of a sudden he yawned, and barely succeeded in concealing his mouth with his hand. This yawn did not escape Varvara Pavlovna; she suddenly turned her back to the piano, said: "_a.s.sez de musique, comme ca_; let us chat,"--and folded her hands. "_Oui, a.s.sez de musique_,"--merrily repeated Panshin--and struck up a conversation with her,--daring, light, in the French language. "Exactly as in the best Parisian salon,"--thought Marya Dmitrievna, as she listened to their evasive and nimble speeches. Panshin felt perfectly contented; his eyes sparkled, he smiled; at first, he pa.s.sed his hand over his face, contracted his brows, and sighed spasmodically when he chanced to meet the glances of Marya Dmitrievna; but later on, he entirely forgot her, and surrendered himself completely to the enjoyment of the half-fashionable, half-artistic chatter. Varvara Pavlovna showed herself to be a great philosopher: she had an answer ready for everything, she did not hesitate over anything, she doubted nothing; it could be seen that she had talked much and often with clever persons of various sorts.

All her thoughts, all her feelings, circled about Paris. Panshin turned the conversation on literature: it appeared that she, as well as he, read only French books: Georges Sand excited her indignation; Balzac she admired, although he fatigued her; in Sue and Scribe she discerned great experts of the heart; she adored Dumas and Feval; in her soul she preferred Paul de k.o.c.k to the whole of them, but, of course, she did not even mention his name. To tell the truth, literature did not interest her greatly. Varvara Pavlovna very artfully avoided everything which could even distantly recall her position; there was not a hint about love in her remarks: on the contrary, they were rather distinguished by severity toward the impulses of pa.s.sion, by disenchantment, by meekness. Panshin retorted; she disagreed with him ... but, strange to say!--at the very time when words of condemnation, often harsh, were issuing from her lips, the sound of those words caressed and enervated, and her eyes said ... precisely what those lovely eyes said, it would be difficult to state; but their speech was not severe, not clear, yet sweet. Panshin endeavoured to understand their mysterious significance, endeavoured to talk with his own eyes, but he was conscious that he was not at all successful; he recognised the fact that Varvara Pavlovna, in her quality of a genuine foreign lioness, stood above him, and therefore he was not in full control of himself. Varvara Pavlovna had a habit, while talking, of lightly touching the sleeve of her interlocutor; these momentary touches greatly agitated Vladimir Nikolaitch. Varvara Pavlovna possessed the art of getting on easily with every one; two hours had not elapsed before it seemed to Panshin that he had known her always, and Liza, that same Liza, whom he loved, nevertheless, to whom he had offered his hand on the preceding day,--vanished as in a mist. Tea was served; the conversation became still more unconstrained. Marya Dmitrievna rang for her page, and ordered him to tell Liza to come down-stairs if her head felt better. Panshin, on hearing Liza's name, set to talking about self-sacrifice, about who was the more capable of sacrifice--man or woman? Marya Dmitrievna immediately became agitated, began to a.s.sert that woman is the more capable, declared that she would prove it in two words, got entangled, and wound up by a decidedly infelicitous comparison. Varvara Pavlovna picked up a music-book, half-concealed herself with it, and leaning over in the direction of Panshin, nibbling at a biscuit, with a calm smile on her lips and in her glance, she remarked, in an undertone: "_Elle n'a pas invente la poudre, la bonne dame._" Panshin was somewhat alarmed and amazed at Varvara Pavlovna's audacity; but he did not understand how much scorn for him, himself, was concealed in that unexpected sally, and, forgetting the affection and the devotion of Marya Dmitrievna, forgetting the dinners wherewith she had fed him, the money which she had lent him,--he, with the same little smile, the same tone, replied (unlucky wight!): "_Je crois bien_,"--and not even: "_Je crois bien_," but:--"_Je crois ben!_"

Varvara Pavlovna cast a friendly glance at him, and rose. Liza had entered; in vain had Marfa Timofeevna sought to hold her back: she had made up her mind to endure the trial to the end. Varvara Pavlovna advanced to meet her, in company with Panshin, on whose face the former diplomatic expression had again made its appearance.

"How is your health?"--he asked Liza.

"I feel better now, thank you,"--she replied.

"We have been having a little music here; it is a pity that you did not hear Varvara Pavlovna. She sings superbly, _un artiste consommee_."

"Come here, _ma cherie_,"--rang out Marya Dmitrievna's voice.

Varvara Pavlovna instantly, with the submissiveness of a little child, went up to her, and seated herself on a small tabouret at her feet.

Marya Dmitrievna had called her for the purpose of leaving her daughter alone with Panshin, if only for a moment: she still secretly cherished the hope that the girl would come to her senses. Moreover, a thought had occurred to her, to which she desired to give immediate expression.

"Do you know,"--she whispered to Varvara Pavlovna:--"I want to make an effort to reconcile you with your husband: I do not guarantee success, but I will try. You know that he has great respect for me."

Varvara Pavlovna slowly raised her eyes to Marya Dmitrievna, and clasped her hands prettily.

"You would be my saviour, _ma tante_,"--she said, in a mournful voice:--"I do not know how to thank you for all your affection; but I am too guilty toward Feodor Ivanitch; he cannot forgive me."

"But is it possible that you ... really ..." began Marya Dmitrievna, with curiosity.

"Do not ask me,"--Varvara Pavlovna interrupted her, and dropped her eyes.--"I was young, giddy.... However, I do not wish to defend myself."

"Well, nevertheless, why not make the effort? Do not despair,"--returned Marya Dmitrievna, and was on the point of patting her on the shoulder, but glanced at her face--and grew timid. "She is a modest, modest creature,"--she thought,--"and exactly like a young girl still."

"Are you ill?"--Panshin was saying, meanwhile, to Liza.

"Yes, I am not very well."

"I understand you,"--he said, after a rather prolonged silence.--"Yes, I understand you."

"How so?"

"I understand you,"--significantly repeated Panshin, who simply did not know what to say.

Liza became confused, and then said to herself: "So be it!" Panshin a.s.sumed a mysterious air, and fell silent, gazing severely to one side.

"But the clock has struck eleven, I think,"--remarked Marya Dmitrievna.