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

MÁrya DmÍtrievna dropped her cards, and fidgeted about in her chair; VarvÁra PÁvlovna looked at her with a half-smile, then directed her gaze to the door. PÁnshin made his appearance, in a black frock-coat, with a tall English collar, buttoned 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 MÁrya DmÍtrievna:—"you always used to enter without being announced!"

PÁnshin replied to MÁrya DmÍtrievna merely with a look, bowed courteously to her, but did not kiss her hand. She introduced him to VarvÁra PÁvlovna; 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. PÁnshin inquired after LizavÉta MikhaÍlovna, learned that she did not feel quite well, and expressed his regrets; then he entered into conversation with VarvÁra PÁvlovna, 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna, 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. MÁrya DmÍtrievna began to extol her talent; PÁnshin 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. VarvÁra PÁvlovna narrowed her velvety eyes, and saying, in a low tone: "Why, you also are an artist yourself, un confrÈre,"—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 PÁnshin's entire aspect. His careworn mien vanished; he smiled, became animated, unbuttoned 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna, to the piano.

"Make him sing his romance:—'When the moon floats,'"—exclaimed MÁrya DmÍtrievna.

"Do you sing?"—said VarvÁra PÁvlovna, illuminating him with a bright, swift glance.—"Sit down."

PÁnshin 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna:—"you sing beautifully, vous avez du style,—sing it again."

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

"Charmant, charmante idÉe,"—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 PÁnshin;—"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 MÁrya DmÍtrievna.

VarvÁra PÁvlovna 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 PÁnshin:—"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 PÁnshin:—"but I have forgotten it long ago."

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

VarvÁra PÁvlovna sat down at the piano. PÁnshin stood beside her. They sang the duet in an undertone, VarvÁra PÁvlovna correcting him several times; then they sang it aloud, then they repeated it twice: "Mira la bianca lu...u...una." VarvÁra PÁvlovna's voice had lost its freshness, but she managed it very adroitly. PÁnshin 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. VarvÁra PÁvlovna played two or three little things of Thalberg's, and coquettishly "recited" a French ariette. MÁrya DmÍtrievna no longer knew how to express her delight; several times she was on the point of sending for Liza; GedeÓnovsky, 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna; she suddenly turned her back to the piano, said: "Assez de musique, comme Ça; let us chat,"—and folded her hands. "Oui, assez de musique,"—merrily repeated PÁnshin—and struck up a conversation with her,—daring, light, in the French language. "Exactly as in the best Parisian salon,"—thought MÁrya DmÍtrievna, as she listened to their evasive and nimble speeches. PÁnshin felt perfectly contented; his eyes sparkled, he smiled; at first, he passed his hand over his face, contracted his brows, and sighed spasmodically when he chanced to meet the glances of MÁrya DmÍtrievna; but later on, he entirely forgot her, and surrendered himself completely to the enjoyment of the half-fashionable, half-artistic chatter. VarvÁra PÁvlovna 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. PÁnshin 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 FÉval; in her soul she preferred Paul de Kock 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. VarvÁra PÁvlovna 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 passion, by disenchantment, by meekness. PÁnshin 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. PÁnshin 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna, in her quality of a genuine foreign lioness, stood above him, and therefore he was not in full control of himself. VarvÁra PÁvlovna had a habit, while talking, of lightly touching the sleeve of her interlocutor; these momentary touches greatly agitated VladÍmir NikolÁitch. VarvÁra PÁvlovna possessed the art of getting on easily with every one; two hours had not elapsed before it seemed to PÁnshin 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. MÁrya DmÍtrievna rang for her page, and ordered him to tell Liza to come down-stairs if her head felt better. PÁnshin, on hearing Liza's name, set to talking about self-sacrifice, about who was the more capable of sacrifice—man or woman? MÁrya DmÍtrievna immediately became agitated, began to assert 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. VarvÁra PÁvlovna picked up a music-book, half-concealed herself with it, and leaning over in the direction of PÁnshin, nibbling at a biscuit, with a calm smile on her lips and in her glance, she remarked, in an undertone: "Elle n'a pas inventÉ la poudre, la bonne dame." PÁnshin was somewhat alarmed and amazed at VarvÁra PÁvlovna'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 MÁrya DmÍtrievna, 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!"

VarvÁra PÁvlovna cast a friendly glance at him, and rose. Liza had entered; in vain had MÁrfa TimofÉevna sought to hold her back: she had made up her mind to endure the trial to the end. VarvÁra PÁvlovna advanced to meet her, in company with PÁnshin, 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna. She sings superbly, un artiste consommÉe."

"Come here, ma chÉrie,"—rang out MÁrya DmÍtrievna's voice.

VarvÁra PÁvlovna instantly, with the submissiveness of a little child, went up to her, and seated herself on a small tabouret at her feet. MÁrya DmÍtrievna had called her for the purpose of leaving her daughter alone with PÁnshin, 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna:—"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."

VarvÁra PÁvlovna slowly raised her eyes to MÁrya DmÍtrievna, 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 FeÓdor IvÁnitch; he cannot forgive me."

"But is it possible that you ... really ..." began MÁrya DmÍtrievna, with curiosity.

"Do not ask me,"—VarvÁra PÁvlovna 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 MÁrya DmÍtrievna, 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?"—PÁnshin 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 PÁnshin, who simply did not know what to say.

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

"But the clock has struck eleven, I think,"—remarked MÁrya DmÍtrievna.

The guests understood the hint, and began to take their leave. VarvÁra PÁvlovna was made to promise that she would come to dinner on the morrow, and bring Ada; GedeÓnovsky, who had almost fallen asleep as he sat in one corner, offered to escort her home. PÁnshin solemnly saluted every one, and at the steps, as he put VarvÁra PÁvlovna into her carriage, he pressed her hand and shouted after her: "Au revoir!" GedeÓnovsky seated himself by her side; all the way home, she amused herself by placing the tip of her foot on his foot, as though by accident; he became confused, and paid her compliments; she giggled and made eyes at him when the light from a street-lantern fell on the carriage. The waltz which she had herself played, rang in her head, and excited her; wherever she happened to find herself, all she had to do was to imagine to herself lights, a ball-room, the swift whirling to the sounds of music—and her soul went fairly aflame, her eyes darkened strangely, a smile hovered over her lips, something gracefully-bacchic was disseminated all over her body. On arriving at home, VarvÁra PÁvlovna sprang lightly from the carriage,—only fashionable lionesses know how to spring out in that way,—turned to GedeÓnovsky, and suddenly burst into a ringing laugh, straight in his face.

"A charming person,"—thought the State Councillor, as he wended his way homeward to his lodgings, where his servant was awaiting him with a bottle of eau de Cologne:—"it is well that I am a staid man ... only, what was she laughing at?"

MÁrfa TimofÉevna sat all night long by Liza's pillow.

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