MÁrya DmÍtrievna was greatly perturbed when the arrival of VarvÁra PÁvlovna was announced to her; she did not even know whether to receive her; she was afraid of offending FeÓdor IvÁnitch. At last, curiosity carried the day. "What of it?"—she said to herself,—"why, she is a relative also,"—and seating herself in her arm-chair, she said to the lackey: "Ask her in!" Several minutes elapsed; the door opened, VarvÁra PÁvlovna approached MÁrya DmÍtrievna swiftly, with barely audible footsteps, and, without giving her a chance to rise from her chair, almost went down on her knees before her.

"Thank you, aunty,"—she began in a touched and gentle voice, in Russian: "thank you! I had not hoped for such condescension on your part; you are as kind as an angel."

As she uttered these words, VarvÁra PÁvlovna unexpectedly took possession of one of MÁrya DmÍtrievna's hands, and pressing it lightly in her pale-lilac gloves, obsequiously raised it to her full, rosy lips. MÁrya DmÍtrievna completely lost her head, on beholding such a beautiful, charmingly-dressed woman, almost on her knees at her feet; she did not know what to do: she did not wish to withdraw her hand, she wished to give her a seat, and to say something amiable to her; she ended by rising, and kissing VarvÁra PÁvlovna on her smooth, fragrant brow. VarvÁra PÁvlovna was perfectly dumfounded by this kiss.

"Good morning,—bon jour,"—said MÁrya DmÍtrievna:—"of course, I had no idea, ... however, of course, I am delighted to see you. You understand, my dear,—it is not for me to sit in judgment between wife and husband."

"My husband is wholly in the right,"—VarvÁra PÁvlovna interrupted her:—"I alone am to blame."

"That is a very praiseworthy sentiment,"—returned MÁrya DmÍtrievna:—"very. Have you been here long? Have you seen him? But sit down, pray."

"I arrived yesterday,"—replied VarvÁra PÁvlovna, meekly seating herself on a chair; "I have seen FeÓdor IvÁnitch, I have talked with him."

"Ah! Well, and how does he take it?"

"I was afraid that my sudden arrival would arouse his wrath,"—went on VarvÁra PÁvlovna:—"but he did not deprive me of his presence."

"That is to say, he did not.... Yes, yes, I understand,"—ejaculated MÁrya DmÍtrievna.—"He is only rather rough in appearance, but his heart is soft."

"FeÓdor IvÁnitch has not forgiven me; he would not listen to me.... But he was so kind as to appoint LavrÍki for my place of residence."

"Ah! A very fine estate!"

"I set out thither to-morrow, in compliance with his will; but I considered it my duty to call on you first."

"I am very, very grateful to you, my dear. One must never forget one's relatives. And, do you know, I am astonished that you speak Russian so well. C'est Étonnant!"

VarvÁra PÁvlovna sighed.

"I have spent too much time abroad, MÁrya DmÍtrievna, I know that; but my heart has always been Russian, and I have not forgotten my native land."

"Exactly so, exactly so; that is the best of all. FeÓdor IvÁnitch, however, did not in the least expect you.... Yes; believe my experience; la patrie avant tout. Akh, please show me,—what a charming mantle that is you have on!"

"Do you like it?"—VarvÁra PÁvlovna promptly dropped it from her shoulders.—"It is a very simple thing, from Madame Baudran."

"That is instantly perceptible. From Madame Baudran.... How charming, and what taste! I am convinced that you have brought with you a mass of the most entrancing things. I should like to look them over."

"My entire toilette is at your service, my dearest aunt. If you will permit, I can give your maid some points. I have a maid-servant from Paris,—a wonderful seamstress."

"You are very kind, my dear. But, really, I am ashamed."

"Ashamed! ..." repeated VarvÁra PÁvlovna, reproachfully.—"If you wish to make me happy,—command me, as though I belonged to you."

MÁrya DmÍtrievna thawed.

"Vous Êtes charmante," she said.—"But why do not you take off your bonnet, your gloves?"

"What? You permit?"—asked VarvÁra PÁvlovna, clasping her hands, as though with emotion.

"Of course; for you will dine with us, I hope. I ... I will introduce you to my daughter."—MÁrya DmÍtrievna became slightly confused. "Well! here goes!"—she said to herself.—"She is not quite well to-day."

"Oh, ma tante, how kind you are!"—exclaimed VarvÁra PÁvlovna, and raised her handkerchief to her eyes.

A page announced the arrival of GedeÓnovsky. The old chatterbox entered, made his bows, and smiled. MÁrya DmÍtrievna presented him to her visitor. He came near being discomfited at first; but VarvÁra PÁvlovna treated him with such coquettish respect, that his ears began to burn, and fibs, scandals, amiable remarks trickled out of his mouth like honey. VarvÁra PÁvlovna listened to him with a repressed smile, and became rather talkative herself. She modestly talked about Paris, about her travels, about Baden; twice she made MÁrya DmÍtrievna laugh, and on each occasion she heaved another little sigh, as though she were mentally reproaching herself for her ill-timed mirth; she asked permission to bring Ada; removing her gloves, she showed, with her smooth hands washed with soap À la guimauve, how and where flounces, ruches, lace, and knots of ribbon were worn; she promised to bring a phial of the new English perfume, Victoria's Essence, and rejoiced like a child when MÁrya DmÍtrievna consented to accept it as a gift; she wept at the remembrance of the feeling she had experienced when, for the first time, she had heard the Russian bells;—"so profoundly did they stagger my very heart,"—she said.

At that moment, Liza entered.

From the morning, from the very moment when, chilled with terror, she had perused LavrÉtzky's note, Liza had been preparing herself to meet his wife; she had a presentiment that she should see her, by way of punishment to her own criminal hopes, as she called them. She had made up her mind not to shun her. The sudden crisis in her fate had shaken her to the very foundations; in the course of about two hours her face had grown haggard; but she did not shed a tear. "It serves me right!"—she said to herself, with difficulty and agitation suppressing in her soul certain bitter, spiteful impulses, which alarmed even herself:—"Come, I must go down!"—she thought, as soon as she heard of Mme. LavrÉtzky's arrival, and she went.... For a long time she stood outside the door of the drawing-room, before she could bring herself to open it; with the thought: "I am to blame toward her,"—she crossed the threshold, and forced herself to look at her, forced herself to smile. VarvÁra PÁvlovna advanced to meet her as soon as she saw her, and made a slight but nevertheless respectful inclination before her.—"Allow me to introduce myself,"—she began, in an insinuating voice:—"your maman is so indulgent toward me, that I hope you will also be ... kind." The expression on VarvÁra PÁvlovna's face, as she uttered this last word, her sly smile, her cold and at the same time soft glance, the movement of her arms and shoulders, her very gown, her whole being, aroused in Liza such a feeling of repulsion, that she could make her no answer, and with an effort she offered her hand. "This young lady despises me,"—thought VarvÁra PÁvlovna, as she warmly pressed Liza's cold fingers, and, turning to MÁrya DmÍtrievna, she said in an undertone: "Mais elle est dÉlicieuse!" Liza flushed faintly, insult was audible to her in this exclamation; but she made up her mind not to trust her impressions, and seated herself by the window, at her embroidery-frame. Even there, VarvÁra PÁvlovna did not leave her in peace: she went up to her, began to praise her taste, her art.... Liza's heart beat violently and painfully, she could hardly control herself, she could hardly sit still on her chair. It seemed to her that VarvÁra PÁvlovna knew everything, and, secretly triumphing, was jeering at her. Fortunately for her, GedeÓnovsky entered into conversation with VarvÁra PÁvlovna, and distracted her attention. Liza bent over her embroidery-frame, and stealthily watched her. "He loved that woman,"—she said to herself. But she immediately banished from her head the thought of LavrÉtzky: she was afraid of losing control over herself, she felt that her head was softly whirling. MÁrya DmÍtrievna began to talk about music.

"I have heard, my dear,"—she began:—"that you are a wonderful performer."

"It is a long time since I have played,"—replied VarvÁra PÁvlovna, as she seated herself, in a leisurely manner, at the piano, and ran her fingers in a dashing way over the keys.—"Would you like to have me play?"

"Pray do."

VarvÁra PÁvlovna played a brilliant and difficult Étude of Herz in a masterly style. She had a great deal of strength and execution.

"A sylph!"—exclaimed GedeÓnovsky.

"Remarkable!"—assented MÁrya DmÍtrievna.—"Well, VarvÁra PÁvlovna, I must confess,"—she said, calling her, for the first time, by her name:—"you have amazed me; you might even give concerts. We have an old musician here, a German, an eccentric fellow, very learned; he gives Liza lessons; he will simply go out of his mind over you."

"LizavÉta MikhaÍlovna is also a musician?"—inquired VarvÁra PÁvlovna, turning her head slightly in her direction.

"Yes, she plays quite well, and loves music; but what does that signify, in comparison with you? But there is a young man here; you ought to make his acquaintance. He is—an artist in soul, and composes very prettily. He is the only one who can fully appreciate you."

"A young man?"—said VarvÁra PÁvlovna.—"Who is he? Some poor fellow?"

"Good gracious,—he's our chief cavalier, and not among us only—et À PÉtersbourg. A Junior Gentleman of the Bedchamber, received in the best society. You certainly must have heard of him,—PÁnshin, VladÍmir NikolÁitch. He is here on a government commission ... a future Minister, upon my word!"

"And an artist?"

"An artist in soul, and such a charming fellow. You shall see him. He has been at my house very frequently of late; I have invited him for this evening; I hope that he will come,"—added MÁrya DmÍtrievna, with a gentle sigh and a sidelong bitter smile.

Liza understood the significance of that smile; but she cared nothing for it.

"And is he young?"—repeated VarvÁra PÁvlovna, lightly modulating from one key to another.

"He is eight and twenty—and of the most happy personal appearance. Un jeune homme accompli, upon my word."

"A model young man, one may say,"—remarked GedeÓnovsky.

VarvÁra PÁvlovna suddenly began to play a noisy Strauss waltz, which started with such a mighty and rapid trill as made even GedeÓnovsky start; in the very middle of the waltz, she abruptly changed into a mournful motif, and wound up with the aria from "Lucia": "Fra poco."... She had reflected that merry music was not compatible with her situation. The aria from "Lucia," with emphasis on the sentimental notes, greatly affected MÁrya DmÍtrievna.

"What soul!"—she said, in a low tone, to GedeÓnovsky.

"A sylph!"—repeated GedeÓnovsky, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

Dinner-time arrived. MÁrfa TimofÉevna came down-stairs when the soup was already standing on the table. She treated VarvÁra PÁvlovna very coolly, replying with half-words to her amiabilities, and not looking at her. VarvÁra PÁvlovna herself speedily comprehended that she could do nothing with the old woman, and ceased to address her; on the other hand, MÁrya DmÍtrievna became more affectionate than ever with her guest: her aunt's discourtesy enraged her. However, VarvÁra PÁvlovna was not the only person at whom MÁrfa TimofÉevna 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna talked little: she seemed to have become timid once more, and spread over her face an expression of modest melancholy. GedeÓnovsky alone enlivened the conversation with his tales, although he kept casting cowardly glances at MÁrfa TimofÉevna, 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 VarvÁra PÁvlovna was extremely fond of preference; this pleased MÁrya DmÍtrievna to such a degree, that she even became greatly affected, and thought to herself:—"But what a fool FeÓdor IvÁnitch must be: he was not able to appreciate such a woman!"

She sat down to play cards with her and GedeÓnovsky, while MÁrfa TimofÉevna 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 MÁrya DmÍtrievna, turning to VarvÁra PÁvlovna, and rolling up her eyes.—"I myself have such sick-headaches...." Liza entered her aunt's room and dropped on a chair, exhausted. MÁrfa TimofÉevna 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 MÁrfa TimofÉevna, 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 MÁrfa TimofÉevna 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 MatrÓs 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 NastÁsya KÁrpovna, and also stealthily wiped her eyes, with a checked handkerchief rolled up into a ball.