Chapter 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, 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 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, 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 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: "_Assez de musique, comme ca_; let us chat,"--and folded her hands. "_Oui, assez 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 passed 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 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. 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 passion, 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 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. 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 assumed a mysterious air, and fell silent, gazing severely to one side.

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

The guests understood the hint, and began to take their leave. Varvara Pavlovna was made to promise that she would come to dinner on the morrow, and bring Ada; Gedeonovsky, who had almost fallen asleep as he sat in one corner, offered to escort her home. Panshin solemnly saluted every one, and at the steps, as he put Varvara Pavlovna into her carriage, he pressed her hand and shouted after her: "_Au revoir!_" Gedeonovsky 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, Varvara Pavlovna sprang lightly from the carriage,--only fashionable lionesses know how to spring out in that way,--turned to Gedeonovsky, 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?"

Marfa Timofeevna sat all night long by Liza's pillow.