Marya Dmitrievna was much agitated when she received the announcement of
the arrival of Varvara Pavlovna Lavretsky, she did not even know whether
to receive her; she was afraid of giving offence to Fedor Ivanitch. At
last curiosity prevailed. “Why,” she reflected, “she too is a relation,”
and, taking up her position in an arm-chair, she said to the footman,
“Show her in.” A few moments passed; the door opened, Varvara Pavlovna
swiftly and with scarcely audible steps, approached Marya Dmitrievna,
and not allowing her to rise from her chair, bent almost on her knees
before her.
“I thank you, dear aunt,” she began in a soft voice full of emotion,
speaking Russian; “I thank you; I did not hope for such condescension on
your part; you are an angel of goodness.”
As she uttered these words Varvara Pavlovna quite unexpectedly took
possession of one of Marya Dmitrievna’s hands, and pressing it lightly
in her pale lavender gloves, she raised it in a fawning way to her full
rosy lips. Marya Dmitrievna quite lost her head, seeing such a handsome
and charmingly dressed woman almost at her feet. She did not know where
she was. And she tried to withdraw her hand, while, at the same time,
she was inclined to make her sit down, and to say something affectionate
to her. She ended by raising Varvara Pavlovna and kissing her on her
smooth perfumed brow.
Varvara Pavlovna was completely overcome by this kiss.
“How do you do, bonjour,” said Marya Dmitrievna. “Of course I did not
expect... but, of course, I am glad to see you. You understand, my dear,
it’s not for me to judge between man and wife”...
“My husband is in the right in everything,” Varvara Pavlovna interposed;
“I alone am to blame.”
“That is a very praiseworthy feeling,” rejoined Marya Dmitrievna, “very.
Have you been here long? Have you seen him? But sit down, please.”
“I arrived yesterday,” answered Varvara Pavlovna, sitting down meekly.
“I have seen Fedor Ivanitch; I have talked with him.”
“Ah! Well, and how was he?”
“I was afraid my sudden arrival would provoke his anger,” continued
Varvara Pavlovna, “but he did not refuse to see me.”
“That is to say, he did not... Yes, yes, I understand,” commented Marya
Dmitrievna. “He is only a little rough on the surface, but his heart is
soft.”
“Fedor Ivanitch has not forgiven me; he would not hear me. But he was so
good as to assign me Lavriky as a place of residence.”
“Ah! a splendid estate!”
“I am setting off there to-morrow in fulfilment of his wish; but I
esteemed it a duty to visit you first.”
“I am very, very much obliged to you, my dear. Relations ought never to
forget one another. And do you know I am surprised how well you speak
Russian. C’est étonnant.”
Varvara Pavlovna sighed.
“I have been too long abroad, Marya Dmitrievna, I know that; but my
heart has always been Russian, and I have not forgotten my country.”
“Ah, ah; that is good. Fedor Ivanitch did not, however, expect you at
all. Yes; you may trust my experience, la patrie avant tout. Ah, show me,
if you please--what a charming mantle you have.”
“Do you like it?” Varvara Pavlovna slipped it quickly off her shoulders;
“it is a very simple little thing from Madame Baudran.”
“One can see it at once. From Madame Baudran? How sweet, and what taste!
I am sure you have brought a number of fascinating things with you. If I
could only see them.”
“All my things are at your service, dearest auntie. If you permit, I can
show some patterns to your maid. I have a woman with me from Paris--a
wonderfully clever dressmaker.”
“You are very good, my dear. But, really, I am ashamed”...
“Ashamed!” repeated Varvara Pavlovna reproachfully. “If you want to make
me happy, dispose of me as if I were your property.”
Marya Dmitrievna was completely melted.
“Vous êtes charmante,” she said. “But why don’t you take off your hat
and gloves?”
“What? you will allow me?” asked Varvara Pavlovna, and slightly, as
though with emotion, clasped her hands.
“Of course, you will dine with us, I hope. I--I will introduce you to my
daughter.” Marya Dmitrievna was a little confused. “Well! we are in for
it! here goes!” she thought. “She is not very well to-day.”
“O ma tante, how good you are!” cried Varvara Pavlovna, and she raised
her handkerchief to her eyes.
A page announced the arrival of Gedeonovsky. The old gossip came in
bowing and smiling. Marya Dmitrievna presented him to her visitor. He
was thrown into confusion for the first moment; but Varvara Pavlovna
behaved with such coquettish respectfulness to him, that his ears began
to tingle, and gossip, slander, and civility dropped like honey from his
lips. Varvara Pavlovna listened to him with a restrained smile and began
by degrees to talk herself. She spoke modestly of Paris, of her travels,
of Baden; twice she made Marya Dmitrievna laugh, and each time she
sighed a little afterwards, and seemed to be inwardly reproaching
herself for misplaced levity. She obtained permission to bring Ada;
taking off her gloves, with her smooth hands, redolent of soap à la
guimauve, she showed how and where flounces were worn and ruches and
lace and rosettes. She promised to bring a bottle of the new English
scent, Victoria Essence; and was as happy as a child when Marya
Dmitrievna consented to accept it as a gift. She was moved to tears over
the recollection of the emotion she experienced, when, for the first
time, she heard the Russian bells. “They went so deeply to my heart,”
she explained.
At that instant Lisa came in.
Ever since the morning, from the very instant when, chill with horror,
she had read Lavretsky’s note, Lisa had been preparing herself for the
meeting with his wife. She had a presentiment that she would see her.
She resolved not to avoid her, as a punishment of her, as she called
them, sinful hopes. The sudden crisis in her destiny had shaken her to
the foundations. In some two hours her face seemed to have grown thin.
But she did not shed a single tear. “It’s what I deserve!” she said to
herself, repressing with difficulty and dismay some bitter impulses of
hatred which frightened her in her soul. “Well, I must go down!” she
thought directly she heard of Madame Lavretsky’s arrival, and she went
down.... She stood a long while at the drawing-room door before she
could summon up courage to open it. With the thought, “I have done her
wrong,” she crossed the threshold and forced herself to look at her,
forced herself to smile. Varvara Pavlovna went to meet her directly she
caught sight of her, and bowed to her slightly, but still respectfully.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” she began in an insinuating voice, “your
maman is so indulgent to me that I hope that you too will be... good
to me.” The expression of Varvara Pavlovna, when she uttered these
last words, cold and at the same time soft, her hypocritical smile, the
action of her hands, and her shoulders, her very dress, her whole being
aroused such a feeling of repulsion in Lisa that she could make no reply
to her, and only held out her hand with an effort. “This young lady
disdains me,” thought Varvara Pavlovna, warmly pressing Lisa’s cold
fingers, and turning to Marya Dmitrievna, she observed in an undertone,
“mais elle est délicieuse!” Lisa faintly flushed; she heard ridicule,
insult in this exclamation. But she resolved not to trust her
impressions, and sat down by the window at her embroidery-frame. Even
here Varvara Pavlovna did not leave her in peace. She began to admire
her taste, her skill.... Lisa’s heart beat violently and painfully. She
could scarcely control herself, she could scarcely sit in her place. It
seemed to her that Varvara Pavlovna knew all, and was mocking at her
in secret triumph. To her relief, Gedeonovsky began to talk to Varvara
Pavlovna, and drew off her attention. Lisa bent over her frame, and
secretly watched her. “That woman,” she thought, “was loved by him.” But
she at once drove away the very thought of Lavretsky; she was afraid of
losing her control over herself, she felt that her head was going round.
Marya Dmitrievna began to talk of music.
“I have heard, my dear,” she began, “that you are a wonderful
performer.”
“It is long since I have played,” replied Varvara Pavlovna, seating
herself without delay at the piano, and running her fingers smartly over
the keys. “Do you wish it?”
“If you will be so kind.”
Varvara Pavlovna played a brilliant and difficult étude by Hertz very
correctly. She had great power and execution.
“Sylphide!” cried Gedeonovsky.
“Marvellous!” Marya Dmitrievna chimed in. “Well, Varvara Pavlovna, I
confess,” she observed, for the first time calling her by her name, “you
have astonished me; you might give concerts. We have a musician here,
an old German, a queer fellow, but a very clever musician. He gives Lisa
lessons. He will be simply crazy over you.”
“Lisaveta Mihalovna is also musical?” asked Varvara Pavlovna, turning
her head slightly towards her.
“Yes, she plays fairly, and is fond of music; but what is that beside
you? But there is one young man here too--with whom we must make you
acquainted. He is an artist in soul, and composes very charmingly. He
alone will be able to appreciate you fully.”
“A young man?” said Varvara Pavlovna: “Who is he? Some poor man?”
“Oh dear no, our chief beau, and not only among us--et à Petersbourg. A
kammer-junker, and received in the best society. You must have heard of
him: Panshin, Vladimir Nikolaitch. He is here on a government commission
... future minister, I daresay!”
“And an artist?”
“An artist at heart, and so well-bred. You shall see him. He has been
here very often of late: I invited him for this evening; I hope he will
come,” added Marya Dmitrievna with a gentle sigh, and an oblique smile
of bitterness.
Lisa knew the meaning of this smile, but it was nothing to her now.
“And young?” repeated Varvara Pavlovna, lightly modulating from tone to
tone.
“Twenty-eight, and of the most prepossessing appearance. Un jeune homme
acompli, indeed.”
“An exemplary young man, one may say,” observed Gedeonovsky.
Varvara Pavlovna began suddenly playing a noisy waltz of Strauss,
opening with such a loud and rapid trill that Gedeonovsky was quite
startled. In the very middle of the waltz she suddenly passed into a
pathetic motive, and finished up with an air from “Lucia” Fra poco...
She reflected that lively music was not in keeping with her position.
The air from “Lucia,” with emphasis on the sentimental passages, moved
Marya Dmitrievna greatly.
“What soul!” she observed in an undertone to Gedeonovsky.
“A sylphide!” repeated Gedeonovsky, raising his eyes towards heaven.
The dinner hour arrived. Marfa Timofyevna came down from up-stairs, when
the soup was already on the table. She treated Varvara Pavlovna very
drily, replied in half-sentences to her civilities, and did not look at
her. Varvara Pavlovna soon realised that there was nothing to be got
out of this old lady, and gave up trying to talk to her. To make up
for this, Marya Dmitrievna became still more cordial to her guest; her
aunt’s discourtesy irritated her. Marfa Timofyevna, however, did not
only avoid looking at Varvara Pavlovna; she did not look at Lisa either,
though her eyes seemed literally blazing. She sat as though she were
of stone, yellow and pale, her lips compressed, and ate nothing. Lisa
seemed calm; and in reality, her heart was more at rest, a strange
apathy, the apathy of the condemned had come upon her. At dinner Varvara
Pavlovna spoke little; she seemed to have grown timid again, and her
countenance was overspread with an expression of modest melancholy.
Gedeonovsky alone enlivened the conversation with his tales, though he
constantly looked timorously towards Marfa Timofyevna and coughed--he
was always overtaken by a fit of coughing when he was going to tell a
lie in her presence--but she did not hinder him by any interruption.
After dinner it seemed that Varvara Pavlovna was quite devoted to
preference; at this Marya Dmitrievna was so delighted that she felt
quite overcome, and thought to herself, “Really, what a fool Fedor
Ivanitch must be; not able to appreciate a woman like this!”
She sat down to play cards together with her and Gedeonovsky, and Marfa
Timofyevna led Lisa away up-stairs with her, saying that she looked
shocking, and that she must certainly have a headache.
“Yes, she has an awful headache,” observed Marya Dmitrievna, turning to
Varvara Pavlovna and rolling her eyes, “I myself have often just such
sick headaches.”
“Really!” rejoined Varvara Pavlovna.
Lisa went into her aunt’s room, and sank powerless into a chair. Marfa
Timofyevna gazed long at her in silence, slowly she knelt down before
her--and began still in the same silence to kiss her hands alternately.
Lisa bent forward, crimsoning--and began to weep, but she did not make
Marfa Timofyevna get up, she did not take away her hands, she felt that
she had not the right to take them away, that she had not the right to
hinder the old lady from expressing her penitence, and her sympathy,
from begging forgiveness for what had passed the day before. And Marfa
Timofyevna could not kiss enough those poor, pale, powerless hands, and
silent tears flowed from her eyes and from Lisa’s; while the cat Matross
purred in the wide arm-chair among the knitting wool, and the long
flame of the little lamp faintly stirred and flickered before the holy
picture. In the next room, behind the door, stood Nastasya Karpovna, and
she too was furtively wiping her eyes with her check pocket-handkerchief
rolled up in a ball.