Down-stairs, meanwhile, the game of preference went on. Maria
Dmitrievna was winning, and was in a very good humor. A servant
entered and announced Panshine's arrival. Maria Dmitrievna let fall
her cards, and fidgeted in her chair. Varvara Pavlovna looked at her
with a half-smile, and then turned her eyes towards the door.
Panshine appeared in a black dress-coat, buttoned all the way up, and
wearing a high English shirt-collar. "It was painful for me to obey;
but, you see, I have come;" that was what was expressed by his serious
face, evidently just shaved for the occasion.
"Why, Valdemar!" exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna, "you used always to come
in without being announced."
Panshine made no other reply than a look, and bowed politely to Maria
Dmitrievna, but did not kiss her hand. She introduced him to Varvara
Pavlovna. He drew back a pace, bowed to her with the same politeness
and with an added expression of respectful grace, and then took a seat
at the card-table. The game soon came to an end. Panshine asked after
Lizaveta Mikhailovna, and expressed his regret at hearing that she
was not quite well. Then he began to converse with Varvara Pavlovna,
weighing every word carefully and emphasizing it distinctly in true
diplomatic style, and, when she spoke, respectfully hearing her
answers to the end. But the seriousness of his diplomatic tone
produced no effect upon Varvara Pavlovna, who would have nothing to do
with it. On the contrary, she looked him full in the face with a sort
of smiling earnestness, and in talking with him seemed thoroughly at
her ease, while her delicate nostrils lightly quivered, as though with
suppressed laughter.
Maria Dmitrievna began to extol Varvara's cleverness. Panshine bent
his head politely, as far as his shirt-collar permitted him, declared
that he had already been convinced of the exceptional nature of her
talents, and all but brought round the conversation to the subject of
Metternich himself. Varvara Pavlovna half-closed her velvety eyes,
and, having said in a low voice, "But you are an artist also, _un
confrère_," added still lower, "_Venez_!" and made a sign with her
head in the direction of the piano. This single word, "_Venez_!" so
abruptly spoken, utterly changed Panshine's appearance, as if by
magic, in a single moment. His care-worn air disappeared, he began to
smile, he became animated, he unbuttoned his coat, and, saying "I am
an artist! Not at all; but you, I hear, are an artist indeed," he
followed Varvara Pavlovna to the piano.
"Tell him to sing the romance, 'How the moon floats,'" exclaimed Maria
Dmitrievna.
"You sing?" asked Varvara Pavlovna, looking at him with a bright and
rapid glance. "Sit down there."
Panshine began to excuse himself.
"Sit down," she repeated, tapping the back of the chair in a
determined manner.
He sat down, coughed, pulled up his shirt-collar, and sang his
romance.
"_Charmant_," said Varvara Pavlovna. "You sing admirably--_vous avez
du style_. Sing it again."
She went round to the other side of the piano, and placed herself
exactly opposite Panshine. He repeated his romance, giving a
melodramatic variation to his voice. Varvara looked at him steadily,
resting her elbows on the piano, with her white hands on a level with
her lips. The song ended, "_Charmant! Charmante idée_," she said, with
the quiet confidence of a connoisseur. "Tell me, have you written
anything for a woman's voice--a mezzo-soprano?"
"I scarcely write anything," answered Panshine. "I do so only now and
then--between business hours. But do you sing?"
"Oh yes! do sing us something," said Maria Dmitrievna.
Varvara Pavlovna tossed her head, and pushed her hair back from her
flushed cheeks. Then, addressing Panshine, she said--
"Our voices ought to go well together. 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_,'" answered Panshine; but it
was a long time ago. I have forgotten it now."
"Never mind, we will hum it over first by way of experiment. Let me
come there."
Varvara Pavlovna sat down to the piano. Panshine stood by her side.
They hummed over the duet, Varvara Pavlovna correcting him several
times; then they sang it out loud, and afterwards repeated it
twice--"_Mira la bianca lu-u-una_." Varvara's voice had lost its
freshness, but she managed it with great skill. At first Panshine
was nervous, and sang rather false, but afterwards he experienced an
artistic glow; and, if he did not sing faultlessly, at all events he
shrugged his shoulders, swayed his body to and fro, and from time to
time lifted his hand aloft, like a genuine vocalist.
Varvara Pavlovna afterwards played two or three little pieces by
Thalberg, and coquettishly chanted a French song. Maria Dmitrievna
did not know how to express her delight, and several times she felt
inclined to send for Liza. Gedeonovsky, too, could not find words
worthy of the occasion, and could only shake his head. Suddenly,
however, and quite unexpectedly, he yawned, and only just contrived to
hide his mouth with his hand.
That yawn did not escape Varvara's notice. She suddenly turned her
back upon the piano, saying, "_Assez de musique comme ça_; let us talk
a little," and crossed her hands before her.
"_Oui, asses de musique_," gladly repeated Panshine, and began a
conversation with her--a brisk and airy conversation, carried on
in French. "Exactly as if it were in one of the best Paris
drawing-rooms," thought Maria Dmitrievna, listening to their quick and
supple talk.
Panshine felt completely happy. He smiled, and his eyes shone. At
first, when he happened to meet Maria Dmitrievna's eyes, he would pass
his hand across his face and frown and sigh abruptly, but after a time
he entirely forgot her presence, and gave himself up unreservedly to
the enjoyment of a half-fashionable, half-artistic chat.
Varvara Pavlovna proved herself a great philosopher. She had an answer
ready for everything; she doubted nothing; she did not hesitate at
anything. It was evident that she had talked often and much with all
kinds of clever people. All her thoughts and feelings circled around
Paris. When Panshine made literature the subject of the conversation,
it turned out that she, like him, had read nothing but French books.
George Sand irritated her; Balzac she esteemed, although he wearied
her; to Eugène Sue and Scribe she ascribed a profound knowledge of the
human heart; Dumas and Féval she adored. In reality she preferred Paul
de Kock to all the others; but, as may be supposed, she did not even
mention his name. To tell the truth, literature did not interest her
overmuch.
Varvara Pavlovna avoided with great skill every thing that might, even
remotely, allude to her position. In all that she said, there was not
even the slightest mention made of love; on the contrary, her language
seemed rather to express an austere feeling with regard to the
allurements of the passions, and to breathe the accents of
disillusionment and resignation.
Panshine replied to her, but she refused to agree with him. Strange
to say, however, at the very time when she was uttering words which
conveyed what was frequently a harsh judgment, the accents of those
very words were tender and caressing, and her eyes expressed--What
those charming eyes expressed it would be hard to say, but it was
something which had no harshness about it, rather a mysterious
sweetness. Panshine tried to make out their hidden meaning, tried to
make his own eyes eloquent, but he was conscious that he failed. He
acknowledged that Varvara Pavlovna, in her capacity as a real lioness
from abroad, stood on a higher level than he; and, therefore, he was
not altogether master of himself.
Varvara Pavlovna had a habit of every now and then just touching the
sleeve of the person with whom she was conversing. These light touches
greatly agitated Panshine. She had the faculty of easily becoming
intimate with any one. Before a couple of hours had passed, it seemed
to Panshine as if he had known her an age, and as if Liza--that very
Liza whom he had loved so much, and to whom he had proposed the
evening before--had vanished in a kind of fog.
Tea was brought; the conversation became even more free from restraint
than before. Madame Kalitine rang for the page, and told him to ask
Liza to come down if her headache was better. At the sound of Liza's
name, Panshine began to talk about self-sacrifice, and to discuss the
question as to which is the more capable of such sacrifice--man or
woman. Maria Dmitrievna immediately became excited, began to affirm
that the woman is the more capable, asserted that she could prove
the fact in a few words, got confused over them, and ended with a
sufficiently unfortunate comparison. Varvara Pavlovna took up a sheet
of music, and half-screening her face with it, bent over towards
Panshine, and said in a whisper, while she nibbled a biscuit, a quiet
smile playing about her lips and her eyes, "_Elle n'a pas inventé la
poudre, la bonne dame_."
Panshine was somewhat astonished, and a little alarmed by Varvara's
audacity, but he did not detect the amount of contempt for himself
that lay hid in that unexpected sally, and--forgetting all Maria
Dmitrievna's kindness and her attachment towards him, forgetting the
dinners she had given him, the money she had lent him--he replied
(unhappy mortal that he was) in the same tone, and with a similar
smile, "_Je crois bien_!" and what is more he did not even say "_Je
crois bien_!" but "_J'crois ben_!"
Varvara Pavlovna gave him a friendly look, and rose from her seat.
At that moment Liza entered the room. Marfa Timofeevna had tried to
prevent her going but in vain. Liza was resolved to endure her trial
to the end. Varvara Pavlovna advanced to meet her, attended by
Panshine, whose face again wore its former diplomatic expression.
"How are you now?" asked Varvara.
"I am better now, thank you," replied Liza.
"We have been passing the time with a little music," said Panshine.
"It is a pity you did not hear Varvara Pavlovna. She sings charmingly,
_en artiste consommée_."
"Come here, _ma chère_," said Madame Kalitine's voice.
With childlike obedience, Varvara immediately went to her, and sat
down on a stool at her feet. Maria Dmitrievna had called her away, in
order that she might leave her daughter alone with Panshine, if only
for a moment. She still hoped in secret that Liza would change her
mind. Besides this, an idea had come into her mind, which she wanted
by all means to express.
"Do you know," she whispered to Varvara Pavlovna, "I want to try and
reconcile you and your husband. I cannot promise to succeed, but I
will try. He esteems me very much, you know."
Varvara slowly looked up at Maria Dmitrievna, and gracefully clasped
her hands together.
"You would be my saviour, _ma tante_," she said, with a sad voice. "I
don't know how to thank you properly for all your kindness; but I am
too guilty before Fedor Ivanovich. He cannot forgive me."
"But did you actually--in reality--?" began Maria Dmitrievna, with
lively curiosity.
"Do not ask me," said Varvara, interrupting her, and then looked
down. "I was young, light headed--However, I don't wish to make
excuses for myself."
"Well, in spite of all that, why not make the attempt? Don't give way
to despair," replied Maria Dmitrievna, and was going to tap her on
the cheek, but looked at her, and was afraid. "She is modest and
discreet," she thought, "but, for all that, a _lionne_ still!"
"Are you unwell?" asked Panshine, meanwhile.
"I am not quite well," replied Liza.
"I understand," he said, after rather a long silence, "Yes, I
understand."
"What do you mean?"
"I understand," significantly repeated Panshine, who simply was at a
loss for something to say.