Part 27 (1/2)

That yawn did not escape Varvara's notice. She suddenly turned her back upon the piano, saying, ”_a.s.sez de musique comme ca_; let us talk a little,” and crossed her hands before her.

”_Oui, a.s.ses de musique_,” gladly repeated Pans.h.i.+ne, 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.

Pans.h.i.+ne felt completely happy. He smiled, and his eyes shone. At first, when he happened to meet Maria Dmitrievna's eyes, he would pa.s.s 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-fas.h.i.+onable, 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 Pans.h.i.+ne 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 Eugene Sue and Scribe she ascribed a profound knowledge of the human heart; Dumas and Feval she adored. In reality she preferred Paul de k.o.c.k 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 pa.s.sions, and to breathe the accents of disillusionment and resignation.

Pans.h.i.+ne 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. Pans.h.i.+ne 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 Pans.h.i.+ne. She had the faculty of easily becoming intimate with any one. Before a couple of hours had pa.s.sed, it seemed to Pans.h.i.+ne 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, Pans.h.i.+ne 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, a.s.serted 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 Pans.h.i.+ne, and said in a whisper, while she nibbled a biscuit, a quiet smile playing about her lips and her eyes, ”_Elle n'a pas invente la poudre, la bonne dame_.”

Pans.h.i.+ne 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 Pans.h.i.+ne, 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 pa.s.sing the time with a little music,” said Pans.h.i.+ne.

”It is a pity you did not hear Varvara Pavlovna. She sings charmingly, _en artiste consommee_.”

”Come here, _ma chere_,” 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 Pans.h.i.+ne, 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 Pans.h.i.+ne, meanwhile.