She sat down to play cards together with her and Gedeonovsky, and Marfa Timofyevna led Lisa away upstairs 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 armchair 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.
XL
Meanwhile, downstairs, preference was going on merrily in the drawing-room; Marya Dmitrievna was winning, and was in high good-humour. A servant came in and announced that Panshin was below.
Marya Dmitrievna dropped her cards and moved restlessly in her armchair; Varvara Pavlovna looked at her with a half-smile, then turned her eyes towards the door. Panshin made his appearance in a black frock-coat buttoned up to the throat, and a high English collar. “It was hard for me to obey; but you see I have come,” this was what was expressed by his unsmiling, freshly shaven countenance.
“Well, Woldemar,” cried Marya Dmitrievna, “you used to come in unannounced!”
Panshin only replied to Marya Dmitrievna by a single glance. He bowed courteously to her, but did not kiss her hand. She presented him to Varvara Pavlovna; he stepped back a pace, bowed to her with the same courtesy, but with still greater elegance and respect, and took a seat near the card-table. The game of preference was soon over. Panshin inquired after Lisaveta Mihalovna, learnt that she was not quite well, and expressed his regret. Then he began to talk to Varvara Pavlovna, diplomatically weighing each word and giving it its full value, and politely hearing her answers to the end. But the dignity of his diplomatic tone did not impress Varvara Pavlovna, and she did not adopt it. On the contrary, she looked him in the face with lighthearted attention and talked easily, while her delicate nostrils were quivering as though with suppressed laughter. Marya Dmitrievna began to enlarge on her talent; Panshin courteously inclined his head, so far as his collar would permit him, declared that, “he felt sure of it beforehand,” and almost turned the conversation to the diplomatic topic of Metternich himself. Varvara Pavlovna, with an expressive look in her velvety eyes, said in a low voice, “Why, but you too are an artist, un confrère,” adding still lower, “venez!” with a nod towards the piano. The single word venez thrown at him, instantly, as though by magic, effected a complete transformation in Panshin’s whole appearance. His careworn air disappeared; he smiled and grew lively, unbuttoned his coat, and repeating “a poor artist, alas! Now you, I have heard, are a real artist;” he followed Varvara Pavlovna to the piano. …
“Make him sing his song, ‘How the Moon Floats,’ ” cried Marya Dmitrievna.
“Do you sing?” said Varvara Pavlovna, enfolding him in a rapid radiant look. “Sit down.”
Panshin began to cry off.
“Sit down,” she repeated insistently, tapping on a chair behind him.
He sat down, coughed, tugged at his collar, and sang his song.
“Charmant,” pronounced Varvara Pavlovna, “you sing very well, vous avez du style, again.”
She walked round the piano and stood just opposite Panshin. He sang it again, increasing the melodramatic tremor in his voice. Varvara Pavlovna stared steadily at him, leaning her elbows on the piano and holding her white hands on a level with her lips. Panshin finished the song.
“Charmant, charmant idée,” she said with the calm self-confidence of a connoisseur. “Tell me, have you composed anything for a woman’s voice, for a mezzo-soprano?”
“I hardly compose at all,” replied Panshin. “That was only thrown off in the intervals of business … but do you sing?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! sing us something,” urged Marya Dmitrievna.
Varvara Pavlovna pushed her hair back off her glowing cheeks and gave her head a little shake.
“Our voices ought to go well together,” she observed, 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, once,” replied Panshin, “but long ago; I have forgotten it.”
“Never mind, we will rehearse it
