her now that everyone knew something, and at the same time that everyone was afraid of something and was evading her questions, wishing to conceal something from her.
The footman entered and offered her the specially ordered cup of coffee on a small silver tray, but at once, on a sign from her, went over to Marya Timofeevna.
'You got very cold just now, my dear, drink it quickly to warm yourself.'
'You're not angry, auntie?' she prattled, with some sort of frivolous playfulness.
'Wha-a-at?' Varvara Petrovna reared and sat straight up in her chair. 'What sort of aunt am I to you? What are you suggesting?'
Marya Timofeevna, who had not expected such wrath, began trembling all over with convulsive little shivers, as if in a fit, and recoiled against the back of her chair.
'I ... I thought that's how it should be,' she prattled, staring at Varvara Petrovna, 'that's what Liza called you.'
'Which Liza?'
'But, this young lady,' Marya Timofeevna pointed her finger.
'So she's already Liza to you?'
'You yourself just called her that,' Marya Timofeevna regained some courage. 'And I saw a beauty just like her in a dream,' she chuckled as though inadvertently.
Varvara Petrovna understood and calmed down somewhat; she even smiled slightly at Marya Timofeevna's last phrase. The latter, having caught this smile, rose from her chair and, limping, went timidly up to her.
'Take it, I forgot to give it back, don't be angry at my impoliteness,' she suddenly took from her shoulders the black shawl Varvara Petrovna had put on her earlier.
'Put it back on at once, and keep it for good. Go and sit down, drink your coffee, and please do not be afraid of me, my dear, calm yourself. I'm beginning to understand you.'
'Ah, Stepan Trofimovich, one loses all sense here even without you; you at least might spare us... Please ring that bell, there beside you, to the servingwomen's quarters.'
There was a silence. Her eyes ran suspiciously and irritably over all our faces. Agasha, her favorite maid, came in.
'Bring me the checkered kerchief, the one I bought in Geneva. What is Darya Pavlovna doing?'
'She does not feel very well, ma'am.'
'Go and ask her to come here. Add that I want it very much, even if she isn't feeling well.'
At that moment some unusual noise of footsteps and voices, similar to the previous one, was heard again from the adjacent rooms, and suddenly, breathless and 'upset,' Praskovya Ivanovna appeared on the threshold. Mavriky Nikolaevich was supporting her arm.
'Oh, dear me, I barely dragged myself here; Liza, you mad girl, what are you doing to your mother!' she shrieked, putting into this shriek, as is customary with all weak but very irritable people, all her pent-up irritation.
'Varvara Petrovna, dearest, I've come to fetch my daughter!'
Varvara Petrovna gave her a dark look, rose slightly to greet her, and, barely concealing her vexation, said:
'Good day, Praskovya Ivanovna, kindly sit down. I just knew you would come.'
II
For Praskovya Ivanovna there could be nothing unexpected in such a reception. Ever since childhood, Varvara Petrovna had always treated her former boarding-school friend despotically and, under the guise of friendship, with all but contempt. In this case, however, the circumstances were also unusual. Over the last few days things had been tending towards a complete break between the two households, a fact I have already mentioned in passing. For Varvara Petrovna the reasons behind this incipient break remained mysterious and, consequently, were all the more offensive; but the main thing was that Praskovya Ivanovna had managed to assume a certain remarkably haughty position regarding her. Varvara Petrovna was wounded, of course, and meanwhile certain strange rumors began to reach her as well, which also annoyed her exceedingly, precisely by their vagueness. Varvara Petrovna was of a direct and proudly open character, a swooping character, if I may put it so. Least of all could she endure secret, lurking accusations; she always preferred open war. Anyhow, it was five days since the ladies had seen each other. The last visit had been paid by Varvara Petrovna, who had left 'Drozdikha' offended and confounded. I can say without being mistaken that Praskovya Ivanovna walked in this time with the naive conviction that Varvara Petrovna for some reason would quail before her; this could be seen even from the look on her face. But, apparently, the demon of the most arrogant pride took possession of Varvara Petrovna precisely when she had the slightest suspicion that she was for some reason considered humiliated. And Praskovya Ivanovna, like many weak people who allow themselves to be offended for a long time without protesting, was notable for being remarkably passionate in the attack the moment events turned in her favor. It is true that she was not well then, and illness always made her more irritable. I will add, finally, that the presence of the rest of us in the drawing room would not have hindered the two childhood friends if a quarrel had flared up between them; we were considered familiars and almost subordinates. I realized this just then, not without alarm. Stepan Trofimovich, who had not sat down since Varvara Petrovna's arrival, sank exhausted into his chair upon hearing Praskovya Ivanovna's shriek, and in despair began trying to catch my eye. Shatov turned sharply on his chair and even grunted something to himself. I think he wanted to get up and leave. Liza rose a little but sat down again at once, without even paying proper attention to her mother's shriek, not because of her 'testy character,' but because she was obviously all under the sway of some other powerful impression. Now she was looking off somewhere into the air, almost absentmindedly, and had even stopped paying her former attention to Marya Timofeevna.
III
