Liza bent forwards and reddened—then she
began to cry; but she did not make her aunt rise,
nor did she withdraw her hands from her. She
felt that she had no right to withdraw them—had
no right to prevent the old lady from expressing her
sorrow, her sympathy—from asking to be
pardoned for what had taken place the day before.
And Marfa Timofeevna could not sufficiently kiss those
poor, pale, nerveless hands; while silent tears poured
down from her eyes and from Liza’s too.
And the cat, Matros, purred in the large chair by the
side of the stocking and the ball of worsted; the
long, thin flame of the little lamp feebly wavered
in front of the holy picture; and in the next room,
just the other side of the door, stood Nastasia Carpovna,
and furtively wiped her eyes with a check pocket-handkerchief,
rolled up into a sort of ball.
XXXVIII.
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.
