me."

Varvara Pavlovna sat down at the piano, Panshin stood by her. They sang
through the duet in an undertone, and Varvara Pavlovna corrected him
several times as they did so, then they sang it aloud, and then twice
repeated the performance of Mira la bianca lu-u-na. Varvara Pavlovna's
voice had lost its freshness, but she managed it with great skill.
Panshin at first was hesitating, and a little out of tune, then he
warmed up, and if his singing was not quite beyond criticism, at least
he shrugged his shoulders, swayed his whole person, and lifted his hand
from time to time in the most genuine style. Varvara Pavlovna played two
or three little things of Thalberg's, and coquettishly rendered a little
French ballad. Marya Dmitrievna did not know how to express her delight;
she several times tried to send for Lisa. Gedeonovsky, too, was at a
loss for words, and could only nod his head, but all at once he gave an
unexpected yawn, and hardly had time to cover his mouth with his! hand.
This yawn did not escape Varvara Pavlovna; she at once turned her back
on the piano, observing, "Assez de musique comme ca; let us talk," and
she folded her arms. "Oui, assez de musique," repeated Panshin gaily,
and at once he dropped into a chat, alert, light, and in French.
"Precisely as in the best Parisian salon," thought Marya Dmitrievna, as
she listened to their fluent and quick-witted sentences. Panshin had a
sense of complete satisfaction; his eyes shone, and he smiled. At first
he passed his hand across his face, contracted his brows, and sighed
spasmodically whenever he chanced to encounter Marya Dmitrievna's eyes.
But later on he forgot her altogether, and gave himself up entirely to
the enjoyment of a half-worldly, half-artistic chat. Varvara Pavlovna
proved to be a great philosopher; she had a ready answer for everything;
she never hesitated, never doubted about anything; one could see that
she had conversed much with clever men of all kinds. All her ideas, all
her feelings revolved round Paris. Panshin turned the conversation upon
literature; it seemed that, like himself, she read only French books.
George Sand drove her to exasperation, Balzac she respected, but he
wearied her; in Sue and Scribe she saw great knowledge of human nature,
Dumas and Feval she adored. In her heart she preferred Paul de Kock to
all of them, but of course she did not even mention his name. To tell
the truth, literature had no great interest for her. V