alling that lady by her name
for the first time. "Why you might give concerts. We have a musician
here, an old German, very learned and quite an original. He gives Liza
lessons. You would simply make him go out of his mind."

"Is Lizaveta Mikhailovna also a musician?" asked Madame Lavretsky,
turning her head a little towards her.

"Yes; she doesn't play badly, and she is very fond I of music. But
what does that signify in comparison with you? But we have a young man
here besides. You really must make his acquaintance. He is a thorough
artist in feeling, and he composes charmingly. He is the only person
here who can fully appreciate you"

"A young man?" said Varvara Pavlovna. "What is he? Some poor fellow?"

"I beg your pardon. He is the leading cavalier here, and not here
only--_et a Petersbourg_--a chamberlain, received in the best society.
You surely must have heard of him--Vladimir Nikolaevich Panshine. He
is here on government business--a future minister!"

"And an artist too?"

"An artist in feeling, and so amiable. You shall see him. He has
been here a great deal for some time past. I asked him to come this
evening. I _hope_ he will come," added Maria Dmitrievna with a slight
sigh and a bitter smile.

Liza understood the hidden meaning of that smile, but she had other
things to think about then.

"And he's young?" repeated Varvara Pavlovna, lightly modulating from
key to key.

"Twenty-eight years old--and a most pleasing exterior. _Un jeune homme
accompli_."

"A model young man, one may say," remarked Gedeonovsky.

Varvara Pavlovna suddenly began to play a noisy waltz by Strauss,
beginning with so loud and quick a trill that Gedeonovsky fairly
started. Right in the middle of the waltz she passed abruptly into a
plaintive air, and ended with the _Fra poco_ out of _Lucia_. She had
suddenly remembered that joyful music was not in keeping with her
position.

Maria Dmitrievna was deeply touched by the air from _Lucia_, in which
great stress was laid upon the sentimental passages.

"What feeling!" she whispered to Gedeonovsky.

"_A Sylphide_!" repeated Gedeonovsky, lifting his eyes to heaven.

The dinner hour arrived. Marfa Timofeevna did not come down from
up-stairs until the soup was already placed on the table. She behaved
very coldly to Varvara Pavlovna, answering her amiable speeches with
broken phrases, and never even looking at her. Varvara soon perceived
that there was no conversation to be g