"Mamma will be so glad," replied Liza. "She has heard of your arrival."
"Your name is Elizaveta, isn't it?" asked Lavretsky, as he mounted the steps leading up to the house.
"Yes."
"I remember you perfectly. Yours was even in those days one of the faces which one does not forget. I used to bring you sweetmeats then."
Liza blushed a little, and thought to herself, "What an odd man!"
Lavretsky stopped for a minute in the hall.
Liza entered the drawing-room, in which Panshine's voice and laugh were making themselves heard. He was communicating some piece of town gossip to Maria Dmitrievna and Gedeonovsky, both of whom had by this time returned from the garden, and he was laughly loudly at his own story. At the name of Lavretsky, Maria Dmitrievna became nervous and turned pale, but went forward to receive him.
"How are you? how are you, my dear cousin?" she exclaimed, with an almost lachrymose voice, dwelling on each word she uttered. "How glad I am to see you!"
"How are you, my good cousin?" replied Lavretsky, with a friendly pressure of her outstretched hand. "Is all well with you?"
"Sit clown, sit down, my dear Fedor Ivanovich. Oh, how delighted I am!
But first let me introduce my daughter Liza."
"I have already introduced myself to Lizaveta Mikhailovna," interrupted Lavretsky.
"Monsieur Panshine—Sergius Petrovich Gedeonovsky. But do sit down. I look at you, and, really, I can scarcely trust my eyes. But tell me about your health; is it good?"
"I am quite well, as you can see. And you, too, cousin—if I can say so without bringing you bad luck[A]—you are none the worse for these seven years."
[Footnote A: A reference to the superstition of the "evil eye," still rife among the peasants in Russia. Though it has died out among the educated classes, yet the phrase, "not to cast an evil eye," is still made use of in conversation.]
"When I think what a number of years it is since we last saw one another," musingly said Maria Dmitrievna. "Where do you come from now? Where have you left—that's to say, I meant"—she hurriedly corrected herself—"I meant to say, shall you stay with us long?"
"I come just now from Berlin," replied Lavretsky, "and to-morrow I shall go into the country—to stay there, in all probability, a long time."
"I suppose you are going to live at Lavriki?"
"No, not at Lavriki; but I have a small property about five-and-twenty versts from here, and I am going there."
"Is that the property which Glafira Petrovna left you?"
"Yes, that's it."
"But really, Fedor Ivanovich, you have such a charming house at
Lavriki."
Lavretsky frowned a little.
"Yes—but I have a cottage on the other estate too; I don't require any more just now. That place is—most convenient for me at present."
Maria Dmitrievna became once more so embarrassed that she actually sat upright in her chair, and let her hands drop by her side. Panshine came to the rescue, and entered into conversation with Lavretsky. Maria Dmitrievna by degrees grew calm, leant back again comfortably in her chair, and from time to time contributed a word or two to the conversation. But still she kept looking at her guest so pitifully, sighing so significantly, and shaking her head so sadly, that at last he lost all patience, and asked her, somewhat brusquely, if she was unwell.
"No, thank God!" answered Maria Dmitrievna; "but why do you ask?"
"Because I thought you did not seem quite yourself."
Maria Dmitrievna assumed a dignified and somewhat offended expression.
"If that's the way you take it," she thought, "it's a matter of perfect indifference to me; it's clear that every thing slides off you like water off a goose. Any one else would have withered up with misery, but you've grown fat on it."
Maria Dmitrievna did not stand upon ceremony when she was only thinking to herself. When she spoke aloud she was more choice in her expressions.
And in reality Lavretsky did not look like a victim of destiny. His rosy-cheeked, thoroughly Russian face, with its large white forehead, somewhat thick nose, and long straight lips, seemed to speak of robust health and enduring vigor of constitution. He was powerfully built, and his light hair twined in curls, like a boy's, about his head. Only in his eyes, which were blue, rather prominent, and a little wanting in mobility, an expression might be remarked which it would be difficult to define. It might have been melancholy, or it might have been fatigue; and the ring of his voice seemed somewhat monotonous.
All this time Panshine was supporting the burden of the conversation. He brought it round to the advantages of sugar making, about which he had lately read two French pamphlets; their contents he now proceeded to disclose, speaking with an air of great modesty, but without saying a single word about the sources of his information.
"Why, there's Fedia!" suddenly exclaimed the voice of Marfa Timofeevna in the next room, the door of which had been left half open. "Actually, Fedia!" And the old lady hastily entered the room. Lavretsky hadn't had time to rise from his chair before she had caught him in her arms. "Let me have a look at you," she exclaimed, holding him at a little distance from her. "Oh, how well you are looking! You've grown a little older, but you haven't altered a bit for the worse, that's a fact. But what makes you kiss my hand. Kiss my face, if you please, unless you don't like the look of my wrinkled cheeks. I dare say you never asked after me, or whether your aunt was alive or no. And yet it was my hands received you when you first saw the light, you good-for-nothing fellow! Ah, well, it's all one. But it was a good idea of yours to come here. I say, my dear," she suddenly exclaimed, turning to Maria Dmitrievna, "have you offered him any refreshment?"
"I don't want any thing," hastily said Lavretsky.
"Well, at all events, you will drink tea with us, batyushka. Gracious heavens! A man comes, goodness knows from how far off, and no one gives him so much as a cup of tea. Liza, go and see after it quickly. I remember he was a terrible glutton when he was a boy, and even now, perhaps, he is fond of eating and drinking."
"Allow me to pay my respects, Maria Timofeevna," said Panshine, coming up to the excited old lady, and making her a low bow.
"Pray excuse me, my dear sir," replied Marfa Timofeevna, "I overlooked you in my joy. You're just like your dear mother," she continued, turning anew to Lavretsky, "only you always had your father's nose, and you have it still. Well, shall you stay here long?"
"I go away to-morrow, aunt."
"To where?".
"To my house at Vasilievskoe."
"To-morrow?"
"To-morrow."
"Well, if it must be to-morrow, so be it. God be with you! You know what is best for yourself. Only mind you come and say good-bye." The old lady
