* * * * *

As soon as the first cold weather arrived, in spite of her promise to bury herself in seclusion, Varvara Pavlovna, who had provided herself with sufficient funds, migrated to St. Petersburg.  A modest, but pretty set of rooms had been found for her there by Panshine, who had left the province of O. rather earlier than she did.  During the latter part of his stay in O., he had completely lost Madame Kalitine’s good graces.  He had suddenly given up visiting her, and indeed scarcely stirred away from Lavriki.  Varvara Pavlovna had enslaved—­literally enslaved him.  No other word can express the unbounded extent of the despotic sway she exercised over him.

Lavretsky spent the winter in Moscow.  In the spring of the ensuing year the news reached him that Liza had taken the veil in the B. convent, in one of the most remote districts of Russia.

EPILOGUE.

Eight years passed away.  The spring had come again—­

But we will first of all say a few words about the fate of Mikhalevich, Panshine, and Madame Lavretsky, and then take leave of them forever.

Mikhalevich, after much wandering to and fro, at last hit upon the business he was fitted for, and obtained the post of Head Inspector in one of the Government Educational Institutes.  His lot thoroughly satisfies him, and his pupils “adore” him, though at the same time they mimic him.  Panshine has advanced high in the service, and already aims at becoming the head of a department.  He stoops a little as he walks; it must be the weight of the Vladimir Cross which hangs from his neck, that bends him forward.  In him the official decidedly preponderates over the artist now.  His face, though still quite young, has grown yellow, his hair is thinner than it used to be, and he neither sings nor draws any longer.  But he secretly occupies himself with literature.  He has written a little comedy in the style of a “proverb;” and—­as every one who writes now constantly brings on the stage some real person or some actual fact—­he has introduced a coquette into it, and he reads it confidentially to a few ladies who are very kind to him.  But he has never married, although he has had many excellent opportunities for doing so.  For that Varvara Pavlovna is to blame.

As for her, she constantly inhabits Paris, just as she used to do.  Lavretsky has opened a private account for her with his banker, and has paid a sufficient sum to ensure his being free from her—­free from the possibility of being a second time unexpectedly visited by her.  She has grown older and stouter, but she is still undoubtedly handsome, and always dresses in taste.  Every one has his ideal.  Varvara Pavlovna has found hers—­in the plays of M. Dumas fils.  She assiduously frequents the theatres in which consumptive and sentimental Camelias appear on the boards; to be Madame Doche seems