“Silence, cyneec!"[A] exclaimed Mikhalevich.

[Footnote A:  He says Tsuinnik instead of Tsinik.]

“Cynic,” said Lavretsky, correcting him.

“Just so, cyneec,” repeated the undisconcerted Mikhalevich.

Even when he had taken his seat in the tarantass, in which his flat and marvellously light portmanteau had been stowed away, he still went on talking.  Enveloped in a kind of Spanish cloak, with a collar reddened by long use, and with lion’s claws instead of hooks, he continued to pour forth his opinions on the destinies of Russia, waving his swarthy hand the while in the air, as if he were sowing the seeds of future prosperity.  At last the horses set off.

“Remember my last three words!” he exclaimed, leaning almost entirely out of the carriage, and scarcely able to keep his balance.  “Religion, Progress, Humanity!  Farewell!” His head, on which his forage cap was pressed down to his eyes, disappeared from sight.  Lavretsky was left alone at the door, where he remained gazing attentively along the road, until the carriage was out of sight.  “And perhaps he is right,” he thought, as he went back into the house.  “Perhaps I am a marmot.”  Much of what Mikhalevich had said had succeeded in winning its way into his heart, although at the time he had contradicted him and disagreed with him.  Let a man only be perfectly honest—­no one can utterly gainsay him.

XXV.

Two days later, Maria Dmitrievna arrived at Vasilievskoe, according to her promise, and all her young people with her.  The little girls immediately ran into the garden, but Maria Dmitrievna languidly walked through the house, and languidly praised all she saw.  She looked upon her visit to Lavretsky as a mark of great condescension, almost a benevolent action.  She smiled affably when Anton and Apraxia came to kiss her hand, according to the old custom of household serfs, and in feeble accents she asked for tea.

To the great vexation of Anton, who had donned a pair of knitted white gloves, it was not he who handed the tea to the lady visitor, but Lavretsky’s hired lackey, a fellow who, in the old man’s opinion, had not a notion of etiquette.  However, Anton had it all his own way at dinner.  With firm step, he took up his position behind Madame Kalitine’s chair, and he refused to give up his post to any one.  The apparition of visitors at Vasilievskoe—­a sight for so many years unknown there—­both troubled and cheered the old man.  It was a pleasure for him to see that his master was acquainted with persons of some standing in society.

Anton was not the only person who was agitated that day.  Lemm was excited too.  He had put on a shortish snuff-colored coat with pointed tails, and had tied his cravat tight, he coughed incessantly, and made way for every one with kindly and affable mien.  As for Lavretsky, he remarked with satisfaction that he remained on the same friendly footing with Liza as before.  As soon as she arrived she cordially held out her hand to him.