She has grown older and stouter, but is still charming and elegant.  Every one has his ideal.  Varvara Pavlovna found hers in the dramatic works of M. Dumas Fils.  She diligently frequents the theatres, when consumptive and sentimental “dames aux camelias” are brought on the stage; to be Madame Doche seems to her the height of human bliss; she once declared that she did not desire a better fate for her own daughter.  It is to be hoped that fate will spare Mademoiselle Ada from such happiness; from a rosy-cheeked, chubby child she has turned into a weak-chested, pale girl; her nerves are already deranged.  The number of Varvara Pavlovna adorers has diminished, but she still has some; a few she will probably retain to the end of her days.  The most ardent of them in these later days is a certain Zakurdalo-Skubrinikov, a retired guardsman, a full-bearded man of thirty-eight, of exceptionally vigorous physique.  The French habitues of Madame Lavretsky’s salon call him “le gros taureau de l’Ukraine;” Varvara Pavlovna never invites him to her fashionable evening reunions, but he is in the fullest enjoyment of her favours.

And so—­eight years have passed by.  Once more the breezes of spring breathed brightness and rejoicing from the heavens; once more spring was smiling upon the earth and upon men; once more under her caresses everything was turning to blossom, to love, to song.  The town of O----- had undergone little change in the course of these eight years; but Marya Dmitrievna’s house seemed to have grown younger; its freshly-painted walls gave a bright welcome, and the panes of its open windows were crimson, shining in the setting sun; from these windows the light merry sound of ringing young voices and continual laughter floated into the street; the whole house seemed astir with life and brimming over with gaiety.  The lady of the house herself had long been in her tomb; Marya Dmitrievna had died two years after Lisa took the veil, and Mafa Timofyevna had not long survived her niece; they lay side by side in the cemetery of the town.  Nastasya Karpovna too was no more; for several years! the faithful old woman had gone every week to say a prayer over her friend’s ashes. . . . .  Her time had come, and now her bones too lay in the damp earth.  But Marya Dmitreivna’s house had not passed into stranger’s hands, it had not gone out of her family, the home had not been broken upon.  Lenotchka, transformed into a slim, beautiful young girl, and her betrothed lover—­a fair-haired officer of hussars; Marya Dmitrievna’s son, who had just been married in Petersburg and had come with his young wife for the spring to O-----; his wife’s sister, a school-girl of sixteen, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes; Shurotchka, grown up and also pretty, made up the youthful household, whose laughter and talk set the walls of the Kalitins’ house resounding.  Everything in the house was changed, everything was in keeping with its new inhabitants.  Beardless servant lads, grinning and full of fun, had