“I have heard, my dear,” she began, “that you are a wonderful performer.”

“It is long since I have played,” replied Varvara Pavlovna, seating herself without delay at the piano, and running her fingers smartly over the keys.  “Do you wish it?”

“If you will be so kind.”

Varvara Pavlovna played a brilliant and difficult etude by Hertz very correctly.  She had great power and execution.

“Sylphide!” cried Gedeonovsky.

“Marvellous!” Marya Dmitrievna chimed in.  “Well, Varvara Pavlovna, I confess,” she observed, for the first time calling her by her name, “you have astonished me; you might give concerts.  We have a musician here, an old German, a queer fellow, but a very clever musician. he gives Lisa lessons.  He will be simply crazy over you.”

“Lisaveta Mihalovna is also musical?” asked Varvara Pavlovna, turning her head slightly towards her.

“Yes, she plays fairly, and is fond of music; but what is that beside you?  But there is one young man here too—­with whom we must make you acquainted.  He is an artist in soul, and composes very charmingly.  He alone will be able to appreciate you fully.”

“A young man?” said Varvara Pavlovna:  “Who is he?  Some poor man?”

“Oh dear no, our chief beau, and not only among us—­et a Petersbourg.  A kammer-junker, and received in the best society.  You must have heard of him:  Panshin, Vladimir Nikolaitch.  He is here on a government commission . . . future minister, I daresay!”

“And an artist?”

“An artist at heart, and so well-bred.  You shall see him.  He has been here very often of late:  I invited him for this evening; I hope he will come,” added Marya Dmitrievna with a gentle sigh, and an oblique smile of bitterness.

Lisa knew the meaning of this smile, but it was nothing to her now.

“And young?” repeated Varvara Pavlovna, lightly modulating from tone to tone.

“Twenty-eight, and of the most prepossessing appearance.  Un jeune homme acompli, indeed.”

“An exemplary young man, one may say,” observed Gedeonovsky.

Varvara Pavlovna began suddenly playing a noisy waltz of Strauss, opening with such a loud and rapid trill that Gedeonovsky was quite startled.  In the very middle of the waltz she suddenly passed into a pathetic motive, and finished up with an air from “Lucia” Fra poco . . .  She reflected that lively music was not in keeping with her position.  The air from “Lucia,” with emphasis on the sentimental passages, moved Marya Dmitrievna greatly.

“What soul!” she observed in an undertone to Gedeonovsky.

“A sylphide!” repeated Gedeonovsky, raising his eyes towards heaven.