he
French language. "Exactly as in the best Parisian salon,"--thought Marya
Dmitrievna, as she listened to their evasive and nimble speeches. Panshin
felt perfectly contented; his eyes sparkled, he smiled; at first, he passed
his hand over his face, contracted his brows, and sighed spasmodically when
he chanced to meet the glances of Marya Dmitrievna; but later on, he
entirely forgot her, and surrendered himself completely to the enjoyment of
the half-fashionable, half-artistic chatter. Varvara Pavlovna showed
herself to be a great philosopher: she had an answer ready for everything,
she did not hesitate over anything, she doubted nothing; it could be seen
that she had talked much and often with clever persons of various sorts.
All her thoughts, all her feelings, circled about Paris. Panshin turned
the conversation on literature: it appeared that she, as well as he, read
only French books: Georges Sand excited her indignation; Balzac she
admired, although he fatigued her; in Sue and Scribe she discerned great
experts of the heart; she adored Dumas and Feval; in her soul she
preferred Paul de Kock to the whole of them, but, of course, she did not
even mention his name. To tell the truth, literature did not interest her
greatly. Varvara Pavlovna very artfully avoided everything which could
even distantly recall her position; there was not a hint about love in her
remarks: on the contrary, they were rather distinguished by severity toward
the impulses of passion, by disenchantment, by meekness. Panshin retorted;
she disagreed with him ... but, strange to say!--at the very time when
words of condemnation, often harsh, were issuing from her lips, the sound
of those words caressed and enervated, and her eyes said ... precisely what
those lovely eyes said, it would be difficult to state; but their speech
was not severe, not clear, yet sweet. Panshin endeavoured to understand
their mysterious significance, endeavoured to talk with his own eyes, but
he was conscious that he was not at all successful; he recognised the fact
that Varvara Pavlovna, in her quality of a genuine foreign lioness, stood
above him, and therefore he was not in full control of himself. Varvara
Pavlovna had a habit, while talking, of lightly touching the sleeve of her
interlocutor; these momentary touches greatly agitated Vladimir
Nikolaitch. Varvara Pavlovna possessed the art of getting on easily with
every one; two hours had not elapsed before it seemed to P