nce, and I am not talking at random: forgive, forgive your
wife."--Marya Dmitrievna's eyes suddenly filled with tears.--"Reflect:
youth, inexperience ... well, perhaps, a bad example--she had not the sort
of a mother who might have put her on the right road. Forgive her, Feodor
Ivanitch; she has been sufficiently punished."

Tears trickled down Marya Dmitrievna's cheeks; she did not wipe them
away: she loved to weep. Lavretzky sat as on hot coals. "My God,"--he
thought,--"what sort of torture, what sort of a day has fallen to my
lot!"

"You do not answer,"--began Marya Dmitrievna again:--"what am I to
understand by that?--is it possible that you can be so cruel? No, I will
not believe that. I feel that my words have convinced you. Feodor
Ivanitch, God will reward you for your kindness of heart, and you will
now receive your wife from my hands...."

Lavretzky involuntarily rose from his chair; Marya Dmitrievna also
rose, and stepping briskly behind a screen, led forth Varvara Pavlovna.
Pale, half-fainting, with eyes cast down, she seemed to have renounced
every thought, every impulse of her own--to have placed herself wholly in
the hands of Marya Dmitrievna.

Lavretzky retreated a pace.

"You were here?"--he exclaimed.

"Do not blame her,"--said Marya Dmitrievna, hastily;--"she did not wish
to remain on any account whatever, but I ordered her to stay, and placed
her there behind the screen. She assured me that it would only make you
more angry; but I would not listen to her; I know you better than she
does. Receive your wife from my hands; go, Varya, be not afraid, fall at
your husband's feet" (she tugged at her hand)--"and my blessing on
you!..."

"Wait, Marya Dmitrievna,"--Lavretzky interrupted her, in a dull, but
quivering voice:--"you are, probably, fond of sentimental scenes,"
(Lavretzky was not mistaken: Marya Dmitrievna had retained from her
boarding-school days a passion for a certain theatricalness); "they amuse
you; but others suffer from them. However, I will not discuss the matter
with you; in _this_ scene you are not the principal actor. What do _you_
want of me, madam?"--he added, addressing his wife. "Have not I done for
you all that I could? Do not retort, that you have not plotted this
meeting; I shall not believe you,--and you know that I cannot believe
you. What, then, do you want? You are clever,--you never do anything
without an object. You must understand that I am not capable of living
wit