"Márya Dmítrievna,"--exclaimed Lavrétzky, suddenly:--"allow me to ask you why you are pleased to say all this to me?"
"Why?"--again Márya Dmítrievna sniffed at her eau de Cologne, and sipped her water:--"I say it, Feódor Ivánitch, because ... you see, I am a relative, I take the closest interest in you.... I know that you have the very kindest of hearts. Hearken to me, _mon cousin_,--I am a woman of experience, and I am not talking at random: forgive, forgive your wife."--Márya Dmítrievna'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, Feódor Ivánitch; she has been sufficiently punished."
Tears trickled down Márya Dmítrievna's cheeks; she did not wipe them away: she loved to weep. Lavrétzky 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 Márya Dmítrievna 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. Feódor Ivánitch, God will reward you for your kindness of heart, and you will now receive your wife from my hands...."
Lavrétzky involuntarily rose from his chair; Márya Dmítrievna also rose, and stepping briskly behind a screen, led forth Varvára Pávlovna. 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 Márya Dmítrievna.
"Do not blame her,"--said Márya Dmítrievna, 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, Várya, be not afraid, fall at your husband's feet" (she tugged at her hand)--"and my blessing on you!..."
"Wait, Márya Dmítrievna,"--Lavrétzky interrupted her, in a dull, but quivering voice:--"you are, probably, fond of sentimental scenes," (Lavrétzky was not mistaken: Márya Dmítrievna 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 with you as I used to live; not because I am angry with you, but because I have become a different man. I told you that on the day after your return, and you yourself, at that moment, acquiesced with me in your own soul. But you wish to reinstate yourself in public opinion; it is not enough for you to live in my house, you want to live under one roof with me,--is not that the truth?"