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Updated: May 14, 2025
There they are! . . . Varya! . . . Varya. . . . Look!" Two little girls skipped out of the train and hung on Varya's neck. They were followed by a stout, middle-aged lady, and a tall, lanky gentleman with grey whiskers; behind them came two schoolboys, laden with bags, and after the schoolboys, the governess, after the governess the grandmother.
The officers took his part. Captain Polyansky began assuring Varya that Pushkin really was a psychologist, and to prove it quoted two lines from Lermontov; Lieutenant Gernet said that if Pushkin had not been a psychologist they would not have erected a monument to him in Moscow. "That's loutishness!" was heard from the other end of the table.
"My dear fellow, why don't you get married?" he asked. "Why don't you marry Varya, for instance? She is a splendid, first-rate girl! It's true she is very fond of arguing, but a heart . . . what a heart! She was just asking about you. Marry her, my dear boy! Eh?" He knew perfectly well that Varya would not marry this dull, snub-nosed man, but still persuaded him to marry her why?
"Yes. . . . But what hot little hands you've got. . . That's because you're excited, Varya. . . . What have you got for our supper to-night?" "Chicken and salad. . . . It's a chicken just big enough for two . . . . Then there is the salmon and sardines that were sent from town." The moon as though she had taken a pinch of snuff hid her face behind a cloud.
Meanwhile, I am a literary man, and have to write here in Yalta. Dear Lika, when you become a great singer and are paid a handsome salary, then be charitable to me, marry me, and keep me at your expense, that I may be free to do nothing. If you really are going to die, it might be undertaken by Varya Eberly, whom, as you know, I love.
Human happiness reminded her of her own loneliness, of her solitary couch beyond the hills and dales. "The train is coming!" said Varya, "how jolly!" Three eyes of fire could be seen in the distance. The stationmaster came out on the platform. Signal lights flashed here and there on the line. "Let's see the train in and go home," said Sasha, yawning.
Then she found her daughter Varya, picked her up in her arms and hugged her warmly; the child seemed to her cold and heavy, but she was unwilling to acknowledge this to herself, and she began explaining to the child how good, kind, and honourable her papa was. But when Andrey Ilyitch arrived soon afterwards she hardly greeted him.
She recalled it all without sparing herself, and now, breathless with shame, she would have liked to slap herself in the face. "Poor Andrey!" she said to herself, trying as she thought of her husband to put into her face as tender an expression as she could. "Varya, my poor little girl, doesn't know what a mother she has! Forgive me, my dear ones! I love you so much . . . so much!"
It was always Varya who started the arguments at tea; she was good-looking, handsomer than Masha, and was considered the cleverest and most cultured person in the house, and she behaved with dignity and severity, as an eldest daughter should who has taken the place of her dead mother in the house.
When they reached his gate, Varya said: "Why is it your mysterious Metropolit Metropolititch never shows himself anywhere? He might come and see us." The mysterious Ippolit Ippolititch was sitting on his bed, taking off his trousers, when Nikitin went in to him. "Don't go to bed, my dear fellow," said Nikitin breathlessly. "Stop a minute; don't go to bed!"
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