Over lunch the neighbors fell to talking quite amicably. Muromsky asked Berestov to lend him a droshky, for he confessed that on account of the pain he was in no condition to make it home on horseback. Berestov saw him off to the porch, and Muromsky left, but not before obtaining his word of honor that he would come the very next day (and with Alexei Ivanovich) for a friendly dinner in Priluchino. Thus an ancient and deeply rooted enmity seemed about to end owing to the shying of a bobtailed filly.
Liza ran out to meet Grigory Ivanovich.
“What does this mean, papa?” she said in surprise. “Why are you limping? Where’s your horse? Whose droshky is this?”
“You’ll never guess, my dear,”*3 Grigory Ivanovich replied, and he told her everything that had happened. Liza could not believe her ears. Giving her no time to recover, Grigory Ivanovich announced that the two Berestovs would dine with them the next day.
“What are you saying!” she cried, turning pale. “The Berestovs, father and son! Dining with us tomorrow! No, papa, say what you like, I won’t show myself for anything.”
“What, have you lost your mind?” her father retorted. “Since when have you become so bashful, or are you nursing a hereditary hatred for them, like a romantic heroine? Enough, don’t play the fool…”
“No, papa, not for anything in the world, not for the finest treasure will I appear before the Berestovs.”
Grigory Ivanovich shrugged and did not argue any more with her, for he knew that he would get nowhere by contradicting her, and he went to rest from his noteworthy ride.
Lizaveta Grigoryevna went off to her room and sent for Nastya. The two spent a long time discussing the next day’s visit. What would Alexei think if he recognized the well-bred young lady as his Akulina? What opinion would he have of her conduct and principles, of her sagacity? On the other hand, Liza wanted very much to see what impression such an unexpected encounter would make on him…Suddenly a thought flashed through her mind. She immediately told it to Nastya; they were both pleased with such a godsend and decided to carry it out without fail.
The next day over breakfast Grigory Ivanovich asked his daughter whether she still intended to hide from the Berestovs.
“Papa,” Liza replied, “I’ll receive them if you like, only on one condition: however I appear before them, whatever I do, you’re not to scold me or show any sign of surprise or displeasure.”
“Again some sort of pranks!” Grigory Ivanovich said, laughing. “Very well, very well, I agree; do whatever you like, my dark-eyed little mischief.” With those words he kissed her on the forehead, and Liza ran off to get ready.
At exactly two o’clock a homemade carriage harnessed to six horses drove into the yard and rolled around the densely green circle of the lawn. Old Berestov went up the steps supported by two of Muromsky’s liveried lackeys. Behind him came his son, who arrived on horseback, and together they went into the dining room, where the table was already laid. Muromsky could not have received his neighbors more affably, proposed to show them the garden and the menagerie before dinner, and led them down the path, carefully swept and sprinkled with sand. Old Berestov inwardly begrudged the labor and time wasted on such useless whims, but kept silent out of politeness. His son shared neither the economical landowner’s displeasure, nor the vain anglomaniac’s raptures; he impatiently awaited the appearance of the host’s daughter, of whom he had heard so much, and though his heart, as we know, was already taken, a young beauty always had a right to his imagination.
Returning to the drawing room, the three sat down: the old men recalled former times and stories from their service, while Alexei reflected on the role he would play in the presence of Liza. He decided that in any case cold distraction would be the most suitable of all and prepared himself accordingly. The door opened, he turned his head with such indifference, with such proud nonchalance, that the heart of the most inveterate coquette was bound to shudder. Unfortunately, instead of Liza, old Miss Jackson came in, whitened, tight-laced, with downcast eyes and a little curtsy, and Alexei’s splendid military maneuver went for naught. Before he had time to regroup his forces, the door opened again, and this time Liza came in. They all rose. The father was just beginning to introduce the guests, but suddenly stopped and quickly bit his lip…Liza, his swarthy Liza, was whitened to the ears, her brows blackened even more than Miss Jackson’s; false curls, much lighter than her own hair, were fluffed up like a Louis XIV wig; sleeves à l’imbécile8 stuck out like Madame de Pompadour’s farthingale; her waist was laced up like the letter X, and all her mother’s diamonds that had not yet been pawned shone on her fingers, neck, and ears. Alexei could not have recognized his Akulina in this ridiculous and glittering young miss. His father went to kiss her hand, and he vexedly followed him; when he touched her white fingers, it seemed to him that they were trembling. At the same time he noticed a little foot, deliberately exposed and shod with all possible coquetry. That reconciled him somewhat to the rest of her attire. As for the white and black greasepaint, it must be confessed that in the simplicity of his heart he did not notice them at first glance, nor did he suspect them later on. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise and tried not to show any surprise; but his daughter’s mischief seemed so amusing to him that he could barely control himself. The prim Englishwoman was in no mood for laughter. She guessed that the black and white greasepaint had been purloined from her chest of drawers, and a crimson flush of vexation showed through the artificial whiteness of her face. She cast fiery glances at the young prankster, who, putting off all explanations for another time, pretended not to notice them.
They sat down at the table. Alexei went on playing the role of the distracted and pensive one. Liza minced, spoke in singsong through her teeth, and only in French. Her father kept peering at her, not understanding what she was up to, but finding it all quite amusing. The Englishwoman was furious and said nothing. Only Ivan Petrovich felt at home: he ate for two, drank his fill, laughed at his own jokes, and talked and guffawed more and more amiably every moment.