“I should like you to meet her,” he said. “She has heard of you.”
“Your mother?” she asked in shamefaced astonishment.
“She is a very good woman,” Pavel observed, gravely. “She is in sympathy with the movement, you know, although it was only the other day I brought her the first few things to read. If it isn’t asking too much I should like to introduce you to her, Clara Rodionovna. She would be delighted.”
He paused, but she maintained her air of respectful curiosity, so he went on. “She is very enthusiastic. She would like to know some of the Miroslav radicals, and I took the liberty of telling her about you. I need not tell you that I spoke in a very, very general way about you.”
One afternoon the Palace, which the trunk-dealer’s daughter had known all her life as a mysterious, awe-inspiring world whose threshold people of her class could never dream of crossing, the Palace threw open its imposing doors to her, and she was escorted by Pavel up the immense staircase and into the favorite room of Countess Anna Nicolayevna Varoff. As it was an unheard-of thing for a Jewish girl to visit the Palace, it was agreed, as a safeguard against the inquisitiveness of the servants, that she should be known to them by such a typically Russian name as Daria Ivanovna Morosoff (Morosova).
Barring the two great statues and an ancient cabinet inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, the room was rather below her undefined anticipations. Her preconceived notion of the place soon wore off, however, under a growing sense of venerable solidity, of a quiet magnificence that was a revelation to her.
“I’m awfully glad to know you, Clara Rodionovna, awfully,” the countess said when the first formalities of greeting were over, and they were all seated. This Jewish girl was the first Nihilist she had ever met (indeed, Pavel was only “Pasha” after all), and she identified her in her mind with every revolutionary assassination and plot she had read about. She was flushed with excitement and so put out that she was playing with Pavel’s fingers as she spoke, as a mother will do with those of her little boy. As to Clara, she had an oppressive feeling as though the pair of big musty statues, graceful, silent, imposing, were haughtily frowning on her presence under this roof. Pavel seemed to be a different young man. She scarcely seemed to be acquainted with him. Only the sight of Anna Nicolayevna fondling his fingers warmed her heart to both. On the other hand, her own smile won the hostess.
The countess released Pavel’s hand, moved over to the other end of the sofa and huddled herself into the corner, thrusting out her graceful elbows and great pile of auburn hair. The presence of Pavel kept her ill at ease. Finally she said: “I think you had better leave us two women to ourselves, Pasha. We shall understand each other much better then, won’t we, Clara Rodionovna?”