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Close by was standing a flaxen-headed Swedish count, whom Kitty
knew by name. Several invalids were lingering near the low carriage,
staring at the lady as though she were some curiosity.
The prince went up to her, and Kitty detected that disconcerting
gleam of irony in his eyes. He went up to Madame Stahl, and ad-
dressed her with extreme courtesy and affability in that excellent French
that so few speak nowadays.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but I must recall myself to thank
you for your kindness to my daughter,” he said, taking off his hat and
not putting it on again.
“Prince Alexander Shtcherbatsky,” said Madame Stahl, lifting upon
him her heavenly eyes, in which Kitty discerned a look of annoyance.
“Delighted! I have taken a great fancy to your daughter.”
“You are still in weak health?”
“Yes; I’m used to it,” said Madame Stahl, and she introduced the
prince to the Swedish count.
“You are scarcely changed at all,” the prince said to her. “It’s ten or
eleven years since I had the honor of seeing you.”
“Yes; God sends the cross and sends the strength to bear it. Often
one wonders what is the goal of this life?... The other side!” she said
angrily to Varenka, who had rearranged the rug over her feet not to her
satisfaction.
“To do good, probably,” said the prince with a twinkle in his eye.
“That is not for us to judge,” said Madame Stahl, perceiving the
shade of expression on the prince’s face. “So you will send me that
book, dear count? I’m very grateful to you,” she said to the young
Swede.
“Ah!” cried the prince, catching sight of the Moscow colonel stand-
ing near, and with a bow to Madame Stahl he walked away with his
daughter and the Moscow colonel, who joined them.
“That’s our aristocracy, prince!” the Moscow colonel said with ironical
intention. He cherished a grudge against Madame Stahl for not mak-
ing his acquaintance.
“She’s just the same,” replied the prince.
“Did you know her before her illness, prince—that’s to say before
she took to her bed?”
“Yes. She took to her bed before my eyes,” said the prince.
“They say it’s ten years since she has stood on her feet.”
“She doesn’t stand up because her legs are too short. She’s a very
bad figure.”
“Papa, it’s not possible!” cried Kitty.
“That’s what wicked tongues say, my darling. And your Varenka
catches it too,” he added. “Oh, these invalid ladies!”
“Oh, no, papa!” Kitty objected warmly. “Varenka worships her.
And then she does so much good! Ask anyone! Everyone knows her
and Aline Stahl.”
“Perhaps so,” said the prince, squeezing her hand with his elbow;
“but it’s better when one does good so that you may ask everyone and
no one knows.”
Kitty did not answer, not because she had nothing to say, but be-
cause she did not care to reveal her secret thoughts even to her father.
But, strange to say, although she had so made up her mind not to be
influenced by her father’s views, not to let him into her inmost sanctu-
ary, she felt that the heavenly image of Madame Stahl, which she had
carried for a whole month in her heart, had vanished, never to return,
just as the fantastic figure made up of some clothes thrown down at
random vanishes when one sees that it is only some garment lying
there. All that was left was a woman with short legs, who lay down