Liza, overcome with confusion, flung herself into his arms and shed tears; Stepan Trofimovitch wept too with delight.
But Liza soon after went away, and only Dasha was left.
When Dasha began to have other teachers, Stepan Trofimovitch gave up his lessons with her, and by degrees left off noticing her.
Things went on like this for a long time.
Once when she was seventeen he was struck by her prettiness.
It happened at Varvara Petrovna's table.
He began to talk to the young girl, was much pleased with her answers, and ended by offering to give her a serious and comprehensive course of lessons on the history of Russian literature.
Varvara Petrovna approved, and thanked him for his excellent idea, and Dasha was delighted.
Stepan Trofimovitch proceeded to make special preparations for the lectures, and at last they began.
They began with the most ancient period. The first lecture went off enchantingly. Varvara Petrovna was present.
When Stepan Trofimovitch had finished, and as he was going informed his pupil that the next time he would deal with
"The Story of the Expedition of Igor," Varvara Petrovna suddenly got up and announced that there would be no more lessons.
Stepan Trofimovitch winced, but said nothing, and Dasha flushed crimson. It put a stop to the scheme, however.
This had happened just three years before Varvara Petrovna's unexpected fancy.
Poor Stepan Trofimovitch was sitting alone free from all misgivings.
Plunged in mournful reveries he had for some time been looking out of the window to see whether any of his friends were coming.
But nobody would come.
It was drizzling. It was turning cold, he would have to have the stove heated. He sighed.
Suddenly a terrible apparition flashed upon his eyes: Varvara Petrovna in such weather and at such an unexpected hour to see him!
And on foot!
He was so astounded that he forgot to put on his coat, and received her as he was, in his everlasting pink-wadded dressing-jacket.
"Ma bonne amie!" he cried faintly, to greet her.
"You're alone; I'm glad; I can't endure your friends.
How you do smoke! Heavens, what an atmosphere!
You haven't finished your morning tea and it's nearly twelve o'clock.
It's your idea of bliss—disorder!
You take pleasure in dirt.
What's that torn paper on the floor?
Nastasya, Nastasya!
What is your Nastasya about?
Open the window, the casement, the doors, fling everything wide open.
And we'll go into the drawing-room. I've come to you on a matter of importance.
And you sweep up, my good woman, for once in your life."
"They make such a muck!" Nastasya whined in a voice of plaintive exasperation.
"Well, you must sweep, sweep it up fifteen times a day!
You've a wretched drawing-room" (when they had gone into the drawing-room).
"Shut the door properly. She'll be listening.
You must have it repapered.
Didn't I send a paperhanger to you with patterns? Why didn't you choose one?
Sit down, and listen.
Do sit down, I beg you.
Where are you off to?
Where are you off to?
Where are you off to?
"I'll be back directly," Stepan Trofimovitch cried from the next room. "Here I am again."
"Ah,—you've changed your coat." She scanned him mockingly. (He had flung his coat on over the dressing-jacket.) "Well, certainly that's more suited to our subject.
Do sit down, I entreat you."
She told him everything at once, abruptly and impressively.
She hinted at the eight thousand of which he stood in such terrible need.
She told him in detail of the dowry.