“My friend,” said Anna Mikháylovna in gentle tones, addressing the hall porter, “I know Count Kiríl Vladímirovich is very ill⁠ ⁠… that’s why I have come⁠ ⁠… I am a relation. I shall not disturb him, my friend⁠ ⁠… I only need see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich: he is staying here, is he not? Please announce me.”

The hall porter sullenly pulled a bell that rang upstairs, and turned away.

“Princess Drubetskáya to see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich,” he called to a footman dressed in knee breeches, shoes, and a swallowtail coat, who ran downstairs and looked over from the halfway landing.

The mother smoothed the folds of her dyed silk dress before a large Venetian mirror in the wall, and in her trodden-down shoes briskly ascended the carpeted stairs.

“My dear,” she said to her son, once more stimulating him by a touch, “you promised me!”

The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly.