Lisa had written to Lavretsky the day before, to tell him to come in the evening; but he first went home to his lodgings. He found neither his wife nor his daughter at home; from the servants he learned that she had gone with the child to the Kalitins’. This information astounded and maddened him. “Varvara Pavlovna has made up her mind not to let me live at all, it seems,” he thought with a passion of hatred in his heart. He began to walk up and down, and his hands and feet were constantly knocking up against child’s toys, books and feminine belongings; he called Justine and told her to clear away all this “litter.” “Oui, monsieur,” she said with a grimace, and began to set the room in order, stooping gracefully, and letting Lavretsky feel in every movement that she regarded him as an unpolished bear.
He looked with aversion at her faded, but still “piquante,” ironical, Parisian face, at her white elbow-sleeves, her silk apron, and little light cap. He sent her away at last, and after long hesitation (as Varvara Pavlovna still did not return) he decided to go to the Kalitins’— not to see Marya Dmitrievna (he would not for anything in the world have gone into that drawing-room, the room where his wife was), but to go up to Marfa Timofyevna’s. He remembered that the back staircase from the servants’ entrance led straight to her apartment. He acted on this plan; fortune favoured him; he met Shurotchka in the court-yard; she conducted him up to Marfa Timofyevna’s. He found her, contrary to her usual habit, alone; she was sitting without a cap in a corner, bent, and her arms crossed over her breast. The old lady was much upset on seeing Lavretsky, she got up quickly and began to move to and fro in the room as if she were looking for her cap.
“Ah, it’s you,” she began, fidgeting about and avoiding meeting his eyes, “well, how do you do? Well, well, what’s to be done! Where were you yesterday? Well, she has come, so there, there! Well, it must . . . one way or another.”
Lavretsky dropped into a chair.
“Well, sit down, sit down,” the old lady went on. “Did you come straight up-stairs? Well, there, of course. So . . . you came to see me? Thanks.”
The old lady was silent for a little; Lavretsky did not know what to say to her; but she understood him.
“Lisa . . . yes, Lisa was here just now,” pursued Marfa Timofyevna, tying and untying the tassels of her reticule. “She was not quite well. Shurotchka, where are you? Come here, my girl; why can’t you sit still a little? My head aches too. It must be the effect of the singing and music.”
“What singing, auntie?”
“Why, we have been having those — upon my word, what do you call them — duets here. And all in Italian: chi-chi — and cha-cha — like magpies for all the world with their long drawn-out notes as if they’d pull your very soul out. That’s Panshin, and your wife too. And how quickly everything was settled; just as though it were all among relations, without ceremony. However, one may well say, even a dog will try to find a home; and won’t be lost so long as folks don’t drive it out.”
“Still, I confess I did not expect this,” rejoined Lavretsky; “there must be great effrontery to do this.”
“No, my darling, it’s not effrontery, it’s calculation, God forgive her! They say you are sending her off to Lavriky; is it true?”
“Yes, I am giving up that property to Varvara Pavlovna.”
“Has she asked you for money?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, that won’t be long in coming. But I have only now got a look at you. Are you quite well?”
“Yes.”
“Shurotchka!” cried Marfa Timofyevna suddenly, “run and tell Lisaveta Mihalovna,— at least, no, ask her . . . is she down-stairs?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then; ask her where she put my book? she will know.”
“Very well.”
The old lady grew fidgety again and began opening a drawer in the chest. Lavretsky sat still without stirring in his place.
All at once light footsteps were heard on the stairs — and Lisa came in.
Lavretsky stood up and bowed; Lisa remained at the door.
“Lisa, Lisa, darling,” began Marfa Timofyevna eagerly, “where is my book? where did you put my book?”
“What book, auntie?”
“Why, goodness me, that book! But I didn’t call you though . . . There, it doesn’t matter. What are you doing down-stairs? Here Fedor Ivanitch has come. How is your head?”
“It’s nothing.”
“You keep saying it’s nothing. What have you going on down-stairs — music?”
No-they are playing cards.”
“Well, she’s ready for anything. Shurotchka, I see you want a run in the garden — run along.”
“Oh, no, Marfa Timofyevna.”
“Don’t argue, if you please, run along. Nastasya Karpovna has gone out into the garden all by herself; you keep her company. You must treat the old with respect.”— Shurotchka departed —“But where is my cap? Where has it got to?”
“Let me look for it,” said Lisa.
“Sit down, sit down; I have still the use of my legs. It must be inside in my bedroom.”
And flinging a sidelong glance in Lavretsky’s direction, Marfa Timofyevna went out. She left the door open; but suddenly she came back to it and shut it.
Lisa leant back against her chair and quietly covered her face with her hands; Lavretsky remained where he was.
“This is how we were to meet again!” he brought out at last.
Lisa took her hands from her face.
“Yes,” she said faintly: “we were quickly punished.”
“Punished,” said Lavretsky . . . . “What had you done to be punished?”
Lisa raised her eyes to him. There was neither sorrow or disquiet expressed in them; they seemed smaller and dimmer. Her face was pale; and pale too her slightly parted lips.
Lavretsky’s heart shuddered for pity and love.
“You wrote to me; all is over,” he whispered, “yes, all is over — before it had begun.”
“We must forget all that,” Lisa brought out; “I am glad that you have come; I wanted to write to you, but it is better so. Only we must take advantage quickly of these minutes. It is left for both of us to do our duty. You, Fedor Ivanitch, must be reconciled with your wife.”
“Lisa!”
“I beg you to do so; by that alone can we expiate . . . all that has happened. You will think about it — and will not refuse me.”
“Lisa, for God’s sake,— you are asking what is impossible. I am ready to do everything you tell me; but to be reconciled to her now! . . . I consent to everything, I have forgotten everything; but I cannot force my heart . . . . Indeed, this is cruel!
“I do not even ask of you . . . what you say; do not live with her, if you cannot; but be reconciled,” replied Lisa and again she hid her eyes in her hand .—“remember your little girl; do it for my sake.”
“Very well,” Lavretsky muttered between his teeth: “I will do that, I suppose in that I shall fulfill my duty. But you-what does your duty consist in?”
“That I know myself.”
Lavretsky started suddenly.
“You cannot be making up your mind to marry Panshin?” he said.
Lisa gave an almost imperceptible smile.
“Oh, no!” she said.
“Ah, Lisa, Lisa!” cried Lavretsky, “how happy you might have been!”
Lisa looked at him again.
“Now you see yourself, Fedor Ivanitch, that happiness does not depend on us, but on God.”
“Yes, because you —”
The door from the adjoining room opened quickly and Marfa Timofyevna came in with her cap in her hand.
“I have found it at last, she said, standing between Lavretsky and Lisa; “I had laid it down myself. That’s what age does for one, alack — though youth’s not much better.”
“Well, and are you going to Lavriky yourself with your wife?” she added, turning to Lavretsky.
“To Lavriky with her? I don’t know,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.
“You are not going down-stairs.”
“To-day,— no, I’m not.”
“Well, well, you know best; but you, Lisa, I think, ought to go down. Ah, merciful powers, I have forgotten to feed my bullfinch. There, stop a minute, I’ll soon —” And Marfa Timofyevna ran off without putting on her cap.
Lavretsky walked quickly up to Lisa.
“Lisa,” he began in a voice of entreaty, “we are parting for ever, my heart is torn,— give me your hand at parting.”
Lisa raised her head, her wearied eyes, their light almost extinct, rested upon him . . . . “No,” she uttered, and she drew back the hand she was holding out. “No, Lavretsky (it was the first time she had used this name), I will not give you my hand. What is the good? Go away, I beseech you. You know I love you . . . yes, I love you,” she added with an effort; “but no . . . no.”
She pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
“Give me, at least, that handkerchief.”
The door creaked . . . the handkerchief slid on to Lisa’s lap. Lavretsky snatched it before it had time to fall to the floor, thrust it quickly into a side pocket, and turning round met Marfa Timofyevna’s eyes.
“Lisa, darling, I fancy your mother is calling you,” the old lady declared.
Lisa at once got up and went away.
Marfa Timofyevna sat down again in her corner. Lavretsky began to take leave of her.
“Fedor,” she said suddenly.
“What is it?”
“Are you an honest man?”
“What?”
“I ask you, are you an honest man?”
“I hope so.”
“H’m. But give me your word of honour that you will be an honest man.”
“Certainly. But why?”
“I know why. And you too, my dear friend, if you think well, you’re no fool — will understand why I ask it of you. And now, good-bye, my dear. Thanks for your visit; and remember you have given your word, Fedya, and kiss me. Oh, my dear, it’s hard for you, I know; but there, it’s not easy for any one. Once I used to envy the flies; I thought it’s for them it’s good to be alive but one night I heard a fly complaining in a spider’s web — no, I think, they too have their troubles. There’s no help, Fedya; but remember your promise all the same. Good-bye.”
Lavretsky went down the back staircase, and had reached the gates when a man-servant overtook him.
“Marya Dmitrievna told me to ask you to go in to her,” he commenced to Lavretsky.
“Tell her, my boy, that just now I can’t —” Fedor Ivanitch was beginning.
“Her excellency told me to ask you very particularly,” continued the servant. “She gave orders to say she was at home.”
“Have the visitors gone?” asked Lavretsky.
“Certainly, sir,” replied the servant with a grin.
Lavretsky shrugged his shoulders and followed him.
Marya Dmitrievna was sitting alone in her boudoir in an easy-chair, sniffing eau de cologne; a glass of orange-flower-water was standing on a little table near her. She was agitated and seemed nervous.
Lavretsky came in.
“You wanted to see me,” he said, bowing coldly.
“Yes,” replied Marya Dmitrievna, and she sipped a little water: “I heard that you had gone straight up to my aunt; I gave orders that you should be asked to come in; I wanted to have a little talk with you. Sit down, please,” Marya Dmitrievna took breath. “You know,” she went on, “your wife has come.”
“I was aware of that,” remarked Lavretsky.
“Well, then, that is, I wanted to say, she came to me, and I received her; that is what I wanted to explain to you, Fedor Ivanitch. Thank God I have, I may say, gained universal respect, and for no consideration in the world would I do anything improper. Though I foresaw that it would be disagreeable to you, still I could not make up my mind to deny myself to her, Fedor Ivanitch; she is a relation of mine — through you; put yourself in my position, what right had I to shut my doors on her — you will agree with me?”
“You are exciting yourself needlessly, Mary Dmitrievna,” replied Lavretsky; “you acted very well, I am not angry. I have not the least intention of depriving Varvara Pavlovna of the opportunity of seeing her friends; I did not come in to you to-day simply because I did not care to meet her — that was all.”
“Ah, how glad I am to hear you say that, Fedor Ivanitch,” cried Marya Dmitrievna, “but I always expected it of your noble sentiments. And as for my being excited — that’s not to be wondered at; I am a woman and a mother. And your wife . . . of course I cannot judge between you and her — as I said to her herself; but she is such a delightful woman that she can produce nothing but a pleasant impression.”
Lavretsky gave a laugh and played with his hat.
“And this is what I wanted to say to you besides, Fedor Ivanitch,” continued Marya Dmitrievna, moving slightly nearer up to him, “if you had seen the modesty of her behaviour, how respectful she is! Really, it is quite touching. And if you had heard how she spoke of you! I have been to blame towards him, she said, altogether; I did not know how to appreciate him, she said; he is an angel, she said, and not a man. Really, that is what she said — an angel. Her penitence is such . . . Ah, upon my word, I have never seen such penitence!”
“Well, Marya Dmitrievna,” observed Lavretsky, “if I may be inquisitive: I am told that Varvara Pavlovna has been singing in your drawing-room; did she sing during the time of her penitence, or how was it?”
“Ah, I wonder you are not ashamed to talk like that! She sang and played the piano only to do me a kindness, because I positively entreated, almost commanded her to do so. I saw that she was sad, so sad; I thought how to distract her mind — and I heard that she had such marvellous talent! I assure you, Fedor Ivanitch, she is utterly crushed, ask Sergei Petrovitch even; a heart-broken woman, tout a fait: what do you say?”
Lavretsky only shrugged his shoulders.
“And then what a little angel is that Adotchka of yours, what a darling! How sweet she is, what a clever little thing; how she speaks French; and understand Russian too — she called me ‘auntie’ in Russian. And you know that as for shyness — almost all children at her age are shy — there’s not a trace of it. She’s so like you, Fedor Ivanitch, it’s amazing. The eyes, the forehead — well, it’s you over again, precisely you. I am not particularly fond of little children, I must own; but I simply lost my heart to your little girl.”
“Marya Dmitrievna,” Lavretsky blurted out suddenly, “allow me to ask you what is your object in talking to me like this?”
“What object?” Marya Dmitrievna sniffed her eau de cologne again, and took a sip of water. “Why, I am speaking to you, Fedor Ivanitch, because — I am a relation of yours, you know, I take the warmest interest in you — I know your heart is of the best. Listen to me, mon cousin. I am at any rate a woman of experience, and I shall not talk at random: forgive her, forgive your wife.” Marya Dmitrievna’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Only think: her youth, her inexperience . . . and who knows, perhaps, bad example; she had not a mother who could bring her up in the right way. Forgive her, Fedor Ivanitch, she has been punished enough.”
The tears were trickling down Marya Dmitrievna’s cheeks: she did not wipe them away, she was fond of weeping. Lavretsky sat as if on thorns. “Good God,” he thought, “what torture, what a day I have had to-day!”
“You make no reply,” Marya Dmitrievna began again. “How am I to understand you? Can you really be so cruel? No, I will not believe it. I feel that my words have influenced you, Fedor Ivanitch. God reward you for your goodness, and now receive your wife from my hands.”
Involuntarily Lavretsky jumped up from his chair; Marya Dmitrievna also rose and running quickly behind a screen, she led forth Varvara Pavlovna. Pale, almost lifeless, with downcast eyes, she seemed to have renounced all thought, all will of her own, and to have surrendered herself completely to Marya Dmitrievna.
Lavretsky stepped back a pace.
“You have been here all the time!” he cried.
“Do not blame her,” explained Marya Dmitrievna; “she was most unwilling to stay, but I forced her to remain. I put her behind the screen. She assured me that this would only anger you more; I would not even listen to her; I know you better than she does. Take your wife back from my hands; come, Varya, do not fear, fall at your husband’s feet (she gave a pull at her arm) and my blessing” . . .
“Stop a minute, Marya Dmitrievna,” said Lavretsky in a low but startlingly impressive voice. “I dare say you are fond of affecting scenes” (Lavretsky was right, Marya Dmitrievna still retained her school-girl’s passion for a little melodramatic effect), “they amuse you; but they may be anything but pleasant for other people. But I am not going to talk to you; in this scene you are not the principal character. What do you want to get out of me, madam?” he added, turning to his wife. “Haven’t I done all I could for you? Don’t tell me you did not contrive this interview; I shall not believe you — and you know that I cannot possibly believe you. What is it you want? You are clever — you do nothing without an object. You must realise, that as for living with, as I once lived with you, that I cannot do; not because I am angry with you, but because I have become a different man. I told you so the day after your return, and you yourself, at that moment, agreed with me in your! heart. But you want to reinstate yourself in public opinion; it is not enough for you to live in my house, you want to live with me under the same roof — isn’t that it?”
“I want your forgiveness,” pronounced Varvara Pavlovna, not raising her eyes.
“She wants your forgiveness,” repeated Marya Dmitrievna.
“And not for my own sake, but for Ada’s,” murmured Varvara Pavlovna.
“And not for her own sake, but for your Ada’s,” repeated Marya Dmitrievna.
“Very good. Is that what you want?” Lavretsky uttered with an effort. “Certainly, I consent to that too.”
Varvara Pavlovna darted a swift glance at him, but Marya Dmitrievna cried: “There, God be thanked!” and again drew Varvara Pavlvona forward by the arm. “Take her now from my arms —”
“Stop a minute, I tell you,” Lavretsky interrupted her, “I agree to live with you, Varvara Pavlovna,” he continued, “that is to say, I will conduct you to Lavriky, and I will live there with you, as long as I can endure it, and then I will go away — and will come back again. You see, I do not want to deceive you; but do not demand anything more. You would laugh yourself if I were to carry out the desire of our respected cousin, were to press you to my breast, and to fall to assuring you that . . . that the past had not been; and the felled tree can bud again. But I see, I must submit. You will not understand these words . . . but that’s no matter. I repeat, I will live with you . . . or no, I cannot promise that . . . I will be reconciled with you, I will regard you as my wife again.”
“Give her, at least your hand on it,” observed Marya Dmitrievna, whose tears had long since dried up.
“I have never deceived Varvara Pavlovna hitherto,” returned Lavretsky; “she will believe me without that. I will take her to Lavriky; and remember, Varvara Pavlovna, our treaty is to be reckoned as broken directly you go away from Lavriky. And now allow me to take leave.”
He bowed to both the ladies, and hurriedly went away.
“Are you not going to take her with you!” Marya Dmitrievna cried after him . . . . “Leave him alone,” Varvara Pavlovna whispered to her. And at once she embraced her, and began thanking her, kissing her hands and calling her saviour.
Marya Dmitrievna received her caresses indulgently; but at heart she was discontented with Lavretsky, with Varvara Pavlovna, and with the whole scene she had prepared. Very little sentimentality had come of it; Varvara Pavlovna, in her opinion, ought to have flung herself at her husband’s feet.
“How was it you didn’t understand me?” she commented: “I kept saying ‘down.’”
“It is better as it was, dear auntie; do not be uneasy — it was all for the best,” Varvara Pavlovna assured her.
“Well, any way, he’s as cold as ice,” observed Marya Dmitrievna. “You didn’t weep, it is true, but I was in floods of tears before his eyes. He wants to shut you up at Lavriky. Why, won’t you even be able to come and see me? All men are unfeeling,” she concluded, with a significant shake of the head.
“But then women can appreciate goodness and noble-heartedness,” said Varvara Pavlovna, and gently dropping on her knees before Marya Dmitrievna, she flung her arms about her round person, and pressed her face against it. That face wore a sly smile, but Marya Dmitrievna’s tears began to flow again.
When Lavretsky returned home, he locked himself in his valet’s room, and flung himself on a sofa; he lay like that till morning.
The following day was Sunday. The sound of bells ringing for early mass did not wake Lavretsky — he had not closed his eyes all night — but it reminded him of another Sunday, when at Lisa’s desire he had gone to church. He got up hastily; some secret voice told him that he would see her there to-day. He went noiselessly out of the house, leaving a message for Varvara Pavlovna that he would be back to dinner, and with long strides he made his way in the direction in which the monotonously mournful bells were calling him. He arrived early; there was scarcely any one in the church; a deacon was reading the service in the chair; the measured drone of his voice — sometimes broken by a cough — fell and rose at even intervals. Lavretsky placed himself not far from the entrance. Worshippers came in one by one, stopped, crossed themselves, and bowed in all directions; their steps rang out in the empty, silent church, echoing back distinctly under the arched roof. An infirm poor little old woman in a worn-out cloak with a hood was on her knees near Lavretsky, praying assiduously; her toothless, yellow, wrinkled face expressed intense emotion; her red eyes were gazing fixedly upwards at the holy figures on the iconostasis; her bony hand was constantly coming out from under her cloak, and slowly and earnestly making a great sign of the cross. A peasant with a bushy beard and a surly face, dishevelled and unkempt, came into the church, and at once fell on both knees, and began directly crossing himself in haste, bending back his head with a shake after each prostration. Such bitter grief was expressed in his face, and in all his actions, that Lavretsky made up his mind to go up to him and ask him what was wrong. The peasant timidly and morosely started back, looked at him. . . . “My son is dead,” he articulated quickly, and again fell to bowing to the earth. “What could replace the consolations of the Church to them?” thought Lavretsky; and he tried! himself to pray, but his heart was hard and heavy, and his thoughts were far away. he kept expecting Lisa, but Lisa did not come. The church began to be full of people; but still she was not there. The service commenced, the deacon had already read the gospel, they began ringing for the last prayer; Lavretsky moved a little forward — and suddenly caught sight of Lisa. She had com before him, but he had not seen her; she was hidden in a recess between the wall and the choir, and neither moved nor looked round. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off he till the very end of the service; he was saying farewell to her. The people began to disperse, but she still remained; it seemed as though she were waiting for Lavretsky to go out. at last she crossed herself for the last time and went out — there was only a maid with her — not turning round. Lavretsky went out of the church after her and overtook her in the street; she was walking very quickly, with downcast head, and a veil over her face.
“Good-morning, Lisaveta Mihalovna,” he said aloud with assumed carelessness: “may I accompany you?”
She made no reply; he walked beside her.
“Are you content with me?” he asked her, dropping his voice. “Have you heard what happened yesterday?”
“Yes, yes,” she replied in a whisper, “that was well.” And she went still more quickly.
“Are you content?”
Lisa only bent her head in assent.
“Fedor Ivanitch,” she began in a calm but faint voice, “I wanted to beg you not to come to see us any more; go away as soon as possible, we may see each other again later — sometime — in a year. But now, do this for my sake; fulfil my request, for God’s sake.”
“I am ready to obey you in everything, Lisaveta Mihalovna; but are we really to part like this? will you not say one word to me?”
“Fedor Ivanitch, you are walking near me now . . . . But already you are so far from me. And not only you, but —”
“Speak out, I entreat you!” cried Lavretsky, “what do you mean?”
“You will hear perhaps . . . but whatever it may be, forget . . . no, do not forget; remember me.”
“Me forget you —”
“That’s enough, good-bye. Do not come after me.”
“Lisa!” Lavretsky was beginning.
“Good-bye, good-bye!” she repeated, pulling her veil still lower and almost running forward. Lavretsky looked after her, and with bowed head, turned back along the street. He stumbled up against Lemm, who was also walking along with his eyes on the ground, and his hat pulled down to his nose.
They looked at one another without speaking.
“Well, what have you to say?” Lavretsky brought out at last.
“What have I to say?” returned Lemm, grimly. “I have nothing to say. All is dead, and we are dead (Alles ist todt, und wir sind todt). So you’re going to the right, are you?”
“Yes.”
“And I go to the left. Good-bye.”
The following morning Fedor Ivanitch set off with his wife for Lavriky. She drove in front in the carriage with Ada and Justine; he behind, in the coach. The pretty little girl did not move away from the window the whole journey; she was astonished at everything; the peasants, the women, the wells, the yokes over the horses’ heads, the bells and the flocks of crows. Justine shared her wonder. Varvara Pavlovna laughed at their remarks and exclamations. She was in excellent spirits; before leaving town, she had come to an explanation with her husband.
“I understand your position,” she said to him, and from the look in her subtle eyes, he was able to infer that she understood his position fully, “but you must do me, at least, this justice, that I am easy to live with; I will not fetter you or hinder you; I wanted to secure Ada’s future, I want nothing more.”
“Well, you have obtained your object,” observed Fedor Ivanitch.
“I only dream of one thing now: to hide myself for ever in obscurity. I shall remember your goodness always.”
“Enough of that,” he interrupted.
“And I shall know how to respect your independence and tranquillity,” she went on, completing the phrases she had prepared.
Lavretsky made her a low bow.
Varvara Pavlovna then believed her husband was thanking her in his heart.
On the evening of the next day they reached Lavriky; a week later, Lavretsky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand roubles for her household expenses; and the day after Lavretsky’s departure, Panshin made his appearance. Varvara Pavlovna had begged him not to forget her in her solitude. She gave him the best possible reception, and, till a late hour of the night, the lofty apartments of the house and even the garden re-echoed with the sound of music, singing, and lively French talk. For three days Varvara Pavlovna entertained Panshin; when he took leave of her, warmly pressing her lovely hands, he promised to come back very soon — and he kept his word.
Lisa had a room to herself on the second story of her mother’s house, a clean bright little room with a little white bed, with pots of flowers in the corners and before the windows, a small writing-table, a book-stand, and a crucifix on the wall. It was always called the nursery; Lisa had been born in it. When she returned from the church where she had seen Lavretsky she set everything in her room in order more carefully than usual, dusted it everywhere, looked through and tied up with ribbon all her copybooks, and the letters of her girl-friends, shut up all the drawers, watered the flowers and caressed every blossom with her hand. All this she did without haste, noiselessly, with a kind of rapt and gentle solicitude on her face. She topped at last in the middle of the room, slowly looked around, and going up to the table above which the crucifix was hanging, she fell on her knees, dropped her head on to her clasped hands and remained motionless.
Marfa Timofyevna came in and found her in this position. Lisa did not observe her entrance. The old lady stepped out on tip-toe and coughed loudly several times outside the door. Lisa rose quickly and wiped her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears.
“Ah! I see, you have been setting your cell to rights again,” observed Marfa Timofyevna, and she bent low over a young rose-tree in a pot; “how nice it smells!”
Lisa looked thoughtfully at her aunt.
“How strange you should use that word!” she murmured.
“What word, eh?” the old lady returned quickly. “What do you mean? This is horrible,” she began, suddenly flinging off her cap and sitting down on Lisa’s little bed; “it is more than I can bear! this is the fourth day now that I have been boiling over inside; I can’t pretend not to notice any longer; I can’t see you getting pale, and fading away, and weeping, I can’t I can’t!”
“Why, what is the matter, auntie?” said Lisa, “it’s nothing.”
“Nothing!” cried Marfa Timofyevna; “you may tell that to others but not to me. Nothing, who was on her knees just to this minute? and whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? Nothing, indeed! why, look at yourself, what have you done with your face, what has become of your eyes?— Nothing! do you suppose I don’t know all?”
“It will pass off, auntie; give me time.”
“It will pass of, but when? Good God! Merciful Saviour! can you have loved him like this? why, he’s an old man, Lisa, darling. There, I don’t dispute he’s a good fellow, no harm in him; but what of that? we are all good people, the world is not so small, there will be always plenty of that commodity.”
“I tell you, it will all pass away, it has all passed away already.”
“Listen, Lisa, darling, what I am going to say to you,” Marfa Timofyevna said suddenly, making Lisa sit beside her, and straightening her hair and her neckerchief. “It seems to you now in the mist of the worst of it that nothing can ever heal your sorrow. Ah, my darling, the only thing that can’t be cured is death. You only say to yourself now: “I won’t give in to it — so there!” and you will be surprised yourself how soon, how easily it will pass of. Only have patience.”
“Auntie,” returned Lisa, “it has passed off already, it is all over.”
“Passed! how has it passed? Why, your poor little nose has grown sharp already and you say it is over. A fine way of getting over it!”
“Yes, it is over, auntie, if you will only try to help me,” Lisa declared with sudden animation, and she flung herself on Marfa Timofyevna’s neck. “Dar auntie, be a friend to me, help me, don’t be angry, understand me” . . .
“Why, what is it, what is it, my good girl? Don’t terrify me, please; I shall scream directly; don’t look at me like that; tell me quickly, what is it?”
“I— I want,” Lisa hid her face on Marfa Timofyevna’s bosom, “I want to go into a convent,” she articulated faintly.
The old lady almost bounded off the bed.
“Cross yourself, my girl, Lisa, dear, think what you are saying; what are you thinking of? God have mercy on you!” she stammered at last. “Lie down, my darling, sleep a little, all this comes from sleeplessness, my dearie.”
Lisa raised her head, her cheeks were glowing.
“No, auntie,” she said, “don’t speak like that; I have made up my mind, I prayed, I asked counsel of God; all is at an end, my life with you is at an end. Such a lesson was not for nothing; and it is not the first time that I have thought of it. Happiness was not for me; even when I had hopes of happiness, my heart was always heavy. I knew all my own sins and those of others, and how papa made our fortune; I know it all. For all that there must be expiation. I am sorry for you, sorry for mamma, for Lenotchka; but there is no help; I feel that there is no living here for me; I have taken leave of all, I have greeted everything in the house for the last time; something calls to me; I am sick at heart, I want to hide myself away for ever. Do not hinder me, do not dissuade me, help me, or else I must go away alone.”
Marfa Timofyevna listened to her niece with horror.
“She is ill, she is raving,” she thought: “we must send for a doctor; but for which one? Gedeonovsky was praising one the other day; he always tells lies — but perhaps this time he spoke the truth.” But when she was convinced that Lisa was not ill, and was not raving, when she constantly made the same answer to all her expostulations, Marfa Timofyevna was alarmed and distressed in earnest. “But you don’t know, my darling,” she began to reason with her, “what a life it is in those convents! Why, they would feed you, my own, on green hemp oil, and they would put you in the coarsest linen, and make you go about in the cold; you will never be able to bear all that, Lisa, darling. All this is Agafya’s doing; she led you astray. But then you know she began by living and lived for her own pleasure; you must live, too. At least, let me die in peace, and then do as you like. And who has ever heard of such a thing, for the sake of such a — for the sake of a goat’s beard, God forgive us!— for the sake of a man — to go into a convent! Why, if you are so sick at heart, go on a pilgrimage, offer prayers to some saint, have a Te Deum sung, but don’t put the black hood on your head, my dear creature, my good girl.”
And Marfa Timofyevna wept bitterly.
Lisa comforted her, wiped away her tears and wept herself, but remained unshaken. In her despair Marfa Timofyevna had recourse to threats: to tell her mother all about it . . . but that too was of no avail. Only at the old lady’s most earnest entreaties Lisa agreed to put off carrying out her plan for six months. Marfa Timofyevna was obliged to promise in return that if, within six months, she did not change her mind, she would herself help her and would do all she could to gain Marya Dmitrievna’s consent.
In spite of her promise to bury herself in seclusion, at the first approach of cold weather, Varvara Pavlovna, having provided herself with funds, removed to Petersburg, where she took a modest but charming set of apartments, found for her by Panshin; who had left the O—— district a little before. During the latter part of his residence in O——— he had completely lost Marya Dmitrievna’s good graces; he had suddenly given up visiting her and scarcely stirred from Lavriky. Varvara Pavolvna had enslaved him, literally enslaved him, no other word can describe her boundless, irresistible, unquestioned sway over him.
Lavretsky spent the winter in Moscow; and in the spring of the following year the news reached him that Lisa had taken the veil in the B—— convent, in one of the remote parts of Russia.
Epilogue
Eight years had passed by. Once more the spring had come . . . . But we will say a few words first of the fate of Mihalevitch, Panshin, and Madame Laverestky — and then take leave of them. Mihalevitch, after long wanderings, has at last fallen in with exactly the right work for him; he has received the position of senior superintendent of a government school. He is very well content with his lot; his pupils adore him, though they mimick him too. Panshin has gained great advancement in rank, and already has a directorship in view; he walks with a slight stoop, caused doubtless by the weight round his neck of the Vladimir cross which has been conferred on him. The official in him has finally gained the ascendency over the artist; his still youngish face has grown yellow, and his hair scanty; he now neither sings nor sketches, but applies himself in secret to literature; he has written a comedy, in the style of a “proverb,” and as nowadays all writers have to draw a portrait of some one or something, he has drawn in it the portrait of a coquette, and he reads it privately to two or three ladies who look kindly upon him. He has, however, not entered upon matrimony, though many excellent opportunities of doing so have presented themselves. For this Varvara Pavlovna was responsible. As for her, she lives constantly at Paris, as in former days. Fedor Ivanitch has given her a promissory note for a large sum, and has so secured immunity from the possibility of her making a second sudden descent upon him. She has grown older and stouter, but is still charming and elegant. Every one has his ideal. Varvara Pavlovna found hers in the dramatic works of M. Dumas Fils. She diligently frequents the theatres, when consumptive and sentimental “dames aux camelias” are brought on the stage; to be Madame Doche seems to her the height of human bliss; she once declared that she did not desire a better fate for her own daughter. It is to be hoped that fate will spare Mademoiselle Ada from such happiness; from a rosy-cheeked, chubby child she has turned into a weak-chested, pale girl; her nerves are already deranged. The number of Varvara Pavlovna adorers has diminished, but she still has some; a few she will probably retain to the end of her days. The most ardent of them in these later days is a certain Zakurdalo-Skubrinikov, a retired guardsman, a full-bearded man of thirty-eight, of exceptionally vigorous physique. The French habitues of Madame Lavretsky’s salon call him “le gros taureau de l’Ukraine;” Varvara Pavlovna never invites him to her fashionable evening reunions, but he is in the fullest enjoyment of her favours.
And so — eight years have passed by. Once more the breezes of spring breathed brightness and rejoicing from the heavens; once more spring was smiling upon the earth and upon men; once more under her caresses everything was turning to blossom, to love, to song. The town of O—— had undergone little change in the course of these eight years; but Marya Dmitrievna’s house seemed to have grown younger; its freshly-painted walls gave a bright welcome, and the panes of its open windows were crimson, shining in the setting sun; from these windows the light merry sound of ringing young voices and continual laughter floated into the street; the whole house seemed astir with life and brimming over with gaiety. The lady of the house herself had long been in her tomb; Marya Dmitrievna had died two years after Lisa took the veil, and Mafa Timofyevna had not long survived her niece; they lay side by side in the cemetery of the town. Nastasya Karpovna too was no more; for several years! the faithful old woman had gone every week to say a prayer over her friend’s ashes. . . . . Her time had come, and now her bones too lay in the damp earth. But Marya Dmitreivna’s house had not passed into stranger’s hands, it had not gone out of her family, the home had not been broken upon. Lenotchka, transformed into a slim, beautiful young girl, and her betrothed lover — a fair-haired officer of hussars; Marya Dmitrievna’s son, who had just been married in Petersburg and had come with his young wife for the spring to O——-; his wife’s sister, a school-girl of sixteen, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes; Shurotchka, grown up and also pretty, made up the youthful household, whose laughter and talk set the walls of the Kalitins’ house resounding. Everything in the house was changed, everything was in keeping with its new inhabitants. Beardless servant lads, grinning and full of fun, had replaced the sober old servants of former days. Two setter dogs dashed wildly about and gambolled over the sofas, where the fat Roska had at one time waddled in solemn dignity. The stables were filled with slender racers, spirited carriage horses, fiery out-riders with plaited manes, and riding horses from the Don. The breakfast, dinner, and supper-hours were all in confusion and disorder; in the words of the neighbours, “unheard-of arrangements” were made.
On the evening of which we are speaking, the inhabitants of the Kalitins’ house (the eldest of them, Lenotchka’s betrothed, was only twenty-four) were engaged in a game, which, though not of a very complicated nature, was, to judge from their merry laughter, exceedingly entertaining to them; they were running about the rooms, chasing one another; the dogs, too, were running and barking, and the canaries, hanging in cages above the windows, were straining their throats in rivalry and adding to the general uproar by the shrill trilling of their piercing notes. At the very height of this deafening merry-making a mud-bespattered carriage stopped at the gate, and a man of five-and forty, in a travelling dress, stepped out of it and stood still in amazement. He stood a little time without stirring, watching the house with attentive eyes; then went through the little gate in the courtyard, and slowly mounted the steps. In the hall he met no one; but the door of a room was suddenly! flung open, and out of it rushed Shurotchka, flushed and hot, and instantly, with a ringing shout, all the young party in pursuit of her. They stopped short at once and were quiet at the sight of a stranger; but their clear eyes fixed on him wore the same friendly expression, and their fresh faces were still smiling as Marya Dmitreivna’s son went up to the visitor and asked him cordially what he could do for him.
“I am Lavretsky,” replied the visitor.
He was answered by a shout in chorus — and not because these young people were greatly delighted at the arrival of a distant, almost forgotten relation, but simply because they were ready to be delighted and make noise at every opportunity. They surrounded Lavretsky at once; Lenotchka, as an old acquaintance, was the first to mention her own name, and assured him that in a little while she would have certainly recognised him. She presented him to the rest of the party, calling each, even her betrothed, by their pet names. They all trooped through the dining-room into the drawing-room. The walls of both rooms had been repapered; but the furniture remained the same. Lavretsky recognised the piano; even the embroidery-frame in the window was just the same, and in the same position, and it seemed with the same unfinished embroidery on it, as eight years ago. They made him sit down in a comfortable arm-chair; all sat down politely in a circle round him. Questions, exclamations, and anecdotes followed.
“It’s a long time since we have seen you, observed Lenotchka simply, “and Varvara Pavlovna we have seen nothing of either.”
“Well, no wonder!” her brother hastened to interpose. “I carried you off to Petersburg, and Fedor Ivanitch has been living all the time in the country.”
“Yes, and mamma died soon after then.”
“And Marfa Timofyevna,” observed Shurotchka.
“And Nastasya Karpovna,” added Lenotchka, “and Monsier Lemm.”
“What? is Lemm dead?” inquired Lavretsky.
“Yes,” replied young Kalitin, “he left here for Odessa; they say some one enticed him there; and there he died.”
“You don’t happen to know, . . . did he leave any music?”
“I don’t know; not very likely.”
All were silent and looked about them. A slight cloud of melancholy flitted over all the young faces.
“But Matross is alive,” said Lenotchka suddenly.
“And Gedeonovsky,” added her brother.
At Gedeonovsky’s name a merry laugh broke out at once.
“Yes, he is alive, and as great a liar as ever,” Marya Dmitrievna’s son continued; “and only fancy, yesterday this madcap”— pointing to the school-girl, his wife’s sister —“put some pepper in his snuff-box.”
“How he did sneeze!” cried Lenotchka, and again there was a burst of unrestrained laughter.
“We have had news of Lisa lately,” observed young Kalitin, and again a hush fell upon all; “there was good news of her; she is recovering her health a little now.”
“She is still in the same convent?” Lavretsky asked, not without some effort.
“Yes, still in the same.”
“Does she write to you?”
“No, never; but we get news through other people.”
A sudden and profound silence followed. “A good angel is passing over,” all were thinking.
“Wouldn’t you like to go into the garden?” said Kalitin, turning to Lavretsky; “it is very nice now, though we have let it run wild a little.”
Lavretsky went out into the garden, and the first thing that met his eyes was the very garden seat on which he had once spent with Lisa those few blissful moments, never repeated; it had grown black and warped; but he recognised it, and his soul was filled with that emotion, unequalled for sweetness and for bitterness — the emotion of keen sorrow for vanished youth, for the happiness which has once been possessed.
He walked along the avenues with the young people; the lime-trees looked hardly older or taller in the eight years, but their shade was thicker; on the other hand, all the bushes had sprung up, the raspberry bushes had grown strong, the hazels were tangled thicket, and from all sides rose the fresh scent of the trees and grass and lilac.
“This would be a nice place for Puss-in-the-Corner,” cried Lenotchka suddenly, as they came upon a small green lawn, surrounded by lime-trees, “and we are just five, too.”
“Have you forgotten Fedor Ivanitch?” replied her brother, . . . “or didn’t you count yourself?”
Lenotchka blushed slightly.
“But would Fedor Ivanitch, at his age ——-” she began.
“Please, play your games,” Lavretsky hastened to interpose; “don’t pay attention to me. I shall be happier myself, when I am sure I am not in your way. And there’s no need for you to entertain me; we old fellows have an occupation which you know nothing of yet, and which no amusement can replace — our memories.”
The young people listened to Lavretsky with polite but rather ironical respect — as though a teacher were giving them a lesson — and suddenly they all dispersed, and ran to the lawn; four stood near trees, one in the middle, and the game began.
And Lavretsky went back into the house, went into the dining-room, drew near the piano and touched one of the keys; it gave out a faint but clear sound; on that note had begun the inspired melody with which long ago on that same happy night Lemm, the dead Lemm, had thrown him into such transports. Then Lavretsky went into the drawing-room, and for a long time he did not leave it; in that room where he had so often seen Lisa, her image rose most vividly before him; he seemed to feel the traces of her presence round him; but his grief for her was crushing, not easy to bear; it had none of the peace which comes with death. Lisa still lived somewhere, hidden and afar; he thought of her as of the living, but he did not recognize the girl he had once loved in that dim pale shadow, cloaked in a nun’s dress and encircled in misty clouds of incense. Lavretsky would not have recognized himself, could he have looked at himself, as mentally he looked at Lisa. In the course of these eight years he had passed that turning-point in life, which many never pass, but without which no one can be a good man to the end; he had really ceased to think of his own happiness, of his personal aims. He had grown calm, and — why hide the truth?— he had grown old not only in face and in body, he had grown old in heart; to keep a young heart up to old age, as some say, is not only difficult, but almost ridiculous; he may well be content who has not lost his belief in goodness, his steadfast will, and his zeal for work. Lavretsky had good reason to be content; he had become actually an excellent farmer, he had really learnt to cultivate the land, and his labours were not only for himself; he had, to the best of his powers, secured on a firm basis the welfare of his peasants.
Lavretsky went out of the house into the garden, and sat down on the familiar garden seat. And on this loved spot, facing the house where for the last time he had vainly stretched out his hand for the enchanted cup which frothed and sparkled with the golden wine of delight, he, a solitary homeless wanderer, looked back upon his life, while the joyous shouts of the younger generation who were already filling his place floated across the garden to him. His heart was sad, but not weighed down, nor bitter; much there was to regret, nothing to be ashamed of.
“Play away, be gay, grow strong, vigorous youth!” he thought, and there was no bitterness in his meditations; “your life is before you, and for you life will be easier; you have not, as we had, to find out a path for yourselves, to struggle, to fall, and to rise again in the dark; we had enough to do to last out — and how many of us did not last out?— but you need only do your duty, work away, and the blessing of an old man be with you. For me, after to-day, after these emotions, there remains to take my leave at last,— and though sadly, without envy, without any dark feelings, to say, in sight of the end, in sight of God who awaits me: ‘Welcome, lonely old age! burn out, useless life!’”
Lavretsky quietly rose and quietly went away; no one noticed him, no one detained him; the joyous cries sounded more loudly in the garden behind the thick green wall of high lime-trees. He took his seat in the carriage and bade the coachman drive home and not hurry the horses.
“And the end?” perhaps the dissatisfied reader will inquire. “What became of Lavretsky afterwards, and of Lisa?” But what is there to tell of people who, though still alive, have withdrawn from the battlefield of life? They say, Lavretsky visited that remote convent where Lisa had hidden herself — that he saw her. Crossing over from choir to choir, she walked close past him, moving with the even, hurried, but meek walk of a nun; and she did not glance at him; only the eyelashes on the side towards him quivered a little, only she bent her emaciated face lower, and the fingers of her clasped hands, entwined with her rosary, were pressed still closer to one another. What were they both thinking, what were they feeling? Who can know? who can say? There are such moments in life, there are such feelings . . . One can but point to them — and pass them by.
The End