Chapter 15

"I know why. Yes, and thou also, my benefactor, if thou wilt think it over well,--for thou art not stupid,--wilt understand thyself why I ask this of thee. And now, farewell, my dear. Thanks for thy visit; and remember the word that has been spoken, Fédya, and kiss me. Okh, my soul, it is hard for thee, I know: but then, life is not easy for any one. That is why I used to envy the flies; here, I thought, is something that finds life good; but once, in the night, I heard a fly grieving in the claws of a spider,--no, I thought, a thundercloud hangs over them also. What is to be done, Fédya? but remember thy word, nevertheless.--Go."

Lavrétzky emerged from the back entrance, and was already approaching the gate ... when a lackey overtook him.

"Márya Dmítrievna ordered me to ask you to be so good as to come to her,"--he announced to Lavrétzky.

"Say to her, my good fellow, that I cannot at present ..." began Feódor Ivánitch.

"She ordered me to entreat you urgently,"--went on the lackey:--"she ordered me to say, that she is at home."

"But have the visitors gone?"--asked Lavrétzky.

"Yes, sir,"--returned the lackey, and grinned.

Lavrétzky shrugged his shoulders, and followed him.

XLIII

Márya Dmítrievna was sitting alone, in her boudoir, in a sofa-chair, and sniffing eau de Cologne; a glass of orange-flower water was standing beside her, on a small table. She was excited, and seemed to be timorous.

Lavrétzky entered.

"You wished to see me,"--he said, saluting her coldly.

"Yes,"--returned Márya Dmítrievna, and drank a little of the water. "I heard that you went straight up-stairs to aunty; I gave orders that you should be requested to come to me: I must have a talk with you. Sit down, if you please."--Márya Dmítrievna took breath.--"You know,"--she went on:--"that your wife has arrived?"

"That fact is known to me,"--said Lavrétzky.

"Well, yes,--that is, I meant to say, she came to me, and I received her; that is what I wish to have an explanation about with you now, Feódor Ivánitch. I, thank God, have won universal respect, I may say, and I would not do anything improper for all the world. Although I foresaw that it would be disagreeable to you, still, I could not make up my mind to refuse her, Feódor Ivánitch; she is my relative--through you: put yourself in my place--what right had I to turn her out of my house?--You agree with me?"

"There is no necessity for your agitating yourself, Márya Dmítrievna,"--returned Lavrétzky: "you have behaved very well indeed; I am not in the least angry. I have not the slightest intention of depriving Varvára Pávlovna of the right to see her acquaintances; I only refrained from entering your apartments to-day because I wished to avoid meeting her,--that was all."

"Akh, how delighted I am to hear that from you, Feódor Ivánitch,"--exclaimed Márya Dmítrievna:--"however, I always expected this from your noble sentiments. But that I should feel agitated, is not wonderful: I am a woman and a mother. And your wife ... of course, I cannot judge between her and you--I told her so myself; but she is such an amiable lady, that she cannot cause anything but pleasure."

Lavrétzky laughed, and played with his hat.

"And this is what I wished to say to you, Feódor Ivánitch,"--went on Márya Dmítrievna, moving a little nearer to him:--"if you had only seen how modestly, how respectfully she behaves!--Really, it is touching. But if you had heard how she speaks of you! 'I am wholly culpable with regard to him,' she says; 'I did not know how to appreciate him,' she says; 'he is an angel,' she says, 'not a man.' Truly, she did say that, 'an angel.' She is so penitent.... I never beheld such penitence, I give you my word!"

"Well, Márya Dmítrievna,"--said Lavrétzky:--"permit me to ask you a question: I am told that Varvára Pávlovna has been singing for you; did she sing during her repentance--or how?"...

"Akh, aren't you ashamed to talk like that! She sang and played merely with the object of giving me pleasure, because I begged, almost commanded her to do so. I perceive that she is distressed--so distressed, I wonder how I can divert her. And I had heard that she had such a fine talent.--Upon my word, Feódor Ivánitch, she is a completely crushed, overwhelmed woman--ask Sergyéi Petróvitch if she is not, _tout à fait_,--what have you to say to that?"

Lavrétzky simply shrugged his shoulders.

"And then, what a little angel that Ada of your is, what a darling!--How pretty she is, how clever! how well she talks French; and she understands Russian--she called me _tyótenka_ [aunty]. And do you know, as for being shy, like nearly all children of her age,--there is no shyness about her. She is awfully like you, Feódor Ivánitch. Her eyes, her brows ... well, she's you all over again, your perfect image. I am not very fond of such small children, I must confess; but I have simply lost my heart to your little daughter."

"Márya Dmítrievna,"--exclaimed Lavrétzky, suddenly:--"allow me to ask you why you are pleased to say all this to me?"

"Why?"--again Márya Dmítrievna sniffed at her eau de Cologne, and sipped her water:--"I say it, Feódor Ivánitch, because ... you see, I am a relative, I take the closest interest in you.... I know that you have the very kindest of hearts. Hearken to me, _mon cousin_,--I am a woman of experience, and I am not talking at random: forgive, forgive your wife."--Márya Dmítrievna's eyes suddenly filled with tears.--"Reflect: youth, inexperience ... well, perhaps, a bad example--she had not the sort of a mother who might have put her on the right road. Forgive her, Feódor Ivánitch; she has been sufficiently punished."

Tears trickled down Márya Dmítrievna's cheeks; she did not wipe them away: she loved to weep. Lavrétzky sat as on hot coals. "My God,"--he thought,--"what sort of torture, what sort of a day has fallen to my lot!"

"You do not answer,"--began Márya Dmítrievna again:--"what am I to understand by that?--is it possible that you can be so cruel? No, I will not believe that. I feel that my words have convinced you. Feódor Ivánitch, God will reward you for your kindness of heart, and you will now receive your wife from my hands...."

Lavrétzky involuntarily rose from his chair; Márya Dmítrievna also rose, and stepping briskly behind a screen, led forth Varvára Pávlovna. Pale, half-fainting, with eyes cast down, she seemed to have renounced every thought, every impulse of her own--to have placed herself wholly in the hands of Márya Dmítrievna.

Lavrétzky retreated a pace.

"You were here?"--he exclaimed.

"Do not blame her,"--said Márya Dmítrievna, hastily;--"she did not wish to remain on any account whatever, but I ordered her to stay, and placed her there behind the screen. She assured me that it would only make you more angry; but I would not listen to her; I know you better than she does. Receive your wife from my hands; go, Várya, be not afraid, fall at your husband's feet" (she tugged at her hand)--"and my blessing on you!..."

"Wait, Márya Dmítrievna,"--Lavrétzky interrupted her, in a dull, but quivering voice:--"you are, probably, fond of sentimental scenes," (Lavrétzky was not mistaken: Márya Dmítrievna had retained from her boarding-school days a passion for a certain theatricalness); "they amuse you; but others suffer from them. However, I will not discuss the matter with you; in _this_ scene you are not the principal actor. What do _you_ want of me, madam?"--he added, addressing his wife. "Have not I done for you all that I could? Do not retort, that you have not plotted this meeting; I shall not believe you,--and you know that I cannot believe you. What, then, do you want? You are clever,--you never do anything without an object. You must understand that I am not capable of living with you as I used to live; not because I am angry with you, but because I have become a different man. I told you that on the day after your return, and you yourself, at that moment, acquiesced with me in your own soul. But you wish to reinstate yourself in public opinion; it is not enough for you to live in my house, you want to live under one roof with me,--is not that the truth?"

"I want you to forgive me,"--said Varvára Pávlovna, without raising her eyes.

"She wants you to forgive her,"--repeated Márya Dmítrievna.

"And not for my own sake, but for Ada's,"--whispered Varvára Pávlovna.

"Not for her sake, but for Ada's,"--repeated Márya Dmítrievna.

"Very good. You wish that?"--ejaculated Lavrétzky, with an effort. "As you like, I agree to that."

Varvára Pávlovna cast a swift glance at him, and Márya Dmítrievna cried out:--"Well, God be praised"--and again tugged at Varvára Pávlovna's hand. "Now receive from me...."

"Wait, I tell you,"--Lavrétzky interrupted her. "I consent to live with you, Varvára Pávlovna,"--he continued:--"That is to say, I will take you to Lavríki, and I will live with you as long as my strength holds out, and then I shall go away,--and return now and then. You see, I do not wish to deceive you; but do not demand anything more. You yourself would smile, were I to comply with the desire of your respected relative, and press you to my heart, and assure you that ... there had been no past, that the felled tree could burst into blossom once more. But I perceive that I must submit. You will not understand that word; ... it matters not. I repeat, I will live with you ... or, no, I cannot promise that ... I will join you, I will regard you again as my wife...."

"But give her your hand on that, at least,"--said Márya Dmítrievna, whose tears were long since dried up.

"Up to the present moment, I have not deceived Varvára Pávlovna,"--returned Lavrétzky;--"she will believe me as it is. I will take her to Lavríki;--and recollect, Varvára Pávlovna: our compact will be regarded as broken just as soon as you leave that place. And now, permit me to withdraw."

He bowed to both ladies, and hastily quitted the room.

"You are not taking her with you,"--called Márya Dmítrievna after him.... "Let him alone,"--Varvára Pávlovna whispered to her, and immediately threw her arms round her, began to utter thanks, to kiss her hands, and to call her her saviour.

Márya Dmítrievna accepted her caresses with condescension; but in her secret soul she was pleased neither with Lavrétzky nor with Varvára Pávlovna, nor with the whole scene which she had planned. There had turned out to be very little sentimentality; Varvára Pávlovna, in her opinion, should have flung herself at her husband's feet.

"How was it that you did not understand me?"--she commented:--"why, I told you: 'fall at his feet.'"

"It was better thus, dear aunty; do not disturb yourself--everything is all right,"--insisted Varvára Pávlovna.

"Well, and he is as cold as ice,"--remarked Márya Dmítrievna. "Even if you did not weep, why, I fairly overflowed before him. He means to shut you up in Lavríki. The idea,--and you cannot even come to see me! All men are unfeeling,"--she said, in conclusion, and shook her head significantly.

"On the other hand, women know how to value kindness and magnanimity,"--said Varvára Pávlovna, and softly dropping on her knees before Márya Dmítrievna, she embraced the latter's corpulent form with her arms, and pressed her face against her. That face wore a quiet smile, but Márya Dmítrievna's tears were flowing again.

And Lavrétzky went home, locked himself up in his valet's room, flung himself on the divan, and lay there until the morning.

XLIV

The next day was Sunday. The chiming of the bells for the early Liturgy did not awaken Lavrétzky--he had not closed an eye all night long--but it did remind him of another Sunday, when, at the wish of Liza, he had gone to church. He hastily rose; a certain secret voice told him that he would see her there again to-day. He noiselessly quitted the house, ordered Varvára Pávlovna to be informed that he would return to dinner, and with great strides wended his way thither, whither the monotonously-mournful chiming summoned him. He arrived early: there was hardly any one in the church; a chanter in the choir was reading the Hours; his voice, occasionally broken by a cough, boomed on in measured cadence, now rising, now falling. Lavrétzky took up his stand not far from the entrance. The prayerfully inclined arrived one by one, paused, crossed themselves, bowed on all sides; their footsteps resounded in the emptiness and silence, distinctly re-echoing from the arches overhead. A decrepit little old woman, in an ancient hooded cloak, knelt down beside Lavrétzky, and began to pray assiduously; her yellow, toothless, wrinkled face expressed intense emotion; her red eyes gazed fixedly upward at the holy picture on the ikonostásis; her bony hand kept incessantly emerging from under her cloak, and slowly but vigorously made a great, sweeping sign of the cross. A peasant, with a thick beard and a surly face, tousled and dishevelled, entered the church, went down at once on both knees, and immediately set to crossing himself, hastily flinging back his head and shaking it after every prostration. Such bitter woe was depicted on his countenance, and in all his movements, that Lavrétzky made up his mind to approach and ask him what was the matter. The peasant started back timidly and roughly, and looked at him.... "My son is dead,"--he said, in hasty accents--and again began to prostrate himself to the floor. "What can take the place, for them, of the consolation of the church?"--Lavrétzky thought,--and tried to pray himself; but his heart had grown heavy and hard, and his thoughts were far away. He was still expecting Liza--but Liza did not come. The church began to fill with people; still she did not come. The Liturgy began, the deacon had already read the Gospel, the bell had pealed for the hymn "Worthy"; Lavrétzky moved a little,--and suddenly caught sight of Liza. She had arrived before him, but he had not descried her; crowded into the space between the wall and the choir, she neither glanced around nor moved. Lavrétzky did not take his eyes from her until the very end of the Liturgy: he was bidding her farewell. The congregation began to disperse, but she still stood on; she seemed to be awaiting Lavrétzky's departure. At last, she crossed herself for the last time, and went away, without looking round; she had only a maid with her. Lavrétzky followed her out of the church, and overtook her in the street; she was walking very rapidly, with her head bowed and her veil lowered over her face.

"Good morning, Lizavéta Mikhaílovna,"--said he, loudly, with forced ease:--"may I accompany you?"

She said nothing; he walked along by her side.

"Are you satisfied with me?"--he asked her, lowering his voice.--"You have heard what took place last night?"

"Yes, yes,"--she said in a whisper:--"you did well."

And she walked on faster than ever.

"You are satisfied?"

Liza only nodded her head.

"Feódor Ivánitch,"--she began, in a composed, but weak voice:--"I have wanted to ask you: do not come to our house again; go away as speedily as possible; we can see each other later on,--sometime, a year hence. But now, do this for me; comply with my request, for God's sake."

"I am ready to obey you in all things, Lizavéta Mikhaílovna; but is it possible that we are to part thus? will you not say a single word to me?"

"Feódor Ivánitch, here you are now, walking by my side. But you are already far away from me. And not you alone, but also...."

"Finish, I entreat you!"--exclaimed Lavrétzky:--"what is it that you mean to say?"

"You will hear, perhaps ... but whatever happens, forget ... no, do not forget me,--remember me."

"I forget you!..."

"Enough; farewell. Do not follow me."

"Liza ..."--Lavrétzky was beginning.

"Farewell, farewell!"--she repeated, dropped her veil still lower, and advanced almost at a run.

Lavrétzky gazed after her, and dropping his head, went back down the street. He hit upon Lemm, who was also walking along, with his hat pulled down on his nose, and staring at the ground under his feet.

They stared at each other in silence.

"Well, what have you to say?"--said Lavrétzky at last.

"What have I to say?"--returned Lemm surlily:--"I have nothing to say. Everything is dead, and we are dead. (Alles ist todt und wir sind todt.) You are going to the right, I think?"

"Yes."

"Then I go to the left. Good-bye."

On the following morning, Feódor Ivánitch and his wife set out for Lavríki. She drove in front, in the carriage, with Ada and Justine; he came behind, in his tarantás. The pretty little girl never quitted the carriage-window during the whole journey; she was surprised at everything: at the peasants, the peasant women, the wells, the shaft-arches, the carriage-bells, at the multitude of jackdaws; Justine shared her surprise. Varvára Pávlovna laughed at their comments and exclamations.... She was in high spirits; before their departure from the town of O * * * she had had an explanation with her husband.

"I understand your position,"--she had said to him,--and he, from the expression of her clever eyes, was able to conclude that she did fully understand his position,--"but you must do me the justice, at least, to say that I am easy to live with; I shall not obtrude myself upon you, embarrass you; I wanted to assure Ada's future. I need nothing further."

"Yes, and you have attained your object,"--said Feódor Ivánitch.

"My sole idea now is to shut myself up in the wilds; I shall forever remember your good deed in my prayers...."

"Faugh!... enough of that,"--he interrupted her.

"And I shall know how to respect your independence, and your repose,"--she completed her phrase, which she had prepared in advance.

Lavrétzky had made her a low bow. Varvára Pávlovna understood that her husband, in his soul, was grateful to her.

On the second day, toward the evening, they reached Lavríki; a week later, Lavrétzky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand rubles for her expenses--and the day after Lavrétzky's departure, Pánshin, whom Varvára Pávlovna had begged not to forget her in her isolation, made his appearance. She gave him the warmest sort of a welcome, and until late into the night the lofty rooms of the house and the very garden rang with the sounds of music, singing, and merry French speeches. Pánshin visited Varvára Pávlovna for three days; when he took leave of her, and warmly pressed her beautiful hands, he promised to return very soon--and he kept his promise.

[13] That is--they figuratively begged the pardon of all whom they might have offended, before entering on the Church service. The officiating priest does the same.--Translator.

[14] "Worthy and right is it, to bow down to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, to the Trinity, consubstantial and indivisible"--at a very solemn point, and quite late in the Liturgy.--Translator.

XLV

Liza had a separate little room, on the second story of her mother's house, small, clean, bright, with a white bed, pots of flowers in the corners and in front of the holy pictures, with a tiny writing-table, a case of books, and a crucifix on the wall. This little chamber was called the nursery; Liza had been born in it. On returning to it from church, where she had seen Lavrétzky, she put everything in order, even more carefully than usual, wiped the dust off everything, looked over and tied up with ribbons her note-books and the letters of her friends, locked all the drawers, watered the plants, and touched every flower with her hand. She did all this without haste, without noise, with a certain touched and tranquil solicitude on her face. She halted, at last, in the middle of the room, slowly looked around her, and stepping up to the table over which hung the crucifix, she knelt down, laid her head on her clasped hands, and remained motionless.

Márfa Timoféevna entered, and found her in this position. Liza did not notice her entrance. The old woman went outside the door, on tiptoe, and gave vent to several loud coughs. Liza rose quickly to her feet, and wiped her eyes, in which glittered clear tears which had not fallen.

"I see that thou hast been arranging thy little cell again,"--said Márfa Timoféevna, and bent low over a pot containing a young rose-bush:--"what a splendid perfume it has!"

Liza gazed thoughtfully at her aunt.

"What a word you have uttered!"--she whispered.

"What sort of a word, what word?"--interposed the old woman, vivaciously;--"what dost thou mean?--This is dreadful,"--she said, suddenly tearing off her cap, and seating herself on Liza's bed:--"this is beyond my strength! today is the fourth day that I seem to be seething in a kettle; I can no longer pretend that I notice nothing,--I cannot see thee growing pale, withering away, weeping,--I cannot, I cannot!"

"Why, what is the matter with you, aunty?"--said Liza:--"I am all right...."

"All right?"--exclaimed Márfa Timoféevna:--"tell that to others, but not to me! All right! But who was it that was on her knees just now? whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? All right! Why, look at thyself, what hast thou done to thy face, what has become of thine eyes?--All right! As though I did not know all!"

"It will pass off, aunty; give me time."

"It will pass off, but when? O Lord God, my Master! is it possible that thou didst love him so? why, he is an old man, Lízotchka. Well, I do not dispute that he is a good man, he does not bite; but what does that signify? we are all good people: the world is large, there will always be plenty of that sort."

"I tell you, that it will all pass off, it is all over already."

"Listen, Lízotchka, to what I have to say to thee,"--said Márfa Timoféevna, suddenly, making Liza sit down beside her on the bed, and adjusting now her hair, now her kerchief.--"It only seems to you, while it is fresh, that your grief is beyond remedy. Ekh, my darling, for death alone there is no remedy! Only say to thyself: 'I won't give in--so there now!' and afterward thou wilt be amazed thyself--how soon, how well, it will pass off. Only have patience."

"Aunty,"--replied Liza:--"it is already past, all is over already."

"Past--over--forsooth! Why, even thy little nose has grown pointed, and thou sayest: 'It is over--it is over!'"

"Yes, it is over, aunty, if you will only help me,"--cried Liza, with sudden animation, and threw herself on Márfa Timoféevna's neck.--"Dear aunty, be my friend, help me; do not be angry, understand me."

"Why, what is this, what is this, my mother? Don't frighten me, please; I shall scream in another minute; don't look at me like that: tell me quickly what thou meanest?"

"I ... I want ..." Liza hid her face in Márfa Timoféevna's bosom.... "I want to enter a convent,"--she said, in a dull tone.

The old woman fairly leaped on the bed.

"Cross thyself, my mother, Lízotchka; come to thy senses: God be with thee, what dost thou mean?"--she stammered at last: "lie down, my darling, sleep a little: this comes from lack of sleep, my dear."

Liza raised her head, her cheeks were burning.