Chapter 16

"I know why, perfectly well. And so do you, too, my good friend.[A] As you are no fool, you will understand why I ask you this, if you will only think over it a little. But now, good-bye, my dear. Thank you for coming to see me; but remember what I have said, Fedia; and now give me a kiss. Ah, my dear, your burden is heavy to bear, I know that. But no one finds his a light one. There was a time when I used to envy the flies. There are creatures, I thought, who live happily in the world. But one night I heard a fly singing out under a spider's claws. So, thought I, even they have their troubles. What can be done, Fedia? But mind you never forget what you have said to me. And now leave me--leave me."

[Footnote A: Literally, "my foster father," or "my benefactor."]

Lavretsky left by the back door, and had almost reached the street, when a footman ran after him and said, "Maria Dmitrievna told me to ask you to come to her."

"Tell her I cannot come just now," began Lavretsky.

"She told me to ask you particularly," continued the footman. "She told me to say that she was alone."

"Then her visitors have gone away?" asked Lavretsky.

"Yes," replied the footman, with something like a grin on his face.

Lavretsky shrugged his shoulders, and followed him into the house.

XLI.

Maria Dmitrievna was alone in her boudoir. She was sitting in a large easy-chair, sniffing Eau-de-Cologne, with a little table by her side, on which was a glass containing orange-flower water. She was evidently excited, and seemed nervous about something.

Lavretsky came into the room.

"You wanted to see me," he said, bowing coldly.

"Yes," answered Maria Dmitrievna, and then she drank a little water. "I heard that you had gone straight up-stairs to my aunt, so I told the servants to ask you to come and see me. I want to have a talk with you. Please sit down."

Maria Dmitrievna took breath. "You know that your wife has come," she continued.

"I am aware of that fact," said Lavretsky.

"Well--yes--that is--I meant to say that she has been here, and I have received her. That is what I wanted to have the explanation about with you, Fedor Ivanovich, I have deserved, I may say, general respect, thank God! and I wouldn't, for all the world, do any thing unbecoming. But, although I saw beforehand that it would be disagreeable to you, Fedor Ivanich, yet I couldn't make up my mind to refuse her. She is a relation of mine--through you. Only put yourself into my position. What right had I to shut my door in her face? Surely you must agree with me."

"You are exciting yourself quite unnecessarily, Maria Dmitrievna," replied Lavretsky. "You have done what is perfectly right. I am not in the least angry. I never intended to deprive my wife of the power of seeing her acquaintances. I did not come to see you to-day simply because I did not wish to meet her. That was all."

"Ah! how glad I am to hear you say that, Fedor Ivanich!" exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna. "However, I always expected as much from your noble feelings. But as to my being excited, there's no wonder in that. I am a woman and a mother. And your wife--of course I cannot set myself up as a judge between you and her, I told her so herself; but she is such a charming person that no one can help being pleased with her."

Lavretsky smiled and twirled his hat in his hands.

"And there is something else that I wanted to say to you, Fedor Ivanich," continued Maria Dmitrievna, drawing a little nearer to him. "If you had only seen how modestly, how respectfully she behaved! Really it was perfectly touching. And if you had only heard how she spoke of you! 'I,' she said, 'am altogether guilty before him.' 'I,' she said, 'was not able to appreciate him.' 'He,' she said, 'is an angel, not a mere man,' I can assure you that's what she said--'an angel.' She is so penitent--I do solemnly declare I have never seen any one so penitent."

"But tell me, Maria Dmitrievna," said Lavretsky, "if I may be allowed to be so inquisitive. I hear that Varvara Pavlovna has been singing here. Was it in one of her penitent moments that she sang, or how--?"

"How can you talk like that and not feel ashamed of yourself? She played and sang simply to give me pleasure, and because I particularly entreated her, almost ordered her to do so. I saw that she was unhappy, so unhappy, and I thought how I could divert her a little; and besides that, I had heard that she had so much talent. Do show her some pity, Fedor Ivanich--she is utterly crushed--only ask Gedeonovsky--broken down entirely, _tout-a-fait_. How can you say such things of her?"

Lavretsky merely shrugged his shoulders.

"And besides, what a little angel your Adochka is! What a charming little creature! How pretty she is! and how good! and how well she speaks French! And she knows Russian too. She called me aunt in Russian. And then as to shyness, you know, almost all children of her age are shy; but she is not at all so. It's wonderful how like you she is, Fedor Ivanich--eyes, eyebrows, in fact you all over--absolutely you. I don't usually like such young children, I must confess, but I am quite in love with your little daughter."

"Maria Dmitrievna," abruptly said Lavretsky, "allow me to inquire why you are saying all this to me?"

"Why?"--Maria Dmitrievna again had recourse to her Eau-de-Cologne and drank some water--"why I say this to you, Fedor Ivanich, is because--you see I am one of your relations, I take a deep interest in you. I know your heart is excellent. Mark my words, _mon cousin_--at all events I am a woman of experience, and I do not speak at random. Forgive, do forgive your wife!". (Maria Dmitrievna's eyes suddenly filled with tears.) "Only think--youth, inexperience, and perhaps also a bad example--hers was not the sort of mother to put her in the right way. Forgive her, Fedor Ivanich! She has been punished enough."

The tears flowed down Maria Dmitrievna's cheeks. She did not wipe them away; she was fond of weeping. Meanwhile Lavretsky sat as if on thorns. "Good God!" he thought, "what torture this is! What a day this has been for me!"

"You do not reply," Maria Dmitrievna recommenced: "how am I to understand you? Is it possible that you can be so cruel? No, I cannot believe that. I feel that my words have convinced you. Fedor Ivanich, God will reward you for your goodness! Now from my hands receive your wife!"

Lavretsky jumped up from his chair scarcely knowing what he was doing. Maria Dmitrievna had risen also, and had passed rapidly to the other side of the screen, from behind which she brought out Madame Lavretsky. Pale, half lifeless, with downcast eyes, that lady seemed as if she had surrendered her whole power of thinking or willing for herself, and had given herself over entirely into the hands of Maria Dmitrievna.

Lavretsky recoiled a pace.

"You have been there all this time!" he exclaimed.

"Don't blame her," Maria Dmitrievna hastened to say. "She wouldn't have stayed for any thing; but I made her stay; I put her behind the screen. She declared that it would make you angrier than ever; but I wouldn't even listen to her. I know you better than she does. Take then from my hands your wife! Go to him, Varvara; have no fear; fall at your husband's feet" (here she gave Varvara's arm a pull), "and may my blessing--"

"Stop, Maria Dmitrievna!" interposed Lavretsky, in a voice shaking with emotion. "You seem to like sentimental scenes." (Lavretsky was not mistaken; from her earliest school-days Maria Dmitrievna had always been passionately fond of a touch of stage effect.) "They may amuse you, but to other people they may prove very unpleasant. However, I am not going to talk to you. In _this_ scene you do not play the leading part."

"What is it _you_ want from me, Madame?" he added, turning to his wife. "Have I not done for you all that I could? Do not tell me that it was not you who got up this scene. I should not believe you. You know that I cannot believe you. What is it you want? You are clever. You do nothing without an object. You must feel that to live with you, as I used formerly to live, is what I am not in a position to do--not because I am angry with you, but because I have become a different man. I told you that the very day you returned; and at that time you agreed with me in your own mind. But, perhaps, you wish to rehabilitate yourself in public opinion. Merely to live in my house is too little for you; you want to live with me under the same roof. Is it not so?"

"I want you to pardon me," replied Varvara Pavlovna, without lifting her eyes from the ground.

"She wants you to pardon her," repeated Maria Dmitrievna.

"And not for my own sake, but for Ada's," whispered Varvara.

"Not for her own sake, but for your Ada's," repeated Maria Dmitrievna.

"Very good! That is what you want?" Lavretsky just managed to say. "Well, I consent even to that."

Varvara Pavlovna shot a quick glance at him. Maria Dmitrievna exclaimed, "Thank God!" again took Varvara by the arm, and again began, "Take, then, from my hands--"

"Stop, I tell you!" broke in Lavretsky. "I will consent to live with you, Varvara Pavlovna," he continued; "that is to say, I will take you to Lavriki, and live with you as long as I possibly can. Then I will go away; but I will visit you from time to time. You see, I do not wish to deceive you; only do not ask for more than that. You would laugh yourself, if I were to fulfil the wish of our respected relative, and press you to my heart--if I were to assure you that--that the past did not exist, that the felled tree would again produce leaves. But I see this plainly--one must submit. These words do not convey the same meaning to you as to me, but that does not matter. I repeat, I will live with you--or, no, I cannot promise that; but I will no longer avoid you; I will look on you as my wife again--"

"At all events, give her your hand on that," said Maria Dmitrievna, whose tears had dried up long ago.

"I have never yet deceived Varvara Pavlovna," answered Lavretsky. "She will believe me as it is. I will take her to Lavriki. But remember this, Varvara Pavlovna. Our treaty will be considered at an end, as soon as you give up stopping there. And now let me go away."

He bowed to both of the ladies, and went out quickly.

"Won't you take her with you?" Maria Dmitrievna called after him.

"Let him alone," said Varvara to her in a whisper, and then began to express her thanks to her, throwing her arms around her, kissing her hand, saying she had saved her.

Maria Dmitrievna condescended to accept her caresses, but in reality she was not contented with her; nor was she contented with Lavretsky, nor with the whole scene which she had taken so much pains to arrange. There had been nothing sentimental about it.

According to her ideas Varvara Pavlovna ought to have thrown herself at her husband's feet.

"How was it you didn't understand what I meant?" she kept saying. "Surely I said to you, 'Down with you!'"

"It is better as it is, my dear aunt. Don't disturb yourself--all has turned out admirably," declared Varvara Pavlovna.

"Well, anyhow he is--as cold as ice," said Maria Dmitrievna. "It is true you didn't cry, but surely my tears flowed before his eyes. So he wants to shut you up at Lavriki. What! You won't be able to come out even to see me! All men are unfeeling," she ended by saying, and shook her head with an air of deep meaning.

"But at all events women can appreciate goodness and generosity," said Varvara Pavlovna. Then, slowly sinking on her knees, she threw her arms around Maria Dmitrievna's full waist, and hid her face in that lady's lap. That hidden face wore a smile, but Maria Dmitrievna's tears began to flow afresh.

As for Lavretsky, he returned home, shut himself up in his valet's room, flung himself on the couch, and lay there till the morning.

XLII.

The next day was Sunday. Lavretsky was not awakened by the bells which clanged for early Mass, for he had not closed his eyes all night; but they reminded him of another Sunday, when he went to church at Liza's request. He rose in haste. A certain secret voice told him that to-day also he would see her there. He left the house quietly, telling the servant to say to Varvara Pavlovna, who was still asleep, that he would be back to dinner, and then, with long steps, he went where the bell called him with its dreary uniformity of sound.

He arrived early; scarcely any one was yet in the church. A Reader was reciting the Hours in the choir. His voice, sometimes interrupted by a cough, sounded monotonously, rising and falling by turns. Lavretsky placed himself at a little distance from the door. The worshippers arrived, one after another, stopped, crossed themselves, and bowed in all directions. Their steps resounded loudly through the silent and almost empty space, and echoed along the vaulted roof. An infirm old woman, wrapped in a threadbare hooded cloak, knelt by Lavretsky's side and prayed fervently. Her toothless, yellow, wrinkled face expressed intense emotion. Her bloodshot eyes gazed upwards, without moving, on the holy figures displayed upon the iconostasis. Her bony hand kept incessantly coming out from under her cloak, and making the sign of the cross--with a slow and sweeping gesture, and with steady pressure of the fingers on the forehead and the body. A peasant with a morose and thickly-bearded face, his hair and clothes all in disorder, came into the church, threw himself straight down on his knees, and immediately began crossing and prostrating himself, throwing back his head and shaking it after each inclination. So bitter a grief showed itself in his face and in all his gestures, that Lavretsky went up to him and asked him what was the matter. The peasant sank back with an air of distrust; then, looking at him coldly, said in a hurried voice, "My son is dead," and again betook himself to his prostrations.

"What sorrow can they have too great to defy the consolations of the Church?" thought Lavretsky, and he tried to pray himself. But his heart seemed heavy and hardened, and his thoughts were afar off. He kept waiting for Liza; but Liza did not come. The church gradually filled with people, but he did not see Liza among them. Mass began, the deacon read the Gospel, the bell sounded for the final prayer. Lavretsky advanced a few steps, and suddenly he caught sight of Liza. She had come in before him, but he had not observed her till now. Standing in the space between the wall and the choir, to which she had pressed as close as possible, she never once looked round, never moved from her place. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off her till the service was quite finished; he was bidding her a last farewell. The congregation began to disperse, but she remained standing there. She seemed to be waiting for Lavretsky to go away. At last, however, she crossed herself for the last time, and went out without turning round. No one but a maid-servant was with her.

Lavretsky followed her out of the church, and came up with her in the street. She was walking very fast, her head drooping, her veil pulled low over her face.

"Good-day, Lizaveta Mikhailovna," he said in a loud voice, with feigned indifference. "May I accompany you?"

She made no reply. He walked on by her side.

"Are you satisfied with me?" he asked, lowering his voice. "You have heard what took place yesterday, I suppose?"

"Yes, yes," she answered in a whisper; "that was very good;" and she quickened her pace.

"Then you are satisfied?"

Liza only made a sign of assent.

"Fedor Ivanovich," she began, presently, in a calm but feeble voice, "I wanted to ask you something. Do not come any more to our house. Go away soon. We may see each other by-and-by--some day or other--a year hence, perhaps. But now, do this for my sake. In God's name, I beseech you, do what I ask!"

"I am ready to obey you in every thing, Lizaveta Mikhailovna. But can it be that we must part thus? Is it possible that you will not say a single word to me?"

"Fedor Ivanovich, you are walking here by my side. But you are already so far, far away from me; and not only you, but--"

"Go on, I entreat you!" exclaimed Lavretsky. "What do you mean?"

"You will hear, perhaps--But whatever it may be, forget--No, do not forget me--remember me."

"I forget you?"

"Enough. Farewell. Please do not follow me."

"Liza--" began Lavretsky.

"Farewell, farewell!" she repeated, and then, drawing her veil still lower over her face, she went away, almost at a run.

Lavretsky looked after her for a time, and then walked down the street with drooping head. Presently he ran against Lemm, who also was walking along with his hat pulled low over his brows, and his eyes fixed on his feet.

They looked at each other for a time in silence.

"Well, what have you to say?" asked Lavretsky at last.

"What have I to say?" replied Lemm, in a surly voice. "I have nothing to say. 'All is dead and we are dead.' ('_Alles ist todt und wir sind todt_.') Do you go to the right?"

"Yes."

"And I am going to the left. Good-bye."

* * * * *

On the following morning Lavretsky took his wife to Lavriki. She went in front in a carriage with Ada and Justine. He followed behind in a tarantass. During the whole time of the journey, the little girl never stirred from the carriage-window. Every thing astonished her: the peasant men and women, the cottages, the wells, the arches over the horses' necks, the little bells hanging from them, and the numbers of rooks. Justine shared her astonishment. Varvara Pavlovna kept laughing at their remarks and exclamations. She was in excellent spirits; she had had an explanation with her husband before leaving O.

"I understand your position," she had said to him; and, from the expression of her quick eyes, he could see that she did completely understand his position. "But you will do me at least this justice--you will allow that I am an easy person to live with. I shall not obtrude myself on you, or annoy you. I only wished to ensure Ada's future; I want nothing more."

"Yes, you have attained all your ends," said Lavretsky.

"There is only one thing I dream of now; to bury myself for ever in seclusion. But I shall always remember your kindness--"

"There! enough of that!" said he, trying to stop her.

"And I shall know how to respect your tranquillity and your independence," she continued, bringing her preconcerted speech to a close.

Lavretsky bowed low. Varvara understood that her husband silently thanked her.

The next day they arrived at Lavriki towards evening. A week later Lavretsky went away to Moscow, having left five thousand roubles at his wife's disposal; and the day after Lavretsky's departure, Panshine appeared, whom Varvara Pavlovna had entreated not to forget her in her solitude. She received him in the most cordial manner; and, till late that night, the lofty rooms of the mansion and the very garden itself were enlivened by the sounds of music, and of song, and of joyous French talk. Panshine spent three days with Varvara Pavlovna. When saying farewell to her, and warmly pressing her beautiful hands, he promised to return very soon--and he kept his word.

XLIII.

Liza had a little room of her own on the second floor of her mother's house, a bright, tidy room, with a bedstead with white curtains in it, a small writing-table, several flower-pots in the corners and in front of the windows, and fixed against the wall a set of bookshelves and a crucifix. It was called the nursery; Liza had been born in it.

After coming back from the church where Lavretsky had seen her, she set all her things in order with even more than usual care, dusted every thing, examined all her papers and letters from her friends, and tied them up with pieces of ribbon, shut up all her drawers, and watered her flowers, giving each flower a caressing touch. And all this she did deliberately, quietly, with a kind of sweet and tranquil earnestness in the expression of her face. At last she stopped still in the middle of the room and looked slowly around her; then she approached the table over which hung the crucifix, fell on her knees, laid her head on her clasped hands, and remained for some time motionless. Presently Marfa Timofeevna entered the room and found her in that position. Liza did not perceive her arrival. The old lady went out of the room on tiptoe, and coughed loudly several times outside the door. Liza hastily rose and wiped her eyes, which shone, with gathered but not fallen tears.

"So I see you have arranged your little cell afresh," said Marfa Timofeevna, bending low over a young rose-tree in one of the flower-pots. "How sweet this smells!"

Liza looked at her aunt with a meditative air.

"What was that word you used?" she whispered.

"What word--what?" sharply replied the old lady. "It is dreadful," she continued, suddenly pulling off her cap and sitting down on Liza's bed. "It is more than I can bear. This is the fourth day I've been just as if I were boiling in a cauldron. I cannot any longer pretend I don't observe any thing. I cannot bear to see you crying, to see how pale and withered you are growing. I cannot--I cannot."

"But what makes you say that aunt?" said Liza. "There is nothing the matter with me, I--"

"Nothing?" exclaimed Marfa Timofeevna. "Tell that to some one else, not to me! Nothing! But who was on her knees just now? Whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? Nothing! Why, just look at yourself, what have you done to your face? where are your eyes gone? Nothing, indeed! As if I didn't know all!"

"Give me a little time, aunt. All this will pass away."

"Will pass away! Yes, but when? Good heavens! is it possible you have loved him so much? Why, he is quite an old fellow, Lizochka! Well, well! I don't deny he is a good man; will not bite; but what of that? We are all good people; the world isn't shut up in a corner, there will always be plenty of this sort of goodness."

"I can assure you all this will pass away--all this has already passed away."

"Listen to what I am going to tell you, Lizochka," suddenly said Marfa Timofeevna, making Liza sit down beside her on the bed, smoothing down the girl's hair, and setting her neckerchief straight while she spoke. "It seems to you, in the heat of the moment, as if it were impossible for your wound to be cured. Ah, my love, it is only death for which there is no cure. Only say to yourself, 'I won't give in--so much for him!' and you will be surprised yourself to see how well and how quickly it will all pass away. Only have a little patience."

"Aunt," replied Liza, "it has already passed away. All has passed away."

"Passed away! how passed away? Why your nose has actually grown peaky, and yet you say--'passed away.' Passed away indeed!"

"Yes, passed away, aunt--if only you are willing to help me," said Liza, with unexpected animation, and then threw her arms round Marfa Timofeevna's neck. "Dearest aunt, do be a friend to me, do help me, don't be angry with me, try to understand me--"

"But what is all this, what is all this, my mother? Don't frighten me, please. I shall cry out in another minute. Don't look at me like that: quick, tell me what is the meaning of all this!"

"I--I want--" Here Liza hid her face on Marfa Timofeevna's breast. "I want to go into a convent," she said in a low tone.

The old lady fairly bounded off the bed.

"Cross yourself, Lizochka! gather your senses together! what ever are you about? Heaven help you!" at last she stammered out. "Lie down and sleep a little, my darling. And this comes of your want of sleep, dearest."

Liza raised her head; her cheeks glowed.