Chapter 3

"No!" he exclaimed, "I cannot play to-day. It is fortunate that Lemm cannot hear us; he would have had a fit."

Liza stood up, shut the piano, and then turned to Panshine.

"What shall we do then?" she asked.

"That question is so like you! You can never sit with folded hands for a moment. Well then, if you feel inclined, let's draw a little before it becomes quite dark. Perhaps another Muse--the Muse of painting--what's her name? I've forgotten--will be more propitious to me. Where is your album? I remember the landscape I was drawing in it was not finished."

Liza went into another room for the album, and Panshine, finding himself alone, took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, rubbed his nails and looked sideways at his hands. They were very white and well shaped; on the second finger of the left hand he wore a spiral gold ring.

Liza returned; Panshine seated himself by the window and opened the album.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "I see you have begun to copy my landscape--and capitally--very good indeed--only--just give me the pencil--the shadows are not laid in black enough. Look here."

And Panshine added some long strokes with a vigorous touch. He always drew the same landscape--large dishevelled trees in the foreground, in the middle distance a plain, and on the horizon an indented chain of hills. Liza looked over his shoulder at his work.

"In drawing, as also in life in general," said Panshine, turning his head now to the right, now to the left, "lightness and daring--those are the first requisites."

At this moment Lemm entered the room, and after bowing gravely, was about to retire; but Panshine flung the album and pencil aside, and prevented him from leaving the room.

"Where are you going, dear Christoph Fedorovich? Won't you stay and take tea?"

"I am going home," said Lemm, in a surly voice; "my head aches."

"What nonsense! do remain. We will have a talk about Shakspeare."

"My head aches," repeated the old man.

"We tried to play Beethoven's sonata without you," continued Panshine, caressingly throwing his arm over the old man's shoulder and smiling sweetly; "but we didn't succeed in bringing it to a harmonious conclusion. Just imagine, I couldn't play two consecutive notes right."

"You had better have played your romance over again," replied Lemm; then, escaping from Panshine's hold he went out of the room.

Liza ran after him, and caught him on the steps.

"Christopher Fedorovich, I want to speak to you," she said in German, as led him across the short green grass to the gate. "I have done you a wrong--forgive me."

Lemm made no reply.

"I showed your cantata to Vladimir Nikolaevich; I was sure he would appreciate it, and, indeed, he was exceedingly pleased with it."

Lemm stopped still.

"It's no matter," he said in Russian, and then added in his native tongue,--"But he is utterly incapable of understanding it. How is it you don't see that? He is a _dilettante_--that is all."

"You are unjust towards him," replied Liza. "He understands every thing, and can do almost every thing himself."

"Yes, every thing second-rate--poor goods, scamped work. But that pleases, and he pleases, and he is well content with that. Well, then, bravo!--But I am not angry. I and that cantata, we are both old fools! I feel a little ashamed, but it's no matter."

"Forgive me, Christopher Fedorovich!" urged Liza anew.

"It's no matter, no matter," he repeated a second time in Russian. "You are a good girl.--Here is some one coming to pay you a visit. Good-bye. You are a very good girl."

And Lemm made his way with hasty steps to the gate, through which there was passing a gentleman who was a stranger to him, dressed in a grey paletot and a broad straw hat. Politely saluting him (he bowed to every new face in O., and always turned away his head from his acquaintances in the street--such was the rule he had adopted), Lemm went past him, and disappeared behind the wall.

The stranger gazed at him as he retired with surprise, then looked at Liza, and then went straight up to her.

VII.

"You won't remember me," he said, as he took off his hat, "but I recognized you, though it is seven years since I saw you last. You were a child then. I am Lavretsky. Is your mamma at home? Can I see her?"

"Mamma will be so glad," replied Liza. "She has heard of your arrival."

"Your name is Elizaveta, isn't it?" asked Lavretsky, as he mounted the steps leading up to the house.

"Yes."

"I remember you perfectly. Yours was even in those days one of the faces which one does not forget. I used to bring you sweetmeats then."

Liza blushed a little, and thought to herself, "What an odd man!" Lavretsky stopped for a minute in the hall.

Liza entered the drawing-room, in which Panshine's voice and laugh were making themselves heard. He was communicating some piece of town gossip to Maria Dmitrievna and Gedeonovsky, both of whom had by this time returned from the garden, and he was laughly loudly at his own story. At the name of Lavretsky, Maria Dmitrievna became nervous and turned pale, but went forward to receive him.

"How are you? how are you, my dear cousin?" she exclaimed, with an almost lachrymose voice, dwelling on each word she uttered. "How glad I am to see you!"

"How are you, my good cousin?" replied Lavretsky, with a friendly pressure of her outstretched hand. "Is all well with you?"

"Sit clown, sit down, my dear Fedor Ivanovich. Oh, how delighted I am! But first let me introduce my daughter Liza."

"I have already introduced myself to Lizaveta Mikhailovna," interrupted Lavretsky.

"Monsieur Panshine--Sergius Petrovich Gedeonovsky. But do sit down. I look at you, and, really, I can scarcely trust my eyes. But tell me about your health; is it good?"

"I am quite well, as you can see. And you, too, cousin--if I can say so without bringing you bad luck[A]--you are none the worse for these seven years."

[Footnote A: A reference to the superstition of the "evil eye," still rife among the peasants in Russia. Though it has died out among the educated classes, yet the phrase, "not to cast an evil eye," is still made use of in conversation.]

"When I think what a number of years it is since we last saw one another," musingly said Maria Dmitrievna. "Where do you come from now? Where have you left--that's to say, I meant"--she hurriedly corrected herself--"I meant to say, shall you stay with us long?"

"I come just now from Berlin," replied Lavretsky, "and to-morrow I shall go into the country--to stay there, in all probability, a long time."

"I suppose you are going to live at Lavriki?"

"No, not at Lavriki; but I have a small property about five-and-twenty versts from here, and I am going there."

"Is that the property which Glafira Petrovna left you?"

"Yes, that's it."

"But really, Fedor Ivanovich, you have such a charming house at Lavriki."

Lavretsky frowned a little.

"Yes--but I have a cottage on the other estate too; I don't require any more just now. That place is--most convenient for me at present."

Maria Dmitrievna became once more so embarrassed that she actually sat upright in her chair, and let her hands drop by her side. Panshine came to the rescue, and entered into conversation with Lavretsky. Maria Dmitrievna by degrees grew calm, leant back again comfortably in her chair, and from time to time contributed a word or two to the conversation. But still she kept looking at her guest so pitifully, sighing so significantly, and shaking her head so sadly, that at last he lost all patience, and asked her, somewhat brusquely, if she was unwell.

"No, thank God!" answered Maria Dmitrievna; "but why do you ask?"

"Because I thought you did not seem quite yourself."

Maria Dmitrievna assumed a dignified and somewhat offended expression.

"If that's the way you take it," she thought, "it's a matter of perfect indifference to me; it's clear that every thing slides off you like water off a goose. Any one else would have withered up with misery, but you've grown fat on it."

Maria Dmitrievna did not stand upon ceremony when she was only thinking to herself. When she spoke aloud she was more choice in her expressions.

And in reality Lavretsky did not look like a victim of destiny. His rosy-cheeked, thoroughly Russian face, with its large white forehead, somewhat thick nose, and long straight lips, seemed to speak of robust health and enduring vigor of constitution. He was powerfully built, and his light hair twined in curls, like a boy's, about his head. Only in his eyes, which were blue, rather prominent, and a little wanting in mobility, an expression might be remarked which it would be difficult to define. It might have been melancholy, or it might have been fatigue; and the ring of his voice seemed somewhat monotonous.

All this time Panshine was supporting the burden of the conversation. He brought it round to the advantages of sugar making, about which he had lately read two French pamphlets; their contents he now proceeded to disclose, speaking with an air of great modesty, but without saying a single word about the sources of his information.

"Why, there's Fedia!" suddenly exclaimed the voice of Marfa Timofeevna in the next room, the door of which had been left half open. "Actually, Fedia!" And the old lady hastily entered the room. Lavretsky hadn't had time to rise from his chair before she had caught him in her arms. "Let me have a look at you," she exclaimed, holding him at a little distance from her. "Oh, how well you are looking! You've grown a little older, but you haven't altered a bit for the worse, that's a fact. But what makes you kiss my hand. Kiss my face, if you please, unless you don't like the look of my wrinkled cheeks. I dare say you never asked after me, or whether your aunt was alive or no. And yet it was my hands received you when you first saw the light, you good-for-nothing fellow! Ah, well, it's all one. But it was a good idea of yours to come here. I say, my dear," she suddenly exclaimed, turning to Maria Dmitrievna, "have you offered him any refreshment?"

"I don't want any thing," hastily said Lavretsky.

"Well, at all events, you will drink tea with us, _batyushka_. Gracious heavens! A man comes, goodness knows from how far off, and no one gives him so much as a cup of tea. Liza, go and see after it quickly. I remember he was a terrible glutton when he was a boy, and even now, perhaps, he is fond of eating and drinking."

"Allow me to pay my respects, Maria Timofeevna," said Panshine, coming up to the excited old lady, and making her a low bow.

"Pray excuse me, my dear sir," replied Marfa Timofeevna, "I overlooked you in my joy. You're just like your dear mother," she continued, turning anew to Lavretsky, "only you always had your father's nose, and you have it still. Well, shall you stay here long?"

"I go away to-morrow, aunt."

"To where?".

"To my house at Vasilievskoe."

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow."

"Well, if it must be to-morrow, so be it. God be with you! You know what is best for yourself. Only mind you come and say good-bye." The old lady tapped him gently on the cheek. "I didn't suppose I should live to see you come back; not that I thought I was going to die--no, no; I have life enough left in me for ten years to come. All we Pestofs are long-lived--your late grandfather used to call us double-lived; but God alone could tell how long you were going to loiter abroad. Well, well! You are a fine fellow--a very fine fellow. I dare say you can still lift ten poods[A] with one hand, as you used to do. Your late father, if you'll excuse my saying so, was as nonsensical as he could be, but he did well in getting you that Swiss tutor. Do you remember the boxing matches you used to have with him? Gymnastics, wasn't it, you used to call them? But why should I go on cackling like this? I shall only prevent Monsieur Pan_shine_ (she never laid the accent on the first syllable of his name, as she ought to have done) from favoring us with his opinions. On the whole, we had much better go and have tea. Yes, let's go and have it on the terrace. We have magnificent cream--not like what they have in your Londons and Parises. Come away, come away; and you, Fediouchka, give me your arm. What a strong arm you have, to be sure! I shan't fall while you're by my side."

[Footnote A: The pood weighs thirty-six pounds.]

Every one rose and went out on the terrace, except Gedeonovsky, who slipped away stealthily. During the whole time Lavretsky was talking with the mistress of the house, with Panshine and with Marfa Timofeevna, that old gentleman had been sitting in his corner, squeezing up his eyes and shooting out his lips, while he listened with the curiosity of a child to all that was being said. When he left, it was that he might hasten to spread through the town the news of the recent arrival.

Here is a picture of what was taking place at eleven o'clock that same evening in the Kalitines' house. Down stairs, on the threshold of the drawing-room, Panshine was taking leave of Liza, and saying, as he held her hand in his:--

"You know who it is that attracts me here; you know why I am always coming to your house. Of what use are words when all is so clear?"

Liza did not say a word in reply--she did not ever smile. Slightly arching her eyebrows, and growing rather red, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, but did not withdraw her hand. Up stairs, in Marfa Timofeevna's room, the light of the lamp, which hung in the corner before the age-embrowned sacred pictures, fell on Lavretsky, as he sat in an arm-chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. In front of him stood the old lady, who from time to time silently passed her hand over his hair. He spent more than an hour with her after taking leave of the mistress of the house, he scarcely saying a word to his kind old friend, and she not asking him any questions. And why should he have spoken? what could she have asked? She understood all so well, she so fully sympathized with all the feelings which filled his heart.

VIII.

Fedor Ivanovich Lavretsky (we must ask our reader's permission to break off the thread of the story for a time) sprang from a noble family of long descent. The founder of the race migrated from Prussia during the reign of Basil the Blind,[A] and was favored with a grant of two hundred _chetverts_[B] of land in the district of Biejetsk. Many of his descendants filled various official positions, and were appointed to governorships in distant places, under princes and influential personages, but none of them obtained any great amount of property, or arrived at a higher dignity, than that of inspector of the Czar's table.

[Footnote A: In the fifteenth century.]

[Footnote B: An old measure of land, variously estimated at from two to six acres.]

The richest and most influential of all the Lavretskys was Fedor Ivanovich's paternal great-grandfather Andrei, a man who was harsh, insolent, shrewd, and crafty. Even up to the present day men have never ceased to talk about his despotic manners, his furious temper, his senseless prodigality, and his insatiable avarice. He was very tall and stout, his complexion was swarthy, and he wore no beard. He lisped, and he generally seemed half asleep. But the more quietly he spoke, the more did all around him tremble. He had found a wife not unlike himself. She had a round face, a yellow complexion, prominent eyes, and the nose of a hawk. A gypsy by descent, passionate and vindictive in temper, she refused to yield in any thing to her husband, who all but brought her to her grave, and whom, although she had been eternally squabbling with him, she could net bear long to survive.

Andrei's son, Peter, our Fedor's grandfather, did not take after his father. He was a simple country gentleman; rather odd, noisy in voice and slow in action, rough but not malicious, hospitable, and devoted to coursing. He was more than thirty years old when he inherited from his father two thousand souls,[A] all in excellent condition; but he soon began to squander his property, a part of which he disposed of by sale, and he spoilt his household. His large, warm, and dirty rooms were full of people of small degree, known and unknown, who swarmed in from all sides like cockroaches. All these visitors gorged themselves with whatever came in their way, drank their fill to intoxication, and carried off what they could, extolling and glorifying their affable host. As for their host, when he was out of humor with them, he called them scamps and parasites; but when deprived of their company, he soon found himself bored.

[Footnote A: Male serfs.]

The wife of Peter Andreich was a quiet creature whom he had taken from a neighboring family in acquiescence with his father's choice and command. Her name was Anna Pavlovna. She never interfered in any thing, received her guests cordially, and went out into society herself with pleasure--although "it was death" to her, to use her own phrase, to have to powder herself. "They put a felt cap on your head," she used to say in her old age; "they combed all your hair straight up on end, they smeared it with grease, they strewed it with flour, they stuck it full of iron pins; you couldn't wash it away afterwards. But to pay a visit without powdering was impossible. People would have taken offence. What a torment it was!" She liked to drive fast, and was ready to play at cards from morning until evening. When her husband approached the card-table, she was always in the habit of covering with her hand the trumpery losses scored up against her; but she had made over to him, without reserve, all her dowry, all the money she had. She brought him two children--a son named Ivan, our Fedor's father, and a daughter, Glafira.[A]

[Footnote A: The accent should be on the second syllable of this name.]

Ivan was not brought up at home, but in the house of an old and wealthy maiden aunt, Princess Kubensky. She styled him her heir (if it had not been for that, his father would not have let him go), dressed him like a doll, gave him teachers of every kind, and placed him under the care of a French tutor--an ex-abbé, a pupil of Jean Jacques Rousseau--a certain M. Courtin de Vaucelles an adroit and subtle intriguer--"the very _fine fleur_ of the emigration," as she expressed herself; and she ended by marrying this _fine fleur_ when she was almost seventy years old. She transferred all her property to his name, and soon afterwards, rouged, perfumed with amber _á la Richelieu_, surrounded by negro boys, Italian grey-hounds, and noisy parrots, she died, stretched on a crooked silken couch of the style of Louis the Fifteenth, with an enamelled snuff-box of Petitot's work in her hands--and died deserted by her husband. The insinuating M. Courtin had preferred to take himself and her money off to Paris.

Ivan was in his twentieth year when this unexpected blow struck him. We speak of the Princess's marriage, not her death. In his aunt's house, in which he had suddenly passed from the position of a wealthy heir to that of a hanger-on, he would not slay any longer. In Petersburg, the society in which he had grown up closed its doors upon him. For the lower ranks of the public service, and the laborious and obscure life they involved, he felt a strong repugnance. All this, it must be remembered, took place in the earliest part of the reign of the Emperor Alexander I[A]. He was obliged, greatly against his will, to return to his father's country house. Dirty, poor, and miserable did the paternal nest seem to him. The solitude and the dullness of a retired country life offended him at every step. He was devoured by ennui; besides, every one in the house, except his mother, regarded him with unloving eyes. His father disliked his metropolitan habits, his dress-coats and shirt-frills, his books, his flute, his cleanliness--from which he justly argued that his son regarded him with a feeling of aversion. He was always grumbling at his son, and complaining of his conduct.

[Footnote A: When corruption was the rule in the public service.]

"Nothing we have here pleases him," he used to say. "He is so fastidious at table, he eats nothing. He cannot bear the air and the smell of the room. The sight of drunken people upsets him; and as to beating anyone before him, you musn't dare to do it. Then he won't enter the service; his health is delicate, forsooth! Bah! What an effeminate creature!--and all because his head is full of Voltaire!" The old man particularly disliked Voltaire, and also the "infidel" Diderot, although he had never read a word of their works. Reading was not in his line.

Peter Andreich was not mistaken. Both Diderot and Voltaire really were in his son's head; and not they alone. Rousseau and Raynal and Helvetius also, and many other similar writers, were in his head; but in his head only. Ivan Petrovich's former tutor, the retired Abbé and encyclopaedist, had satisfied himself with pouring all the collective wisdom of the eighteenth century over his pupil; and so the pupil existed, saturated with it. It held its own in him without mixing with his blood, without sinking into his mind, without resolving into fixed convictions. And would it be reasonable to ask for convictions from a youngster half a century ago, when we have not even yet acquired any?

Ivan Petrovich disconcerted the visitors also in his father's house. He was too proud to have anything to do with them; they feared him. With his sister Glafira, too, who was twelve years his senior, he did not at all agree. This Glafira was a strange being. Plain, deformed, meagre--with staring and severe eyes, and with thin, compressed lips--she, in her face and her voice, and in her angular and quick movements, resembled her grandmother, the gipsy Andrei's wife. Obstinate, and fond of power, she would not even hear of marriage. Ivan Petrovich's return home was by no means to her taste. So long as the Princess Kubensky kept him with her, Glafira had hoped to obtain at least half of her father's property; and in her avarice, as well as in other points, she resembled her grandmother. Besides this, Glafira was jealous of her brother. He had been educated so well; he spoke French so correctly, with a Parisian accent; and she scarcely knew how to say "_Bonjour_" and "_Comment vous portez vous_?" It is true that her parents were entirely ignorant of French, but that did not make things any better for her.