Liza by Ivan TurgenevA Nest of Nobles (page 2)

time he at once began to apply his system to him.

“I want, above all, to make a man of him–_un homme_,” he said to Glafira Petrovna “and not only a man, but a Spartan.” This plan he began to carry out by dressing his boy in Highland costume. The twelve-year-old little fellow had to go about with bare legs, and with a cock’s feather in his cap. The Swedish governess was replaced by a young tutor from Switzerland, who was acquainted with all the niceties of gymnastics. Music was utterly forbidden, as an accomplishment unworthy of a man. Natural science, international law, and mathematics, as well as carpentry, which was selected in accordance with the advice of Jean Jacques Rousseau; and heraldry, which was introduced for the maintenance of chivalrous ideas–these were the subjects to which the future “man” had to give his attention. He had to get up at four in the morning and take a cold bath immediately, after which he had to run round a high pole at the end of a cord. He had one meal a day, consisting of one dish; he rode on horseback, and he shot with a cross-bow. On every fitting occasion he had to exercise himself, in imitation of his father, in gaining strength of will; and every evening he used to write, in a book reserved for that purpose, an account of how he had spent the day, and what were his ideas on the subject. Ivan Petrovich, on his side, wrote instructions for him in French, in which he styled him _mon fils_, and addressed him as _vous_. Fedia used to say “thou” to his father in Russian, but he did not dare to sit down in his presence.

The “system” muddled the boy’s brains, confused his ideas, and cramped his mind; but, as far as his physical health was concerned, the new kind of life acted on him beneficially. At first he fell ill with a fever, but he soon recovered and became a fine fellow. His father grew proud of him, and styled him in his curious language, “the child of nature, my creation.” When Fedia reached the age of sixteen, Ivan Petrovich considered it a duty to inspire him in good time with contempt for the female sex–and so the young Spartan, with the first down beginning to appear upon his lips, timid in feeling, but with a body full of blood, and strength, and energy, already tried to seem careless, and cold, and rough.

Meanwhile time passed by. Ivan Petrovich spent the greater part of the year at Lavriki–that was the name of his chief hereditary estate; but in winter he used to go by himself to Moscow, where he put up at a hotel, attended his club assiduously, aired his eloquence freely, explained his plans in society, and more than ever gave himself out as an Anglomaniac, a grumbler, and a statesman. But the year 1825 came and brought with it much trouble[A]. Ivan Petrovich’s intimate friends and acquaintances underwent a heavy tribulation. He made haste to betake himself far away into the country, and there he shut himself up in his house. Another year passed and Ivan Petrovich suddenly broke down, became feeble, and utterly gave way. His health having deserted him, the freethinker began to go to church, and to order prayers to be said for him[B]; the European began to steam himself in the Russian bath, to dine at two o’clock, to go to bed at nine, to be talked to sleep by the gossip of an old house-steward; the statesman burnt all his plans and all his correspondence, trembled before the governor, and treated the _Ispravnik_[C] with uneasy civility; the man of iron will whimpered and complained whenever he was troubled by a boil, or when his soup had got cold before he was served with it. Glafira again ruled supreme in the house; again did inspectors, overseers[D], and simple peasants begin to go up the back staircase to the rooms occupied by the “old witch”–as she was called by the servants of the house.

[Footnote A: Arising from the conspiracy of the “Decembrists” and their attempts at a revolution, on the occasion of the death of Alexander I., and the accession of Nicholas to the throne.]

[Footnote B: _Molebni_: prayers in which the name of the person who has paid for them is mentioned.]

[Footnote C: Inspector of rural police.]

[Footnote D: _Prikashchiki_ and _Burmistrui_: two classes of overseers, the former dealing with economical matters only, the latter having to do with the administrative department also.]

The change which had taken place in Ivan Petrovich, produced a strong impression on the mind of his son. He had already entered on his nineteenth year; and he had begun to think for himself, and to shake off the weight of the hand which had been pressing him down. Even before this he had remarked how different were his father’s deeds from his words; the wide and liberal theories he professed from the hard and narrow despotism he practiced; but he had not expected so abrupt a transformation. In his old age the egotist revealed himself in his full nature. The young Lavretsky was just getting ready to go to Moscow, with a view to preparing himself for the university, when a new and unexpected misfortune fell on the head of Ivan Petrovich. In the course of a single day the old man became blind, hopelessly blind.

Distrusting the skill of Russian medical men, he did all he could to get permission to travel abroad. It was refused. Then, taking his son with him, he wandered about Russia for three whole years, trying one doctor after another, incessantly journeying from place to place, and, by his impatient fretfulness, driving his doctors, his son, and his servants to the verge of despair. Utterly used up[A], he returned to Lavriki a weeping and capricious infant. Days of bitterness ensued, in which all suffered at his hands. He was quiet only while he was feeding. Never had he eaten so much, nor so greedily. At all other moments he allowed neither himself nor any one else to be at peace. He prayed, grumbled at fate, found fault with himself, with his system, with politics, with all which he used to boast of, with all that he had ever set up as a model for his son. He would declare that he believed in nothing, and then he would betake himself again to prayer; he could not bear a single moment of solitude, and he compelled his servants constantly to sit near his bed day and night, and to entertain him with stories, which he was in the habit of interrupting by exclamations of, “You’re all telling lies!” or, “What utter nonsense!”

[Footnote A: Literally, “a regular rag.”]

Glafira Petrovna had the largest share in all the trouble he gave. He was absolutely unable to do without her; and until the very end she fulfilled all the invalid’s caprices, though sometimes she was unable to reply immediately to what he said, for fear the tone of her voice should betray the anger which was almost choking her. So he creaked on for two years more, and at length one day in the beginning of the month of May, he died. He had been carried out to the balcony, and planed there in the sun. “Glasha! Glashka! broth, broth, you old idi–,” lisped his stammering tongue; and then, without completing the last word, it became silent forever. Glafira, who had just snatched the cup of broth from the hands of the major-domo, stopped short, looked her brother in the face, very slowly crossed herself, and went silently away. And his son, who happened also to be on the spot, did not say a word either, but bent over the railing of the balcony, and gazed for a long time into the garden, all green and fragrant, all sparkling in the golden sunlight of spring. He was twenty-three years old; how sadly, how swiftly had those years passed by unmarked! Life opened out before him now.

XII.

After his father’s burial, having confided to the never-changing Glafira Petrovna the administration of his household, and the supervision of his agents, the young Lavretsky set out for Moscow, whither a vague but powerful longing attracted him. He knew in what his education had been defective, and he was determined to supply its deficiencies as far as possible. In the course of the last five years he had read much, and he had see a good deal with his own eyes. Many ideas had passed through his mind, many a professor might have envied him some of his knowledge; yet, at the same time, he was entirely ignorant of much that had long been familiar to every school-boy. Lavretsky felt that he was not at his ease among his fellow-men; he had a secret inkling that he was an exceptional character. The Anglomaniac had played his son a cruel trick; his capricious education had borne its fruit. For many years he had implicitly obeyed his father; and when at last he had learned to value him aright, the effects of his father’s teaching were already produced. Certain habits had become rooted in him. He did not know how to comport himself towards his fellow-men; at the age of twenty-three, with an eager longing after love in his bashful heart, he had not yet dared to look a woman in the face. With his clear and logical, but rather sluggish intellect, with his stubbornness, and his tendency towards inactivity and contemplation, he ought to have been flung at an early age into the whirl of life, instead of which he had been deliberately kept in seclusion. And now the magic circle was broken, but he remained standing on the same spot, cramped in mind and self-absorbed.

At his age it seemed a little ridiculous to put on the uniform of a student[A], but he did not fear ridicule. His Spartan education had at all events been so far useful, inasmuch as it had developed in him a contempt for the world’s gossiping. So he donned a student’s uniform without being disconcerted, enrolling himself in the faculty of physical and mathematical science. His robust figure, his ruddy face, his sprouting beard, his taciturn manner, produced a singular impression on his comrades. They never suspected that under the rough exterior of this man, who attended the lectures so regularly, driving up in a capacious rustic sledge, drawn by a couple of horses, something almost childlike was concealed. They thought him an eccentric sort of pedant, and they made no advances towards him, being able to do very well without him. And he, for his part, avoided them. During the first two years he passed at the university, he became intimate with no one except the student from whom she took lessons in Latin. This student, whose name was Mikhalevich, an enthusiast, and somewhat of a poet, grew warmly attached to Lavretsky, and quite accidentally became the cause of a serious change in his fortunes.

[Footnote A: The students at the Russian universities used to wear a uniform, but they no longer do so.]

One evening, when Lavretsky was at the theatre–he never missed a single representation, for Mochalof was then at the summit of his glory–he caught sight of a young girl in a box on the first tier. Never before had his heart beaten so fast, though at that time no woman ever passed before his stern eyes without sending its pulses flying. Leaning on the velvet border of the box, the girl sat very still. Youthful animation lighted up every feature of her beautiful face; artistic feeling shone in her lovely eyes, which looked out with a soft, attentive gaze from underneath delicately pencilled eyebrows, in the quick smile of her expressive lips, in the bearing of her head, her arms, her neck. As to her dress, it was exquisite. By her side sat a sallow, wrinkled woman of five-and-forty, wearing a low dress and a black cap, with an unmeaning smile on her vacant face, to which she strove to give an aspect of attention. In the background of the box appeared an elderly man in a roomy coat, and with a high cravat. His small eyes had an expression of stupid conceit, modified by a kind of cringing suspicion; his mustache and whiskers were dyed, he had an immense meaningless forehead, and flabby cheeks: his whole appearance was that of a retired general.

Lavretsky kept his eyes fixed on the girl who had made such an impression on him. Suddenly the door of the box opened, and Mikhalevich entered. The appearance of the man who was almost his only acquaintance in all Moscow–his appearance in the company of the very girl who had absorbed his whole attention, seemed to Lavretsky strange and significant. As he continued looking at the box, he remarked that all its occupants treated Mikhalevich like an old friend. Lavretsky lost all interest in what was going on upon the stage; even Mochalof, although he was that evening “in the vein,” did not produce his wonted impression upon him. During one very pathetic passage, Lavretsky looked almost involuntarily at the object of his admiration. She was leaning forward, a red glow coloring her cheeks. Her eyes were bent upon the stage, but gradually, under the influence of his fixed look, they turned and rested on him. All night long those eyes haunted him. At last, the carefully constructed dam was broken through. He shivered and he burnt by turns, and the very next day he went to see Mikhalevich. From him he learned that the name of the girl he admired so much was Varvara Pavlovna Korobine, that the elderly people who were with her in the box were her father and her mother, and that Mikhalevich had become acquainted with them the year before, during the period of his stay as tutor in Count N.’s family, near Moscow. The enthusiast spoke of Varvara Pavlovna in the most eulogistic terms. “This girl, my brother,” he exclaimed, in his peculiar, jerking kind of sing-song, “is an exceptional being, one endowed with genius, an artist in the true sense of the word, and besides all that, such an amiable creature.” Perceiving from Lavretsky’s questions how great an impression Varvara Pavlovna had made upon him, Mikhalevich, of his own accord, proposed to make him acquainted with her, adding that he was on the most familiar terms with them, that the general was not in the least haughty, and that the mother was as unintellectual as she well could be.

Lavretsky blushed, muttered something vague, and took himself off. For five whole days he fought against his timidity; on the sixth, the young Spartan donned an entirely new uniform, and placed himself at the disposal of Mikhalevich, who, as an intimate friend of the family, contented himself with setting his hair straight–and the two companions set off together to visit the Karobines.

XIII

Varvara Pavlovna’s father, Pavel Petrovich Korobine, a retired major-general, had been on duty at St. Petersburg during almost the whole of his life. In his early years he had enjoyed the reputation of being an able dancer and driller; but as he was very poor he had to act as aide-de-camp to two or three generals of small renown in succession, one of whom gave him his daughter in marriage, together with a dowry of 25,000 roubles. Having made himself master of all the science of regulations and parades, even to their subtlest details, he “went on stretching the girth” until at last, after twenty years service, he became a general, and obtained a regiment. At that point he might have reposed, and have quietly consolidated his fortune. He had indeed counted upon doing so, but he managed his affairs rather imprudently. It seems he had discovered a new method of speculating with the public money. The method turned out an excellent one, but he must needs practise quite unreasonable economy,[A] so information was laid against him, and a more than disagreeable, a ruinous scandal ensued. Some how or other the general managed to get clear of the affair; but his career was stopped, and he was recommended to retire from active service. For about a couple of years he lingered on at St. Petersburg, in hopes that a snug civil appointment might fall to his lot; but no such appointment did fall to his lot. His daughter finished her education at the Institute; his expenses increased day by day. So he determined, with suppressed indignation, to go to Moscow for economy’s sake; and there, in the Old Stable Street, he hired a little house with an escutcheon seven feet high on the roof, and began to live as retired generals do in Moscow on an income of 2,700 roubles a year[B].

[Footnote A: In other words, he stole, but he neglected to bribe.]

[Footnote B: Nearly L400, the roubles being “silver” ones. The difference in value between “silver” and “paper” roubles exists no longer.]

Moscow is an hospitable city, and ready to welcome any one who appears there, especially if he is a retired general. Pavel Petrovich’s form, which, though heavy, was not devoid of martial bearing, began to appear in the drawing-rooms frequented by the best society of Moscow. The back of his head, bald, with the exception of a few tufts of dyed hair, and the stained ribbon of the Order of St. Anne, which he wore over a stock of the color of a raven’s wing, became familiar to all the young men of pale and wearied aspect, who were wont to saunter moodily around the card tables while a dance was going on.

Pavel Petrovich understood how to hold his own in society. He said little, but always, as of old, spoke through the nose–except, of course, when he was talking to people of superior rank. He played at cards prudently, and when he was at home he ate with moderation. At a party he seemed to be feeding for six. Of his wife scarcely anything more can be said than that her name was Calliope Carlovna–that a tear always stood in her left eye, on the strength of which Calliope Carlovna, who to be sure was of German extraction, considered herself a woman of feeling–that she always seemed frightened about something–that she looked as if she never had enough to eat–and that she always wore a tight velvet dress, a cap, and bracelets of thin, dull metal.

As to Varvara Pavlovna, the general’s only daughter, she was but seventeen years old when she left the Institute in which she had been educated. While within its walls she was considered, if not the most beautiful, at all events the most intelligent of the pupils, and the best musician, and before leaving it she obtained the Cipher[A]. She was not yet nineteen when Lavretsky saw her for the first time.

[Footnote A: The initial letter of the name of the Empress, worn as a kind of decoration by the best pupils in the Imperial Institutes.]

XIV.

The Spartan’s legs trembled when Mikhalevich led him into the Korobines’ not over-well furnished drawing-room, and introduced him to its occupants. But he overcame his timidity, and soon disappeared. In General Korobine that kindliness which is common to all Russians, was enhanced by the special affability which is peculiar to all persons whose fair fame has been a little soiled. As for the General’s wife, she soon became as it were ignored by the whole party. But Varvara Pavlona was so calmly, so composedly gracious, that no one could be, even for a moment, in her presence without feeling himself at his ease. And at the same time from all her charming form, from her smiling eyes, from her faultlessly sloping shoulders, from the rose-tinged whiteness of her hands, from her elastic, but at the same time as it were, irresolute gait, from the very sound of her sweet and languorous voice–there breathed, like a delicate perfume, a subtle and incomprehensible charm–something which was at once tender and voluptuous and modest–something which it was difficult to express in words, which stirred the imagination and disturbed the mind, but disturbed it with sensations which were not akin to timidity.

Lavretsky introduced the subject of the theatre and the preceding night’s performance; she immediately began to talk about Mochalof of her own accord, and did not confine herself to mere sighs and exclamations, but pronounced several criticisms on his acting, which were as remarkable for sound judgment as for womanly penetration. Mikhalevich mentioned music; she sat down to the piano without affectation, and played with precision several of Chopin’s mazurkas, which were then only just coming into fashion. Dinner time came. Lavretsky would have gone away, but they made him stop, and the General treated him at table with excellent Lafitte, which the footman had been hurriedly sent out to buy at Depre’s.

It was late in the evening before Lavretsky returned home; and then he sat for a longtime without undressing, covering his eyes with his hand, and yielding to the torpor of enchantment. It seemed to him that he had not till now understood what makes life worth having. All his resolutions and intentions, all the now valueless ideas of other days, had disappeared in a moment. His whole soul melted within him into one feeling, one desire; into the desire of happiness, of possession, of love, of the sweetness of a woman’s love.

From that day he began to visit the Korobines frequently. After six months had passed, he proposed to Varvara Pavlovna, and his offer was accepted. Long, long before, even if it was not the night before Lavretsky’s first visit, the General had asked Mikhalevich how many serfs[A] his friend had. Even Varvara Pavlona, who had preserved her wonted composure and equanimity during the whole period of her young admirer’s courtship, and even at the very moment of his declaration–even Varvara Pavlovna knew perfectly well that her betrothed was rich. And Calliope Carlovna thought to herself, “_Meine Tochter macht eine schoene Partie_[B]”–and bought herself a new cap.

[Footnote A: Literally, “souls,” _i.e._, male peasants.]

[Footnote B: My daughter is going to make a capital match.]

XV.

And so his offer was accepted, but under certain conditions. In the first place, Lavretsky must immediately leave the university. Who could think of marrying a student? And what an extraordinary idea, a landed proprietor, a rich man, at twenty-six years of age, to be taking lessons like a schoolboy! In the second place, Varvara Pavlovna was to take upon herself the trouble of ordering and buying her trousseau. She even chose the presents the bridegroom was to give. She had very good taste, and a great deal of common sense, and she possessed a great liking for comfort, and no small skill in getting herself that comfort. Lavretsky was particularly struck by this talent when, immediately after the wedding, he and his wife set off for Lavriki, travelling in a convenient carriage which she had chosen herself. How carefully all their surroundings had been meditated over by Varvara Pavlovna! what prescience she had shown in providing them! What charming travelling contrivances made their appearance in the various convenient corners! what delicious toilet boxes! what excellent coffee machines! and how gracefully did Varvara Pavlovna herself make the coffee in the morning! But it must be confessed that Lavretsky was little fitted for critical observation just then. He revelled in his happiness, he was intoxicated by his good fortune, he abandoned himself to it like a child–he was, indeed, as innocent as a child, this young Hercules. Not in vain did a charmed influence attach itself to the whole presence of his young wife; not in vain did she promise to the imagination a secret treasure of unknown delights. She was even better than her promise.

When she arrived at Lavriki, which was in the very hottest part of the summer, the house seemed to her sombre and in bad order, the servants antiquated and ridiculous; but she did not think it necessary to say a word about this to her husband. If she had intended to settle at Lavriki, she would have altered every thing there, beginning of course with the house; but the idea of staying in that out-of-the-way corner never, even for an instant, came into her mind. She merely lodged in it, as she would have done in a tent, putting up with all its discomforts in the sweetest manner, and laughing at them pleasantly.

When Marfa Timofeevna came to see her old pupil, she produced a favorable impression on Varvara Pavlovna. But Varvara was not at all to the old lady’s liking. Nor did the young mistress of the house get on comfortably with Glafira Petrovna. She herself would have been content to leave Glafira in peace, but the general was anxious to get his hand into the management of his son-in-law’s affairs. To see after the property of so near a relative, he said, was an occupation that even a general might adopt without disgrace. It is possible that Pavel Petrovich would not have disdained to occupy himself with the affairs of even an utter stranger.

Varvara Pavlovna carried out her plan of attack very skillfully. Although never putting herself forward, but being to all appearance thoroughly immersed in the bliss of the honeymoon, in the quiet life of the country, in music, and in books, she little by little worked upon Glafira, until that lady, one morning, burst into Lavretsky’s study like a maniac, flung her bunch of keys on the table, and announced that she could no longer look after the affairs of the household, and that she did not wish to remain on the estate. As Lavretsky had been fitly prepared for the scene, he immediately gave his consent to her departure. This Glafira Petrovna had not expected. “Good,” she said, and her brow grew dark. “I see that I am not wanted here. I know that I am expelled hence, driven away from the family nest. But, nephew, remember my words–nowhere will you be able to build you a nest; your lot will be to wander about without ceasing. There is my parting legacy to you.” That same day she went off to her own little property: a week later General Korobine arrived, and, with a pleasantly subdued air, took the whole management of the estate into his own hands.

In September Varvara Pavlovna carried off her husband to St. Petersburg. There the young couple spent two winters–migrating in the summer to Tsarskoe Selo. They lived in handsome, bright, admirably-furnished apartments; they made numerous acquaintances in the upper and even the highest circles of society; they went out a great deal and received frequently, giving very charming musical parties and dances. Varvara Pavlovna attracted visitors as a light does moths.

Such a distracting life did not greatly please Fedor Ivanich. His wife wanted him to enter the service; but, partly in deference to his father’s memory, partly in accordance with his own ideas, he would not do so, though he remained in St. Petersburg to please his wife. However, he soon found out that no one objected to his isolating himself, that it was not without an object that his study had been made the quietest and the most comfortable in the whole city, that his attentive wife was ever ready to encourage him in isolating himself; and from that time all went well. He again began to occupy himself with his as yet, as he thought, unfinished education. He entered upon anew course of reading; he even began the study of English. It was curious to see his powerful, broad-shouldered figure constantly bending over his writing-table, his full, ruddy, bearded face, half-hidden by the leaves of a dictionary or a copy-book. His mornings were always spent over his work; later in the day he sat down to an excellent dinner–for Varvara Pavlovna always managed her household affairs admirably; and in the evening he entered an enchanted, perfumed, brilliant world, all peopled by young and joyous beings, the central point of their world being that extremely attentive manager of the household, his wife.

She made him happy with a son; but the poor child did not live long. It died in the spring; and in the summer, in accordance with the advice of the doctors, Lavretsky and his wife went the round of the foreign watering-places. Distraction was absolutely necessary for her after such a misfortune; and, besides, her health demanded a warmer climate. That summer and autumn they spent in Germany and Switzerland; and in the winter, as might be expected, they went to Paris.

In Paris Varvara Pavlovna bloomed like a rose; and there, just as quickly and as skilfully as she had done in St. Petersburg, she learnt how to build herself a snug little nest. She procured a very pretty set of apartments in one of the quiet but fashionable streets, she made her husband such a dressing-gown as he had never worn before; she secured an elegant lady’s maid, an excellent cook, and an energetic footman; and she provided herself with an exquisite carriage, and a charming cabinet piano. Before a week was over she could already cross a street, put on a shawl, open a parasol, and wear gloves, as well as the most pure-blooded of Parisian women.

She soon made acquaintances also. At first only Russians used to come to her house; then Frenchmen began to show themselves–amiable bachelors, of polished manners, exquisite in demeanor, and bearing high-sounding names. They all talked a great deal and very fast, they bowed gracefully, their eyes twinkled pleasantly. All of them possessed teeth which gleamed white between rosy lips; and how beautifully they smiled! Each of them brought his friends; and before long _La belle Madame de Lavretski_ became well known from the _Chausee d’ Antin_ to the _Rue de Lille_. At that time–it was in 1836–the race of _feuilletonists_ and journalists, which now swarms everywhere, numerous as the ants one sees when a hole is made in an ant-hill, had not yet succeeded in multiplying in numbers. Still, there used to appear in Varvara Pavlovna’s drawing-room a certain M. Jules, a gentleman who bore a very bad character, whose appearance was unprepossessing, and whose manner was at once insolent and cringing–like that of all duellists and people who have been horsewhipped. Varvara disliked this M. Jules very much; but she received him because he wrote in several newspapers, and used to be constantly mentioning her, calling her sometimes Madame de L … tski, sometimes Madame de * * *, _cette grande dame Russe si distinguee, qui demeure rue de P—-_, and describing to the whole world, that is to say to some few hundreds of subscribers, who had nothing whatever to do with Madame de L … tski, how loveable and charming was that lady, _une vraie francaise par l’esprit_,–the French have no higher praise than this,–what an extraordinary musician she was, and how wonderfully she waltzed. (Varvara Pavlovna did really waltz so as to allure all hearts to the skirt of her light, floating robe.) In fact, he spread her fame abroad throughout the world; and this we know, whatever people may say, is pleasant.

Mademoiselle Mars had by that time quitted the stage, and Mademoiselle Rachel had not yet appeared there; but for all that Varvara Pavlovna none the less assiduously attended the theatres. She went into raptures about Italian music, and laughed over the ruins of Odry, yawned in a becoming manner at the legitimate drama, and cried at the sight of Madame Dorval’s acting in some ultra-melodramatic piece. Above all, Liszt played at her house twice, and was so gracious, so unaffected! It was charming!

Amid such pleasurable sensations passed the winter, at the end of which Varvara Pavlovna was even presented at Court. As for Fedor Ivanovich, he was not exactly bored, but life began to weigh heavily on his shoulders at times–heavily because of its very emptiness. He read the papers, he listened to the lectures at the _Sorbonne_ and the _College de France_, he followed the debates in the Chambers, he occupied himself in translating a famous scientific work on irrigation. “I am not wasting my time,” he thought; “all this is of use; but next winter I really must return to Russia, and betake myself to active business.” It would be hard to say if he had any clear idea of what were the special characteristics of that business, and only Heaven could tell whether he was likely to succeed in getting back to Russia in the winter. In the meanwhile he was intending to go with his wife to Baden. But an unexpected occurrence upset all his plans.

XVI.

One day when he happened to go into Varvara Pavlovna’s boudoir during her absence, Lavretsky saw a carefully folded little piece of paper lying on the floor. Half mechanically he picked it up and opened it–and read the following lines written in French:–

* * * * *

“MY DEAR ANGEL BETTY,

“(I really cannot make up my mind to call you Barbe or Varvara). I have waited in vain for you at the corner of the Boulevard. Come to our rooms to-morrow at half-past one. That excellent husband of yours is generally absorbed in his books at that time–we will sing over again that song of your poet Pushkin which you taught me, ‘Old husband, cruel husband!’ A thousand kisses to your dear little hands and feet. I await you.

“ERNEST.”

* * * * *

At first Lavretsky did not comprehend the meaning of what he had read. He read it a second time–and his head swam, and the ground swayed beneath his feet like the deck of a ship in a storm, and a half-stifled sound issued from his lips, that was neither quite a cry nor quite a sob.

He was utterly confounded. He had trusted his wife so blindly; the possibility of deceit or of treachery on her part had never entered into his mind. This Ernest, his wife’s lover, was a pretty boy of about three-and-twenty, with light hair, a turned-up nose, and a small moustache–probably the most insignificant of all his acquaintances.

Several minutes passed; a half hour passed. Lavretsky still stood there, clenching the fatal note in his hand, and gazing unmeaningly on the floor. A sort of dark whirlwind seemed to sweep round him, pale faces to glimmer through it.

A painful sensation of numbness had seized his heart. He felt as if he were falling, falling, falling–into a bottomless abyss.

The soft rustle of a silk dress roused him from his torpor by its familiar sound. Varvara Pavlovna came in hurriedly from out of doors. Lavretsky shuddered all over and rushed out of the room. He felt that at that moment he was ready to tear her to pieces, to strangle her with his own hands, at least to beat her all but to death in peasant fashion. Varvara Pavlovna, in her amazement, wanted to stay him. He just succeeded in whispering “Betty”–and then he fled from the house.

Lavretsky took a carriage and drove outside the barriers. All the rest of the day, and the whole of the night he wandered about, constantly stopping and wringing his hands above his head. Sometimes he was frantic with rage, at others every thing seemed to move him to laughter, even to a kind of mirth. When the morning dawned he felt half frozen, so he entered a wretched little suburban tavern, asked for a room, and sat down on a chair before the window. A convulsive fit of yawning seized him. By that time he was scarcely able to keep upright, and his bodily strength was utterly exhausted. Still he was not conscious of fatigue. But fatigue had its own way. He continued sitting there and gazing vacantly, but he comprehended nothing. He could not make out what had happened to him, why he found himself there, alone, in an empty, unknown room, with numbed limbs, with a sense of bitterness in his mouth, with a weight like that of a great stone on his heart. He could not understand what had induced her, his Varvara, to give herself to that Frenchman, and how, knowing herself to be false to him, she could have remained as calm as ever in his presence, as confiding and caressing as ever towards him. “I cannot make it out,” whispered his dry lips. “And how can I be sure now that even at St. Petersburg–?” but he did not complete the question; a fresh gaping fit seized him, and his whole frame shrank and shivered. Sunny and sombre memories equally tormented him. He suddenly recollected how a few days before, she had sat at the piano, when both he and Ernest were present, and had sung “Old husband, cruel husband!” He remembered the expression of her face, the strange brilliance of her eyes, and the color in her cheeks–and he rose from his chair, longing to go to them and say, “You were wrong to play your tricks on me. My great grandfather used to hang his peasants on hooks by their ribs, and my grandfather was a peasant himself,”–and then kill them both. All of a sudden it would appear to him as if every thing that had happened were a dream, even not so much as a dream, but just some absurd fancy; as if he had only to give himself a shake and take a look round–and he did look round; and as a hawk claws a captured bird, so did his misery strike deeper and deeper into his heart. What made things worse was that Lavretsky had hoped, in the course of a few months, to find himself once more a father. His past, his future, his whole life was poisoned.

At last he returned to Paris, went to a hotel, and sent Varvara Pavlovna M. Ernest’s note with the following letter:–

“The scrap of paper which accompanies this will explain every thing to you. I may as well tell you that you do not seem to have behaved in this matter with your usual tact. You, so careful a person, to drop such important papers (poor Lavretsky had been preparing this phrase, and fondling it, as it were, for several hours). I can see you no more, and I suppose that you too can have no wish for an interview with me. I assign you fifteen thousand roubles a year. I cannot give you more. Send your address to the steward of my estate. And now do what you like; live where you please. I wish you all prosperity. I want no answer.”

Lavretsky told his wife that he wanted no answer; but he did expect, he even longed for an answer–an explanation of this strange, this incomprehensible affair. That same day Varvara Pavlovna sent him a long letter in French. It was the final blow. His last doubts vanished, and he even felt ashamed of having retained any doubts. Varvara Pavlovna did not attempt to justify herself. All that she wanted was to see him; she besought him not to condemn her irrevocably. The letter was cold and constrained, though marks of tears were to be seen on it here and there. Lavretsky smiled bitterly, and sent a message by the bearer, to the effect that the letter needed no reply.

Three days later he was no longer in Paris; but he went to Italy, not to Russia. He did not himself know why he chose Italy in particular. In reality, it was all the same to him where he went–so long as he did not go home. He sent word to his steward about his wife’s allowance, ordering him, at the same time, to withdraw the whole management of the estate from General Korobine immediately, without waiting for any settlement of accounts, and to see to his Excellency’s departure from Lavriki. He indulged in a vivid picture of the confusion of the expelled general, the useless airs which he would put on, and, in spite of his sorrow, he was conscious of a certain malicious satisfaction. At the same time he wrote to Glafira Petrovna, asking her to return to Lavriki, and drew up a power-of-attorney in her name. But Glafira Petrovna would not return to Lavriki; she even advertised in the newspapers that the power-of-attorney was cancelled,–a perfectly superfluous proceeding on her part.

Lavretsky hid himself in a little Italian town; but for a long time he could not help mentally following his wife’s movements. He learned from the newspapers that she had left Paris for Baden, as she had intended. Her name soon appeared in a short article signed by the M. Jules of whom we have already spoken. The perusal of that article produced a very unpleasant effect on Lavretsky’s mind. He detected in it, underneath the writer’s usual sprightliness, a sort of tone of charitable commiseration. Next he learned that a daughter had been born to him. Two months later he was informed by his steward that Varvara Pavlovna had drawn her first quarter’s allowance. After that, scandalous reports about her began to arrive; then they became more and more frequent; at last a tragicomic story, in which she played a very unenviable part, ran the round of all the journals, and created a great sensation. Affairs had come to a climax. Varvara Pavlovna was now “a celebrity.”

Lavretsky ceased to follow her movements. But it was long before he could master his own feelings. Sometimes he was seized by such a longing after his wife, that he fancied he would have been ready to give every thing he had–that he could, perhaps, even have forgiven her–if only he might once more have heard her caressing voice, have felt once more her hand in his. But time did not pass by in vain. He was not born for suffering. His healthy nature claimed its rights. Many things became intelligible for him. The very blow which had struck him seemed no longer to have come without warning. He understood his wife now. We can never fully understand persons with whom we are generally in close contact, until we have been separated from them. He was able to apply himself to business again, and to study, although now with much less than his former ardor; the scepticism for which both his education and his experience of life had paved the way, had taken lasting hold upon his mind. He became exceedingly indifferent to every thing. Four years passed by, and he felt strong enough to return to his home, to meet his own people. Without having stopped either at St. Petersburg or at Moscow, he arrived at O., where we left him, and whither we now entreat the reader to return with us.

XVII.

About ten o’clock in the morning, on the day after that of which we have already spoken, Lavretsky was going up the steps of the Kalitines’ house, when he met Liza with her bonnet and gloves on.

“Where are you going?” he asked her.

“To church. To-day is Sunday.”

“And so you go to church?”

Liza looked at him in silent wonder.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lavretsky. “I–I did not mean to say that. I came to take leave of you. I shall start for my country-house in another hour.”

“That isn’t far from here, is it?” asked Liza.

“About five-and-twenty versts.”

At this moment Lenochka appeared at the door, accompanied by a maid-servant.

“Mind you don’t forget us,” said Liza, and went down the steps.

“Don’t forget me either. By the way,” he continued, “you are going to church; say a prayer for me too, while you are there.”

Liza stopped and turned towards him.

“Very well,” she said, looking him full in the face. “I will pray for you, too. Come, Lenochka.”

Lavretsky found Maria Dmitrievna alone in the drawing-room, which was redolent of Eau de Cologne and peppermint. Her head ached, she said, and she had spent a restless night.

She received him with her usual languid amiability, and by degrees began to talk.

“Tell me,” she asked him, “is not Vladimir Nikolaevich a very agreeable young man?”

“Who is Vladimir Nikolaevich?”

“Why Panshine, you know, who was here yesterday. He was immensely delighted with you. Between ourselves I may mention, _mon cher cousin_, that he is perfectly infatuated with my Liza. Well, he is of good family, he is getting on capitally in the service, he is clever, and besides he is a chamberlain; and if such be the will of God–I, for my part, as a mother, shall be glad of it. It is certainly a great responsibility; most certainly the happiness of children depends upon their parents. But this much must be allowed. Up to the present time, whether well or ill, I have done every thing myself, and entirely by myself. I have brought up my children and taught them every thing myself–and now I have just written to Maclame Bulous for a governess–“

Maria Dmitrievna launched out into a description of her cares, her efforts, her maternal feelings. Lavretsky listened to her in silence, and twirled his hat in his hands. His cold, unsympathetic look at last disconcerted the talkative lady.

“And what do you think of Liza?” she asked.

“Lizaveta Mikhailovna is an exceedingly handsome girl,” replied Lavretsky. Then he got up, said good-bye, and went to pay Marfa Timofeevna a visit. Maria Dmitrievna looked after him with an expression of dissatisfaction, and thought to herself, “What a bear! what a moujik! Well, now I understand why his wife couldn’t remain faithful to him.”

Marfa Timofeevna was sitting in her room, surrounded by her court. This consisted of five beings, almost equally dear to her heart–an educated bullfinch, to which she had taken an affection because it could no longer whistle or draw water, and which was afflicted with a swollen neck; a quiet and exceedingly timid little dog, called Roska; a bad-tempered cat, named Matros; a dark-complexioned, lively little girl of nine, with very large eyes and a sharp nose, whose name was Shurochka[A]; and an elderly lady of about fifty-five, who wore a white cap and a short, cinnamon-colored _katsaveika_[B] over a dark gown, and whose name was Nastasia Carpovna Ogarkof.

[Footnote A: One of the many diminutives of Alexandrina.]

[Footnote B: A kind of jacket worn by women.]

Shurochka was a fatherless and motherless girl, whose relations belonged to the lowest class of the bourgeoisie. Marfa Timofeevna had adopted her, as well as Roska, out of pity. She had found both the dog and the girl out in the streets. Both of them were thin and cold; the autumn rain had drenched them both. No one ever claimed Roska, and as to Shurochka, she was even gladly given up to Marfa Timofeevna by her uncle, a drunken shoemaker, who never had enough to eat himself, and could still less provide food for his niece, whom he used to hit over the head with his last.

As to Nastasia Carpovna, Marfa Timofeevna had made acquaintance with her on a pilgrimage, in a monastery. She went up to that old lady in church one day,–Nastasia Carpovna had pleased Marfa Timofeevna by praying as the latter lady said, “in very good taste”–began to talk to her, and invited her home to a cup of tea. From that day she parted with her no more. Nastasia Carpovna, whose father had belonged to the class of poor gentry, was a widow without children. She was a woman of a very sweet and happy disposition; she had a round head, grey hair, and soft, white hands. Her face also was soft, and her features, including a somewhat comical snub nose, were heavy, but pleasant. She worshipped Marfa Timofeevna, who loved her dearly, although she teased her greatly about her susceptible heart. Nastasia Carpovna had a weakness for all young men, and never could help blushing like a girl at the most innocent joke. Her whole property consisted of twelve hundred paper roubles.[A] She lived at Marfa Timofeevna’s expense, but on a footing of perfect equality with her. Marfa Timofeevna could not have endured any thing like servility.

[Footnote A: About _L50_.]

“Ah, Fedia!” she began, as soon as she saw him

“You didn’t see my family last night. Please to admire them now; we are all met together for tea. This is our second, our feast-day tea. You may embrace us all. Only Shurochka wouldn’t let you, and the cat would scratch you. Is it to-day you go?”

“Yes,” said Lavretsky, sitting down on a low chair. “I have just taken leave of Maria Dmitrievna. I saw Lizaveta Mikhailovna too.”

“Call her Liza, my dear. Why should she be Mikhailovna for you? But do sit still, or you will break Shurochka’s chair.”

“She was on her way to church,” continued Lavretsky. “Is she seriously inclined?”

“Yes, Fedia, very much so. More than you or I, Fedia.”

“And do you mean to say you are not seriously inclined?” lisped Nastasia Carpovna. “If you have not gone to the early mass to-day, you will go to the later one.”

“Not a bit of it. Thou shalt go alone. I’ve grown lazy, my mother,” answered Marfa Timofeevna. “I am spoiling myself terribly with tea drinking.”

She said _thou_ to Nastasia Carpovna, although she lived on a footing of equality with her–but it was not for nothing that she was a Pestof. Three Pestofs occur in the Sinodik[A] of Ivan the Terrible. Marfa Timofeevna was perfectly well aware of the fact.

[Footnote A: “_I.e._, in the list of the nobles of his time, in the sixteenth century.]

“Tell me, please,” Lavretsky began again. “Maria Dmitrievna was talking to me just now about that–what’s his name?–Panshine. What sort of a man is he?”

“Good Lord! what a chatter-box she is!” grumbled Marfa Timofeevna. “I’ve no doubt she has communicated to you as a secret that he hangs about here as a suitor. She might have been contented to ‘Whisper about it with her _popovich_[A] But no, it seems that is not enough for her. And yet there is nothing settled so far, thank God! but she’s always chattering.”

[Footnote A: The priest’s son. _i.e._, Gedeonovsky.]

“Why do you say ‘Thank God?'” asked Lavretsky.

“Why, because this fine young man doesn’t please me. And what is there in the matter to be delighted about, I should like to know?”

“Doesn’t he please you?”

“No; he can’t fascinate every one. It’s enough for him that Nastasia Carpovna here is in love with him.”

The poor widow was terribly disconcerted.

“How can you say so, Marfa Timofeevna? Do not you fear God?” she exclaimed, and a blush instantly suffused her face and neck.

“And certainly the rogue knows how to fascinate her,” broke in Marfa Timofeevna. “He has given her a snuff-box. Fedia, ask her for a pinch of snuff. You will see what a splendid snuff-box it is. There is a hussar on horseback on the lid. You had much better not try to exculpate yourself, my mother.”

Nastasia Carpovna could only wave her hands with a deprecatory air.

“Well, but about Liza?” asked Lavretsky. “Is he indifferent to her?”

“She seems to like him–and as to the rest, God knows. Another person’s heart, you know, is a dark forest, and more especially a young girl’s. Look at Shurochka there! Come and analyze her’s. Why has she been hiding herself, but not going away, ever since you came in?”

Shurochka burst into a laugh she was unable to stifle, and ran out of the room. Lavretsky also rose from his seat.

“Yes,” he said slowly; “one cannot fathom a girl’s heart.”

As he was going to take leave.

“Well; shall we see you soon?” asked Marfa Timofeevna.

“Perhaps, aunt. It’s no great distance to where I’m going.”

“Yes; you’re going, no doubt, to Vasilievskoe. You won’t live at Lavriki. Well, that’s your affair. Only go and kneel down at your mother’s grave, and your grandmother’s, too, while you are there. You have picked up all kinds of wisdom abroad there, and perhaps, who can tell, they may feel, even in their graves, that you have come to visit them. And don’t forget, Fedia, to have a service said for Glafira Petrovna, too. Here is a rouble for you. Take it, take it please; it is I who wish to have the service performed for her. I didn’t love her while she lived, but it must be confessed that she was a girl of character. She was clever. And then she didn’t hurt you. And now go, and God be with you–else I shall tire you.”

And Marfa Timofeevna embraced her nephew.

“And Liza shall not marry Panshine; don’t make yourself uneasy about that. He isn’t the sort of man she deserves for a husband.”

“But I am not in the least uneasy about it,” remarked Lavretsky as he retired.

XVIII.

Four hours later he was on his way towards his home. His tarantass rolled swiftly along the soft cross-road. There had been no rain for a fortnight. The atmosphere was pervaded by a light fog of milky hue, which hid the distant forests from sight, while a smell or burning filled the air. A number of dusky clouds with blurred outlines stood out against a pale blue sky, and lingered, slowly drawn. A strongish wind swept by in an unbroken current, bearing no moisture with it, and not dispelling the great heat. His head leaning back on the cushions, his arms folded across his breast, Lavretsky gazed at the furrowed plains which opened fanwise before him, at the cytisus shrubs, at the crows and rooks which looked sideways at the passing carriage with dull suspicion, at the long ridges planted with mugwort, wormwood, and mountain ash. He gazed–and that vast level solitude, so fresh and so fertile, that expanse of verdure, and those sweeping slopes, the ravines studded with clumps of dwarfed oaks, the grey hamlets, the thinly-clad birch trees–all this Russian landscape, so-long by him unseen, filled his mind with feelings which were sweet, but at the same time almost sad, and gave rise to a certain heaviness of heart, but one which was more akin to a pleasure than to a pain. His thoughts wandered slowly past, their forms as dark and ill-defined as those of the clouds, which also seemed vaguely wandering there on high. He thought of his childhood, of his mother, how they brought him to her 011 her death-bed, and how, pressing his head to her breast, she began to croon over him, but looked up at Glafira Petrovna and became silent. He thought of his father, at first robust, brazen-voiced, grumbling at every thing–then blind, querulous, with white, uncared-for beard. He remembered how one day at dinner, when he had taken a little too much wine, the old man suddenly burst out laughing, and began to prate about his conquests, winking his blind eyes the while, and growing red in the face. He thought of Varvara Pavlovna–and his face contracted involuntarily, like that of a man who feels some sudden pain, and he gave his head an impatient toss. Then his thoughts rested on Liza. “There,” he thought, “is a new life just beginning. A good creature! I wonder what will become of her. And she’s pretty, too, with her pale, fresh face, her eyes and lips so serious, and that frank and guileless way she has of looking at you. It’s a pity she seems a little enthusiastic. And her figure is good, and she moves about lightly, and she has a quiet voice. I like her best when she suddenly stands still, and listens attentively and gravely, then becomes contemplative and shakes her hair back. Yes, I agree, Panshine isn’t worthy of her. Yet what harm is there in him? However, as to all that, why am I troubling my head about it? She will follow the same road that all others have to follow. I had better go to sleep.” And Lavretsky closed his eyes.

He could not sleep, but he sank into a traveller’s dreamy reverie. Just as before, pictures of by-gone days slowly rose and floated across his mind, blending with each other, and becoming confused with other scenes. Lavretsky began to think–heaven knows why–about Sir Robert Peel; then about French history; lastly, about the victory which he would have gained if he had been a general. The firing and the shouting rang in his ears. His head slipped on one side; he opened his eyes–the same fields stretched before him, the same level views met his eyes. The iron shoes of the outside horses gleamed brightly by turns athwart the waving dust, the driver’s yellow[A] shirt swelled with the breeze. “Here I am, returning virtuously to my birth-place,” suddenly thought Lavretsky, and he called out, “Get on there!” drew his cloak more closely around him, and pressed himself still nearer to the cushion. The tarantass gave a jerk. Lavretsky sat upright and opened his eyes wide. On the slope before him extended a small village. A little to the right was to be seen an old manor house of modest dimensions, its shutters closed, its portico awry. On one side stood a barn built of oak, small, but well preserved. The wide court-yard was entirely overgrown by nettles, as green and thick as hemp. This was Vasilievskoe.

[Footnote A: Yellow, with red pieces let in under the armpits.]

The driver turned aside to the gate, and stopped his horses. Lavretsky’s servant rose from his seat, ready to jump down, and shouted “Halloo!” A hoarse, dull barking arose in reply, but no dog made its appearance. The lackey again got ready to descend, and again cried “Halloo!” The feeble barking was repeated, and directly afterwards a man, with snow-white hair, dressed in a nankeen caftan, ran into the yard from one of the comers. He looked at the tarantass, shielding his eyes from the sun, then suddenly struck both his hands upon his thighs, fidgeted about nervously for a moment, and finally ran to open the gates. The tarantass entered the court-yard, crushing the nettles under its wheels, and stopped before the portico. The white-headed old man, who was evidently of a very active turn, was already standing on the lowest step, his legs spread awkwardly apart. He unbuttoned the apron of the carriage, pulling up the leather with a jerk, and kissed his master’s hand while assisting him to alight.

“Good day, good day, brother,” said Lavretsky. “Your name is Anton, isn’t it. So you’re still alive?”

The old man bowed in silence, and then ran to fetch the keys. While he ran, the driver sat motionless, leaning sideways and looking at the closed door; and Lavretsky’s man-servant remained in the picturesque attitude in which he found himself after springing clown to the ground, one of his arms resting on the box seat. The old man brought the keys and opened the door, lifting his elbows high the while, and needlessly wriggling his body–then he stood on one side, and again bowed down to his girdle.

“Here I am at home, actually returned!” thought Lavretsky, as he entered the little vestibule, while the shutters opened, one after another, with creak and rattle, and the light of day penetrated into the long-deserted rooms.

XIX.

The little house at which Lavretsky had arrived, and in which Glafira Petrovna had died two years before, had been built of solid pine timber in the preceding century. It looked very old, but it was good for another fifty years or more. Lavretsky walked through all the rooms, and, to the great disquiet of the faded old flies which clung to the cornices without moving, their backs covered with white dust, he had the windows thrown open everywhere. Since the death of Glafira Petrovna, no one had opened them. Every thing had remained precisely as it used to be in the house. In the drawing-room the little white sofas, with their thin legs, and their shining grey coverings, all worn and rumpled, vividly recalled to mind the times of Catharine. In that room also stood the famous arm-chair of the late proprietress, a chair with a high, straight back, in which, even in her old age, she used always to sit bolt upright. On the wall hung an old portrait of Fedor’s great-grandfather, Andrei Lavretsky. His dark, sallow countenance could scarcely be distinguished against the cracked and darkened background. His small, malicious eyes looked out morosely from beneath the heavy, apparently swollen eyelids. His black hair, worn without powder, rose up stiff as a brush above his heavy, wrinkled forehead. From the corner of the portrait hung a dusky wreath of _immortelles_. “Glafira Petrovna deigned to weave it herself,” observed Anthony. In the bed-room stood a narrow bedstead, with curtains of some striped material, extremely old, but of very good quality. On the bed lay a heap of faded cushions and a thin, quilted counterpane; and above the bolster hung a picture of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin in the Temple, the very picture which the old lady, when she lay dying, alone and forgotten, pressed for the last time with lips which were already beginning to grow cold. Near the window stood a toilet table, inlaid with different kinds of wood and ornamented with plates of copper, supporting a crooked mirror in a frame of which the gilding had turned black. In a line with the bed-room was the oratory, a little room with bare walls; in the corner stood a heavy case for holding sacred pictures, and on the floor lay the scrap of carpet, worn threadbare, and covered with droppings from wax candles, on which Glafira Petrovna used to prostrate herself when she prayed.

Anton went out with Lavretsky’s servant to open the stable and coach-house doors. In his stead appeared an old woman, almost as old as himself, her hair covered by a handkerchief, which came down to her very eyebrows. Her head shook and her eyes seemed dim; but they wore, also, an expression of zealous obedience, habitual and implicit, and, at the same time, of a kind of respectful condolence. She kissed Lavretsky’s hand, and then remained near the door, awaiting his orders. He could not remember what her name was, nor even whether he had ever seen her before. It turned out that her name was Apraxia. Some forty years previously, Glafira Petrovna had struck her off the list of the servants who lived in the house, and had ordered her to become a poultry-maid. She seldom spoke, seemed half idiotic, and always wore a servile look. Besides this old couple, and three paunchy little children in long shirts, Anton’s great-grandchildren, there lived also in the seigniorial household an untaxable[A] moujik, who had only one arm. He cackled like a black-cock, and was fit for nothing. Of very little more use was the infirm old hound which had saluted Lavretsky’s return by its barking. For ten whole years it had been fastened to a heavy chain, purchased by order of Glafira Petrovna, a burden under which it was now scarcely able to move.

[Footnote A: One who had not received the usual grant of land from the community, and was not subject to rates like the rest.]

Having examined the house, Lavretsky went out into the garden, and was well pleased with it. It was all overgrown with steppe grass, with dandelions, and with gooseberry and raspberry bushes; but there was plenty of shade in it, a number of old lime-trees growing there, of singularly large stature, with eccentrically ordered branches. They had been planted too close together, and a hundred years seemed to have elapsed since they were pruned. At the end of the garden was a small, clear lake, surrounded by a fringe of high, reddish-colored rushes. The traces of a human life that is past soon disappear. Glafira’s manor-house had not yet grown wild, but it seemed to have become already immersed in that quiet slumber which all that is earthly sleeps, whenever it is not affected by the restlessness of humanity.

Lavretsky also went through the village. The women looked at him from the door-ways of their cottages, each resting her cheek upon her hand. The men bowed low from afar, the children ran Out of sight, the dogs barked away at their ease. At last he felt hungry, but he did not expect his cook and the other servants till the evening. The waggon bringing provisions from Lavriki had not yet arrived. It was necessary to have recourse to Anton. The old man immediately made his arrangements. He caught an ancient fowl, and killed and plucked it. Apraxia slowly squeezed and washed it, scrubbing it as if it had been linen for the wash, before putting it into the stewpan. When at last it was ready, Anton laid the table, placing beside the dish a three-footed plated salt-cellar, blackened with age, and a cut glass decanter, with a round glass stopper in its narrow neck. Then, in a kind of chant, he announced to Lavretsky that dinner was ready, and took his place behind his master’s chair, a napkin wound around his right hand, and a kind of air of the past, like the odor of cypress-wood hanging about him. Lavretsky tasted the broth, and took the fowl out of it. The bird’s skin was covered all over with round blisters, a thick tendon ran up each leg, and the flesh was as tough as wood, and had a flavor like that which pervades a laundry. After dinner Lavretsky said that he would take tea if–

“I will bring it in a moment,” broke in the old man, and he kept his promise. A few pinches of tea were found rolled up in a scrap of red paper. Also a small, but very zealous and noisy little _samovar_[A] was discovered, and some sugar in minute pieces, which looked as if they had been all but melted away. Lavretsky drank his tea out of a large cup. From his earliest childhood he remembered this cup, on which playing cards were painted, and from which only visitors were allowed to drink; and now he drank from it, like a visitor.

[Footnote A: Urn.]

Towards the evening came the servants. Lavretsky did not like to sleep in his aunt’s bed, so he had one made up for him in the dining-room. After putting out the candle, he lay for a long time looking around him, and thinking what were not joyous thoughts. He experienced the sensations which every one knows who has had to spend the night for the first time in a long uninhabited room. He fancied that the darkness which pressed in upon him from all sides could not accustom itself to the new tenant–that the very walls of the house were astonished at him. At last he sighed, pulled the counterpane well over him, and went to sleep. Anton remained on his legs long after every one else had gone to bed. For some time he spoke in a whisper to Apraxia, sighing low at intervals, and three times he crossed himself. The old servants had never expected that their master would settle down among them at Vasilievskoe, when he had such a fine estate, with a well-appointed manor-house close by. They did not suspect what was really the truth, that Lavriki was repugnant to its owner, that it aroused in his mind too painful recollections. After they had whispered to each other enough, Anton took a stick, and struck the watchman’s board, which had long hung silently by the barn. Then he lay down in the open yard, without troubling himself about any covering for his white head. The May night was calm and soothing, and the old man slept soundly.

XX.

The next day Lavretsky rose at a tolerably early hour, chatted with the _starosta_,[A] visited the rick-yard, and had the chain taken off the yard dog, which just barked a little, but did not even come out of its kennel. Then, returning home, he fell into a sort of quiet reverie, from which he did not emerge all day. “Here I am, then, at the very bottom of the river!”[B] he said to himself more than once. He sat near the window without stirring, and seemed to listen to the flow of the quiet life which surrounded him, to the rare sounds which came from the village solitude. Behind the nettles some one was singing with a thin, feeble voice; a gnat seemed to be piping a second to it The voice stopped, but the gnat still went on piping. Through the monotonous and obtrusive buzzing of the flies might be heard the humming of a large humble bee, which kept incessantly striking its head against the ceiling. A cock crowed in the street, hoarsely protracting its final note, a cart rattled past, a gate creaked in the village. “What?” suddenly screeched a woman’s voice. “Ah, young lady!” said Anton to a little girl of two years old whom he was carrying in his arms. “Bring the _kvass_ here,” continued the same woman’s voice. Then a death-like silence suddenly ensued.

[Footnote A: The head of the village.]

[Footnote B: A popular phrase, to express a life quiet as the depths of a river are.]

Nothing stirred, not a sound was audible. The wind did not move the leaves. The swallows skimmed along he ground one after another without a cry, and their silent flight made a sad impression upon the heart of the looker-on. “Here I am, then, at the bottom of the river,” again thought Lavretsky. “And here life is always sluggish and still; whoever enters its circle must resign himself to his fate. Here there is no use in agitating oneself, no reason why one should give oneself trouble. He only will succeed here who traces his onward path as patiently as the plougher traces the furrow with his plough. And what strength there is in all around; what robust health dwells in the midst of this inactive stillness! There under the window climbs the large-leaved burdock from the thick grass. Above it the lovage extends its sappy stalk, while higher still the Virgin’s tears hang out their rosy tendrils. Farther away in the fields shines the rye, and the oats are already in ear, and every leaf or its tree, every blade of grass on its stalk, stretches itself out to its full extent. On a woman’s love my best years have been wasted!” (Lavretsky proceeded to think.) “Well, then, let the dulness here sober me and calm me down; let it educate me into being able to work like others without hurrying.” And he again betook himself to listening to the silence, without expecting anything, and yet, at the same time, as if incessantly expecting something. The stillness embraced him on all sides; the sun went down quietly in a calm, blue sky, on which the clouds floated tranquilly, seeming as if they knew why and whither they were floating. In the other parts of the world, at that very moment, life was seething, noisily bestirring itself. Here the same life flowed silently along, like water over meadow grass. It was late in the evening before Lavretsky could tear himself away from the contemplation of this life so quietly welling forth–so tranquilly flowing past. Sorrow for the past melted away in his mind as the snow melts in spring; but, strange to say, never had the love of home exercised so strong or so profound an influence upon him.

XXI.

In the course of a fortnight Lavretsky succeeded in setting Glafira Petrovna’s little house in order, and in trimming the court-yard and the garden. Its stable became stocked with horses; comfortable furniture was brought to it from Lavriki; and the town supplied it with wine, and with books and newspapers. In short, Lavretsky provided himself with every thing he wanted, and began to lead a life which was neither exactly that of an ordinary landed proprietor, nor exactly that of a regular hermit. His days passed by in uniform regularity, but he never found them dull, although he had no visitors. He occupied himself assiduously and attentively with the management of his estate; he rode about the neighborhood, and he read. But he read little. He preferred listening to old Anton’s stories.

Lavretsky generally sat at the window, over a pipe and a cup of cold tea. Anton would stand at the door, his hands crossed behind his back, and would begin a deliberate narrative about old times, those fabulous times when oats and rye were sold, not By measure, but in large sacks, and for two or three roubles the sack; when on all sides, right up to the town, there stretched impenetrable forests and untouched steppes. “But now,” grumbled the old man, over whose head eighty years had already passed, “everything has been so cut down and ploughed up that one can’t drive anywhere.” Anton would talk also at great length about his late mistress, Glafira Petrovna, saying how judicious and economical she was, how a certain gentleman, one of her young neighbors, had tried to gain her good graces for a time, and had begun to pay her frequent visits; and how in his honor she had deigned even to put on her gala-day cap with massacas ribbons, and her yellow dress made of _tru-tru-levantine_; but how, a little later, having become angry with her neighbor, that gentleman, on account of his indiscreet question, “I suppose, madam, you doubtless have a good sum of money in hand?” she told her servants never to let him enter her house again–and how she then ordered that, after her death, every thing, even to the smallest rag, should be handed over to Lavretsky. And, in reality, Lavretsky found his aunt’s property quite intact, even down to the gala-day cap with the massacas ribbons, and the yellow dress of _tru-tru-levantine_.

As to the old papers and curious documents on which Lavretsky had counted, he found nothing of the kind except one old volume in which his grandfather, Peter Andreich, had made various entries. In one place might be read, “Celebration in the city of St. Petersburg, of the Peace concluded with the Turkish Empire by his Excellency, Prince Alexander Alexandrovich Prozorovsky”. In another, “Recipe of a decoction for the chest,” with the remark. “This prescription was given the Generaless Prascovia Fedorovna Saltykof, by the Archpresbyter of the Life-beginning Trinity, Fedor Avksentevich.” Sometimes there occurred a piece of political information, as follows:–

“About the French tigers there is somehow silence”–and close by, “In the _Moscow Gazette_ there is an announcement of the decease of the First-Major Mikhail Petrovich Kolychef. Is not this the son of Peter Vasilievich Kolychef?”

Lavretsky also found some old calendars and dream-books, and the mystical work of M. Ambodik. Many a memory did the long-forgotten but familiar “Symbols and Emblems” recall to his mind. In the furthest recess of one of the drawers in Glafira’s toilette-table, Lavretsky found a small packet, sealed with black wax, and tied with a narrow black ribbon. Inside the packet were two portraits lying face to face, the one, in pastel, of his father as a young man, with soft curls falling over his forehead, with long, languid eyes, and with a half-open mouth; the other an almost obliterated picture of a pale woman, in a white dress, with a white rose in her hand–his mother. Of herself Glafira never would allow a portrait to be taken.

“Although I did not then live in the house,” Anton would say to Lavretsky, “yet I can remember your great grandfather, Andrei Afanasich. I was eighteen years old when he died. One day I met him in the garden–then my very thighs began to quake. But he didn’t do anything, only asked me what my name was, and sent me to his bed-room for a pocket-handkerchief. He was truly a seigneur–every one must allow that; and he wouldn’t allow that any one was better than himself. For I may tell you, your great grandfather had such a wonderful amulet–a monk from Mount Athos had given him that amulet–and that monk said to him, ‘I give thee this, O Boyar, in return for thy hospitality. Wear it, and fear no judge.’ Well, it’s true, as is well known, that times were different then. What a seigneur wanted to do, that he did. If ever one of the gentry took it into his head to contradict him, he would just look at him, and say, ‘Thou swimmest in shallow water'[A]–that was a favorite phrase with him. And he lived, did your great grandfather of blessed memory, in small, wooden rooms. But what riches he left behind him! What silver, what stores of all kinds! All the cellars were crammed full of them. He was a real manager. That little decanter which you were pleased to praise was his. He used to drink brandy out of it. But just see! your grandfather, Peter Andreich, provided himself with a stone mansion, but he lived worse than his father, and got himself no satisfaction, but spent all his money, and now there is nothing to remember him by–not so much as a silver spoon has come down to us from him; and for all that is left, one must thank Glafira Petrovna’s care.”

[Footnote A: Part of a Russian proverb.]

“But is it true,” interrupted Lavretsky, “that people used to call her an old witch?”

“But, then, who called her so?” replied Anton, with an air of discontent.

“But what is our mistress doing now, _batyushka_?” the old man ventured to ask one day. “Where does she please to have her habitation?”

“I am separated from my wife,” answered Lavretsky, with an effort. “Please don’t ask me about her.”

“I obey,” sadly replied the old man.

At the end of three weeks Lavretsky rode over to O., and spent the evening at the Kalitines’ house. He found Lemm there, and took a great liking to him. Although, thanks to his father, Lavretsky could not play any instrument, yet he was passionately fond of music–of classical, serious music, that is to say. Panshine was not at the Kalitines’ that evening, for the Governor had sent him somewhere into the country. Liza played unaccompanied, and that with great accuracy. Lemm grew lively and animated, rolled up a sheet of paper, and conducted the music. Maria Dmitrievna looked at him laughingly for a while, and then went off to bed. According to her, Beethoven was too agitating for her nerves.

At midnight Lavretsky saw Lemm home, and remained with him till three in the morning. Lemm talked a great deal. He stooped less than usual, his eyes opened wide and sparkled, his very hair remained pushed off from his brow. It was so long since any one had shown any sympathy with him, and Lavretsky was evidently interested in him, and questioned him carefully and attentively. This touched the old man. He ended by showing his music to his guest, and he played, and even sang, in his worn-out voice, some passages from his own works; among others, an entire ballad of Schiller’s that he had set to music–that of Fridolin. Lavretsky was loud in its praise, made him repeat several parts, and, on going away, invited him to spend some days with him. Lemm, who was conducting him to the door, immediately consented, pressing his hand cordially. But when he found himself alone in the fresh, damp air, beneath the just-appearing dawn, he looked round, half-shut his eyes, bent himself together, and crept back, like a culprit, to his bed-room. “_Ich bin wohl nicht klug_”–(“I must be out of my wits”), he murmured, as he lay down on his short, hard bed.

He tried to make out that he was ill when, a few days later, Lavretsky’s carriage came for him. But Lavretsky went up into his room, and persuaded him to go. Stronger than every other argument with him was the fact that Lavretsky had ordered a piano to be sent out to the country-house on purpose for him. The two companions went to the Kalitines’ together, and spent the evening there, but not quite so pleasantly as on the previous occasion. Panshine was there, talking a great deal about his journey, and very amusingly mimicking the various proprietors he had met, and parodying their conversation. Lavretsky laughed, but Lemm refused to come out of his corner, where he remained in silence, noiselessly working his limbs like a spider, and wearing a dull and sulky look. It was not till he rose to take leave that he became at all animated. Even when sitting in the carriage, the old man at first seemed still unsociable and absorbed in his own thoughts. But the calm, warm air, the gentle breeze, the dim shadows, the scent of the grass and the birch buds, the peaceful light of the moonless, starry sky, the rhythmical tramp and snorting of the horses, the mingled fascinations of the journey, of the spring, of the night–all entered into the soul of the poor German, and he began to talk with Lavretsky of his own accord.

XXII.

He began to talk about music, then about Liza, and then again about music. He seemed to pronounce his words more slowly when he spoke of Liza. Lavretsky turned the conversation to the subject of his compositions, and offered, half in jest, to write a libretto for him.

“Hm! a libretto!” answered Lemm. “No; that is beyond me. I no longer have the animation, the play of fancy, which are indispensable for an opera. Already my strength has deserted me. But if I could still do something, I should content myself with a romance. Of course I should like good words.”

He became silent, and sat for a long time without moving, his eyes fixed on the sky.

“For instance,” he said at length, “something in this way–‘O stars, pure stars!'”

Lavretsky turned a little, and began to regard him attentively.

“‘O stars, pure stars!'” repeated Lemm, “‘you look alike on the just and the unjust. But only the innocent of heart’–or something of that kind–‘understand you’–that is to say, no–‘love you.’ However, I am not a poet. What am I thinking about! But something of that kind–something lofty.”

Lemm pushed his hat back from his forehead. Seen by the faint twilight of the clear night, his face seemed paler and younger.

“‘And you know also,'” he continued, in a gradually lowered voice, “‘you know those who love, who know how to love; for you are pure, you alone can console.’ No; all that is not what I mean. I am not a poet. But something of that kind.”–

“I am sorry that I am not a poet either,” remarked Lavretsky.

“Empty dreams!” continued Lemm, as he sank into the corner of the carriage. Then he shut his eyes as if he had made up his mind to go to sleep;

Several minutes passed. Lavretsky still listened.

“Stars, pure stars … love'” whispered the old man.

“Love!” repeated Lavretsky to himself. Then he fell into a reverie, and his heart grew heavy within him.

“You have set ‘Fridolin’ to charming music, Christopher Fedorovich,” he said aloud after a time. But what is your opinion? This Fridolin, after he had been brought into the presence of the countess by her husband, didn’t he then immediately become her lover–eh?”

“You think so,” answered Lemm, “because, most likely, experience–“

He stopped short, and turned away in confusion.

Lavretsky uttered a forced laugh. Then he too turned away from his companion, and began looking out along the road.

The stars had already begun to grow pale, and the sky to turn grey, when the carriage arrived before the steps of the little house at Vasilievskoe. Lavretsky conducted his guest to his allotted room, then went to his study, and sat down in front of the window. Out in the garden a nightingale was singing its last song before the dawn. Lavretsky remembered that at the Kalitines’ also a nightingale had sung in the garden. He remembered also the quiet movement of Liza’s eyes when, at its first notes, she had turned toward the dark casement. He began to think of her, and his heart grew calm.

“Pure maiden,” he said, in a half-whisper, “pure stars,” he added, with a smile, and then quietly lay down to sleep.

But Lemm sat for a long time on his bed, with a sheet of music on his knees. It seemed as if some sweet melody, yet unborn, were intending to visit him. He already underwent the feverish agitation, he already felt the fatigue and the delight, of its vicinity; but it always eluded him.

“Neither poet nor musician!” he whispered at last; and his weary head sank heavily upon the pillow.

* * * * *

The next morning Lavretsky and his guest drank their tea in the garden, under an old lime-tree.

“Maestro,” said Lavretsky, among other things, “you will soon have to compose a festal cantata.”

“On what occasion?”

“Why, on that of Mr. Panshine’s marriage with Liza. Didn’t you observe what attention he paid her yesterday? All goes smoothly with them evidently.”

“That will never be!” exclaimed Lemm.

“Why?”

“Because it’s impossible. However,” he added after pausing awhile, “in this world everything is possible. Especially in this country of yours–in Russia.”

“Let us leave Russia out of the question for the present. But what do you see objectionable in that marriage?”

“Every thing is objectionable–every thing. Lizaveta Mikhailovna is a serious, true-hearted girl, with lofty sentiments. But he–he is, to describe him by one word, a _dil-le-tante_”

“But doesn’t she love him?”

Lemm rose from his bench.

“No, she does not love him. That is to say, she is very pure of heart, and does not herself know the meaning of the words, ‘to love.’ Madame Von Kalitine tells her that he is an excellent young man; and she obeys Madame Von Kalitine because she is still quite a child, although she is now nineteen. She says her prayers every morning; she says her prayers every evening–and that is very praiseworthy. But she does not love him. She can love only what is noble. But he is not noble; that is to say, his soul is not noble.”

Lemm uttered the whole of this speech fluently, and with animation, walking backwards and forwards with short steps in front of the tea-table, his eyes running along the ground meanwhile.

“Dearest Maestro!” suddenly exclaimed Lavretsky, “I think you are in love with my cousin yourself.”

Lemm suddenly stopped short.

“Please do not jest with me in that way,” he began, with faltering voice. “I am not out of my mind. I look forward to the dark grave, and not to a rosy future.”

Lavretsky felt sorry for the old man, and begged his pardon. After breakfast Lemm played his cantata, and after dinner, at Lavretsky’s own instigation, he again began to talk about Liza. Lavretsky listened to him attentively and with curiosity.

“What do you say to this, Christopher Fedorovitch?” he said at last. “Every thing seems in order here now, and the garden is in full bloom. Why shouldn’t I invite her to come here for the day, with her mother and my old aunt–eh? Will that be agreeable to you?”

Lemm bowed his head over his plate.

“Invite her,” he said, in a scarcely audible voice.

“But we needn’t ask Panshine.”

“No, we needn’t,” answered the old man, with an almost childlike smile.

Two days later Lavretsky went into town and to the Kalatines’.

XXIV.

He found them all at home, but he did not tell them of his plan immediately. He wanted to speak to Liza alone first. Chance favored him, and he was left alone with her in the drawing-room. They began to talk. As a general rule she was never shy with any one, and by this time she had succeeded in becoming accustomed to him. He listened to what she said, and as he looked at her face, he musingly repeated Lemm’s words, and agreed with him. It sometimes happens that two persons who are already acquainted with each other, but not intimately, after the lapse of a few minutes suddenly become familiar friends–and the consciousness of this familiarity immediately expresses itself in their looks, in their gentle and kindly smiles, in their gestures themselves. And this happened now with Lavretsky and Liza. “Ah, so that’s what’s you’re like!” thought she, looking at him with friendly eyes. “Ah, so that’s what’s you’re like!” thought he also; and therefore he was not much surprised when she informed him, not without some little hesitation, that she had long wanted to say something to him, but that she was afraid of vexing him.

“Don’t be afraid, speak out,” he said, standing still in front of her.

Liza raised her clear eyes to his.

“You are so good,” she began–and at the same time she thought, “yes, he is really good”–“I hope you will forgive me. I scarcely ought to have ventured to speak to you about it–but how could you–why did you separate from your wife?”

Lavretsky shuddered, then looked at Liza, and sat down by her side.

“My child,” he began to say, “I beg you not to touch upon that wound. Your touch is light, but–in spite of all that, it will give me pain.”

“I know,” continued Liza, as if she had not heard him, “that she is guilty before you. I do not want to justify her. But how can they be separated whom God has joined together?”

“Our convictions on that score are widely different, Lizaveta Mikhailovna,” said Lavretsky, somewhat coldly. “We shall not be able to understand one another.”

Liza grew pale. Her whole body shuddered slightly, but she was not silenced.

“You ought to forgive,” she said quietly, “if you wish also to be forgiven.”

“Forgive!” cried Lavretsky; you ought first to know her for whom you plead. Forgive that woman, take her back to my house, her, that hollow, heartless, creature! And who has told you that she wants to return to me? Why, she is completely satisfied with her position. But why should we talk of her? Her name ought never to be uttered by you. You are too pure, you are not in a position even to understand such a being.”

“Why speak so bitterly?” said Liza, with an effort. The trembling of her hands began to be apparent. “You left her of your own accord, Fedor Ivanich.”

“But I tell you,” replied Lavretsky, with an involuntary burst of impatience, “you do not know the sort of creature she is.”

“Then why did you marry her?” whispered Liza, with downcast eyes.

Lavretsky jumped up quickly from his chair.

“Why did I marry her? I was young and inexperienced then. I was taken in. A beautiful exterior fascinated me. I did not understand women; there was nothing I did understand. God grant you may make a happier marriage! But take my word for it, it is impossible to be certain about anything.”

“I also may be unhappy,” said Liza, her voice beginning to waver, “but then I shall have to be resigned. I cannot express myself properly, but I mean to say that if we are not resigned–“

Lavretsky clenched his hands and stamped his foot.

“Don’t be angry; please forgive me,” hastily said Liza. At that moment Maria Dmitrievna came into the room. Liza stood up and was going away, when Lavretsky unexpectedly called after her:

“Stop a moment. I have a great favor to ask of your mother and you. It is that you will come and pay me a visit in my new home. I’ve got a piano, you know; Lemm is stopping with me; the lilacs are in bloom. You will get a breath of country air, and be able to return the same day. Do you consent?”

Liza looked at her mother, who immediately assumed an air of suffering. But Lavretsky did not give Madame Kalatine time to open her mouth. He instantly took both of her hands and kissed them, and Maria Dmitrievna, who always responded to winning ways, and had never for a moment expected such a piece of politeness from “the bear,” felt herself touched, and gave her consent. While she was considering what day to appoint, Lavretsky went up to Liza, and, still under the influence of emotion, whispered aside to her, “Thanks. You are a good girl. I am in the wrong.” Then a color came into her pale face, which lighted up with a quiet but joyous smile. Her eyes also smiled. Till that moment she had been afraid that she had offended him.

“M. Panshine can come with us, I suppose?” asked Maria Dmitrievna.

“Of course,” replied Lavretsky. “But would it not be better for us to keep to our family circle?”

“But I think–” began Maria Dmitrievna, adding, however, “Well, just as you like.”

It was settled that Lenochka and Shurochka should go. Marfa Timofeevna refused to take part in the excursion.

“It’s a bore to me, my dear,” she said, “to move my old bones; and there’s nowhere, I suppose, in your house where I could pass the night; besides, I never can sleep in a strange bed. Let these young folks caper as they please.”

Lavretsky had no other opportunity of speaking with Liza alone, but he kept looking at her in a manner that pleased her, and at the same time confused her a little. She felt very sorry for him. When he went away, he took leave of her with a warm pressure of the hand. She fell into a reverie as soon as she found herself alone.

XXIV.[A]

[Footnote A: Omitted in the French translation.]

On entering the drawing-room, after his return home, Lavretsky met a tall, thin man, with a wrinkled but animated face, untidy grey whiskers, a long, straight nose, and small, inflamed eyes. This individual, who was dressed in a shabby blue surtout, was Mikhalevich, his former comrade at the University. At first Lavretsky did not recognize him, but he warmly embraced him as soon as he had made himself known. The two friends had not seen each other since the old Moscow days. Then followed exclamations and questions. Memories long lost to sight came out again into the light of day. Smoking pipe after pipe in a hurried manner, gulping down his tea, and waving his long hands in the air, Mikhalevich related his adventures. There was nothing very brilliant about them, and he could boast of but little success in his various enterprises; but he kept incessantly laughing a hoarse, nervous laugh. It seemed that about a month previously he had obtained a post in the private counting-house of a rich brandy-farmer,[A] at about three hundred versts from O., and having heard of Lavretsky’s return from abroad, he had turned out of his road for the purpose of seeing his old friend again. He spoke just as jerkingly as he used to do in the days of youth, and he became as noisy and as warm as he was in the habit of growing then. Lavretsky began to speak about his own affairs, but Mikhalevich stopped him, hastily stammering out, “I have heard about it, brother; I have heard about it. Who could have expected it?” and then immediately turned the conversation on topics of general interest.

[Footnote A: One of the contractors who used to purchase the right of supplying the people with brandy.]

“I must go away again to-morrow, brother,” he said. “To-day, if you will allow it, we will sit up late. I want to get a thoroughly good idea of what you are now, what your intentions are and your convictions, what sort of man you have become, what life has taught you” (Mikhalevich still made use of the phraseology current in the year 1830). “As for me, brother, I have become changed in many respects. The waters of life have gone over my breast. Who was it said that? But in what is important, what is substantial, I have not changed. I believe, as I used to do, in the Good, in the True. And not only do I believe, but I feel certain now–yes, I feel certain, certain. Listen; I make verses, you know. There’s no poetry in them, but there is truth. I will read you my last piece. I have expressed in it my most sincere convictions. Now listen.”

Mikhalevich began to read his poem, which was rather a long one. It ended with the following lines:–

“With my whole heart have I given myself up to new feelings; In spirit I have become like unto a child, And I have burnt all that I used to worship, I worship all that I used to burn.”

Mikhalevich all but wept as he pronounced these last two verses. A slight twitching, the sign of a strong emotion, affected his large lips; his plain face lighted up. Lavretsky went on listening until at last the spirit of contradiction was roused within him. He became irritated by the Moscow student’s enthusiasm, so perpetually on the boil, so continually ready for use. A quarter of an hour had not elapsed before a dispute had been kindled between the two friends, one of those endless disputes of which only Russians are capable. They two, after a separation which had lasted for many years, and those passed in two different worlds, neither of them clearly understanding the other’s thoughts, not even his own, holding fast by words, and differing in words alone, disputed about the most purely abstract ideas–and disputed exactly as if the matter had been one of life and death to both of them. They shouted and cried aloud to such an extent that every one in the house was disturbed, and poor Lemm, who had shut himself up in his room the moment Mikhalevich arrived, felt utterly perplexed, and even began to entertain some vague form of fear.

“But after all this, what are you? _blase_!”[A] cried Mikhalevich at midnight.

[Footnote A: Literally, “disillusioned.”]

“Does a _blase_ man ever look like me?” answered Lavretsky. “He is always pale and sickly; but I, if you like, will lift you off the ground with one hand.”

“Well then, if not _blase_, at least a sceptic,[A] and that is still worse. But what right have you to be a sceptic? Your life has not been a success, I admit. That wasn’t your fault. You were endowed with a soul full of affection, fit for passionate love, and you were kept away from women by force. The first woman you came across was sure to take you in.”

[Footnote A: He says in that original _Skyeptuik_ instead of _Skeptik_, on which the author remarks, “Mikhalevich’s accent testified to his birth-place having been in Little Russia.”]

“She took you in, too,” morosely remarked Lavretsky.

“Granted, granted. In that I was the tool of fate. But I’m talking nonsense. There’s no such thing as fate. My old habit of expressing myself inaccurately! But what does that prove?”

“It proves this much, that I have been distorted from childhood.”

“Well, then, straighten yourself. That’s the good of being a man. You haven’t got to borrow energy. But, however that may be, is it possible, is it allowable, to work upwards from an isolated fact, so to speak, to a general law–to an invariable rule?”

“What rule?” said Lavretsky, interrupting him. “I do not admit–“

“No, that is your rule, that is your rule,” cried the other, interrupting him in his turn.

“You are an egotist, that’s what it is!” thundered Mikhalevich an hour later. “You wanted self-enjoyment; you wanted a happy life; you wanted to live only for yourself–“

“What is self-enjoyment?”

“–And every thing has failed you; everything has given way under your feet.”

“But what is self-enjoyment, I ask you?”

“–And it ought to give way. Because you looked for support there, where it is impossible to find it; because you built your house on the quicksands–“

“Speak plainer, without metaphor, _because_ I do not understand you.”

“–Because–laugh away if you like–because there is no faith in you, no hearty warmth–and only a poor farthingsworth of intellect;[A] you are simply a pitiable creature, a behind–your–age disciple of Voltaire. That’s what you are.”

[Footnote A: Literally, “intellect, in all merely a copeck intellect.”]

“Who? I a disciple of Voltaire?”

“Yes, just such a one as your father was; and you have never so much as suspected it.”

“After that,” exclaimed Lavretsky, “I have a right to say that you are a fanatic.”

“Alas!” sorrowfully replied Mikhalevich, “unfortunately, I have not yet in any way deserved so grand a name–“

“I have found out now what to call you!” cried the self-same Mikhalevich at three o’clock in the morning.

“You are not a sceptic, nor are you a _blase_, nor a disciple of Voltaire; you are a marmot,[A] and a culpable marmot; a marmot with a conscience, not a naive marmot. Naive marmots lie on the stove[B] and do nothing, because they can do nothing. They do not even think anything. But you are a thinking man, and yet you lie idly there. You could do something, and you do nothing. You lie on the top with full paunch and say, ‘To lie idle–so must it be; because all that people ever do–is all vanity, mere nonsense that conduces to nothing.'”

[Footnote A: A _baibak_, a sort of marmot or “prairie dog.”]

[Footnote B: The top of the stove forms the sleeping place in a Russian peasant’s hut.]

“But what has shown you that I lie idle?” insisted Lavretsky. “Why do you suppose I have such ideas?”

“–And, besides this, all you people, all your brotherhood,” continued Mikhalevich without stopping, “are deeply read marmots. You all know where the German’s shoe pinches him; you all know what faults Englishmen and Frenchmen have; and your miserable knowledge only serves to help you to justify your shameful laziness, your abominable idleness. There are some who even pride themselves on this, that ‘I, forsooth, am a learned man. I lie idle, and they are fools to give themselves trouble.’ Yes! even such persons as these do exist among us; not that I say this with reference to you; such persons as will spend all their life in a certain languor of ennui, and get accustomed to it, and exist in it like–like a mushroom in sour cream” (Mikhalevich could not help laughing at his own comparison). “Oh, that languor of ennui! it is the ruin of the Russian people. Throughout all time the wretched marmot is making up its mind to work–“

“But, after all, what are you scolding about?” cried Lavretsky in his turn. “To work, to do. You had better say what one should do, instead of scolding, O Demosthenes of Poltava.”[A]

[Footnote A: Poltava is a town of Little Russia. It will be remembered that Mikhalovich is a Little Russian.]

“Ah, yes, that’s what you want! No, brother, I will not tell you that. Every one must teach himself that,” replied Demosthenes in an ironical tone. “A proprietor, a noble, and not know what to do! You have no faith, or you would have known. No faith and no divination.”[A]

[Footnote A: _Otkrovenie_, discovery or revelation.]

“At all events, let me draw breath for a moment, you fiend,” prayed Lavretsky. “Let me take a look round me!”

“Not a minute’s breathing-time, not a second’s,” replied Mikhalevich, with a commanding gesture of the hand. “Not a single second. Death does not tarry, and life also ought not to tarry.”

“And when and where have people taken it into their heads to make marmots of themselves?” he cried at four in the morning, in a voice that was now somewhat hoarse, “Why, here! Why, now! In Russia! When on every separate individual there lies a duty, a great responsibility, before God, before the nation, before himself! We sleep, but time goes by. We sleep–“

“Allow me to point, out to you,” observed Lavretsky, “that we do not at all sleep at present, but rather prevent other persons from sleeping. We stretch our throats like barn-door cocks. Listen, that one is crowing for the third time.”

This sally made Mikhalevich laugh, and sobered him down. “Good night,” he said with a smile, and put away his pipe in its bag. “Good night,” said Lavretsky also. However, the friends still went on talking for more than an hour. But their voices did not rise high any longer, and their talk was quiet, sad, kindly talk.

Mikhalevich went away next day, in spite of all his host could do to detain him. Lavretsky did not succeed in persuading him to stay, but he got as much talk as he wanted out of him.

It turned out that Mikhalevich was utterly impecunious. Lavretsky had already been sorry to see in him, on the preceding evening, all the characteristics of a poverty of long standing. His shoes were trodden down, his coat wanted a button behind, his hands were strangers to gloves, one or two bits of feather were sticking in his hair. When he arrived, he did not think of asking for a wash; and at supper he ate like a shark, tearing the meat to pieces with his fingers, and noisily gnawing the bones with his firm, discolored teeth.

It turned out, also, that he had not thriven in the civil service, and that he had pinned all his hopes on the brandy-farmer, who had given him employment simply that he might have an “educated man” in his counting-house. In spite of all this, however, Mikhalevich had not lost courage, but kept on his way leading the life of a cynic, an idealist, and a poet; fervently caring for, and troubling himself about, the destinies of humanity and his special vocation in life–and giving very little heed to the question whether or no he would die of starvation.

Mikhalevich had never married; but he had fallen in love countless times, and he always wrote poetry about all his loves: with especial fervor did he sing about a mysterious, raven-haired “lady.” It was rumored, indeed, that this “lady” was nothing more than a Jewess, and one who had numerous friends among cavalry officers; but, after all, if one thinks the matter over, it is not one of much importance.

With Lemm, Mikhalevich did not get on well. His extremely loud way of talking, his rough manners, frightened the German, to whom they were entirely novel. One unfortunate man immediately and from afar recognizes another, but in old age he is seldom willing to associate with him. Nor is that to be wondered at. He has nothing to share with him–not even hopes.

Before he left, Mikhalevich had another long talk with Lavretsky, to whom he predicted utter ruin if he did not rouse himself, and whom he entreated to occupy himself seriously with the question of the position of his serfs. He set himself up as a pattern for imitation, saying that he had been purified in the furnace of misfortune; and then he several times styled himself a happy man, comparing himself to a bird of the air, a lily of the valley.

“A dusky lily, at all events,” remarked Lavretsky.

“Ah, brother, don’t come the aristocrat,” answered Mikhalevich good-humoredly; “but rather thank God that in your veins also there flows simple plebeian blood. But I see you are now in need of some pure, unearthly being, who might rouse you from your apathy.”

“Thanks, brother,” said Lavretsky; “I have had quite enough of those unearthly beings.”

“Silence, cyneec!”[A] exclaimed Mikhalevich.

[Footnote A: He says _Tsuinnik_ instead of _Tsinik_.]